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YJiDFF 







NEW STEAL) 



BOSTOH: 
LEE AMD SHEPARD. PUELXSHEHS 



NEW YORK: 
LEE. SHEPARD AHD X>XLLXN-GHAM 



THE 



¥ E K S 



OP 



LORD BYRON: 



EMBRACING 



HIS SUPPEESSED POEMS, 



iiND 



A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 



ieto (^Vithn, romplcte in ©ne Volume* 



BOSTON: 

LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, 

NEW YORK: 

LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM. 

1874. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



In the preparation of tlie present edition of the works oi Lora Byron, the 
p^Mishers have spared no expense or delay in making it entirely complete» 
In its progress through the press, it has undergone the careful supervision of 
a distin,s:uJ«hod literary gentleman ; and its proprietors feel that they can claim 
for this edition what no other publisher can in this coxmtrf,^ ^that it contains, 
UTfABRLDGED, line for line, and word foi word, the complete wokks of Lord 
Byron, and, in this respect, tlie only one ever issued from the American press. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS, ETC 



PkfB 

riiiLPs Habold's FiLQFiir/eB. 

Preface ... ... 17 

Tolanthe 18 

Canto 1 19 

Canto II 28 

Canto IIL 87 

Canto IV 47 

Notes to Canto 1 64 

Notes to Canto II. ..... 65 

Appendix . . . • • . . 76 

Notes to Canto III 81 

Notes to Canto IV 84 

The Oiaouk 108 

Dedication 108 

Adveitisexnent 108 

Notes 119 

Thb Bkidb of AfiXDOS • ... 122 

Dedication ...••• 122 

Canto I. . . .... 122 

Canto II. . 126 

Notes . . .' . .132 

The Coksaib 135 

Dedication 135 

Canto 1 136 

Canto II 141 

Canto III 145 

Notes 151 

Laka 154 

Canto 1 154 

Canto II 159 

Note 165 

lUB SlEOB OF CCBINTM .... 166 

Dedication ....... 166 

Advertisement • . * • . . 166 

Notes 175 

Pabibina . 176 

Dedication 176 

Advertisement ... 176 

NotM . ... 181 



The Fbisoneb of Ck^l>a • . • 183 

Sonnet on Chilloa . . 183 

Notes .... . 186 

Beppo ..... . 188 

Notes .... • • 195 

Mazeppa ... • . . 198 

Advertisement • • ... 196 

The Island . • • • 203 

Advertisement • • • • . 203 

Canto I. . . , . . 203 

Canto II. ... ... 205 

Canto III. . .... 210 

Canto IV. . . ... 212 

Appendix . • • • 216 

Manfred 220 

Notes 233 

The Deformed Tbansfobiub . . .233 

Advertisement 233 

Heaven and Eabth 248 

Cain 259 

Dedication 259 

Preface 259 

Marino Faliebo, Dogs of Vbniob . . 278 

Preface 278 

Notes ...... 311 

Appendix ....... 312 

The Two Foscabx 320 

Appendix 341 

Sakdanapaltts ...... 348 

Dedication ... . , 348 

Preface S48 

Notes 877 

Werneb S7S 

Dedication ... . 378 

Preface »78 

Hours of Idlbnbss ... 412 

Dedication 412 

Preface . ... .413 

On leaving Newatead Abbey . . 419 



tQ 



CONTENTS 



Page 

On a Distant View of the Village and School 

of Harrow on the Hill .... 414 

ToD 414 

Epitaph on a Friend .... 415 

A Fragment 415 

To Eddleston 415 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, 

Esq., on the cruelty of his Mistress . 415 

To the Sighing Strephon .... 416 

The Tear 416 

To Miss Pigot 417 

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun 
and an English Gentleman. By J. J. 
Rousseau. Founded on Facts " . . 417 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 417 

The Cornelian 417 

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to 
the Author, and very dear to him . 418 

To Emma 418 

An Occasional Prologue. Delivered previous 
to the performance of •* The Wheel of For- 
tune " at a private Theatre . . . 418 
On the Death of Mr. Fox . . . .419 

To M. S. G 419 

To Caroli-.e , . .419 

To Caroline 420 

To Caroline 420 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens 420 

. 421 

421 

. 421 

422 

. 422 

422 

. 423 

423 

. 424 

424 

. 424 

425 



The first Kiss of Love 

To Mary 

To V/oman ..... 

To M. S. G 

To a Beautiful Quaker 

Song 

To^^^ — 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture . 

To Lesbia 

. Lines addressed to a Young Lady . 
Love's Last Adieu . . 
Damartas 



To Marion 425 

Oscar of Alva 425 

To the Duke of Dorset . . . .428 
Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Dying 429 
Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam . 430 
Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and 

Tibullus. By Domitius Marsus . . . 430 
Imitation of Tibullus .... 430 

Translation from Catullus .... 430 
Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen . 430 

Translation from Horace. Ode 3, Lib. 3 . 430 
Translation from Anacreon. To his Lyre 431 

Ode III 431 

Fragments of School Exercises. From the 

Prometheus Vinctus of .^schylus . . 431 
The Episode of Nisus and Eurj'alus. A Par- 
aphrase from the ^neid, Lib. IX . 431 
Translation from the Medea of Euripides 435 
Thou£;hts sugsestedby a Colleee Examination 435 



To the Earl of . 

Granta. A Medley 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 
Friend to the Author, complaining that one 
of his Descriptions was rather too warmly 
drawn 

Lachin Y Gair 

To Romance 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey 

On a change of Masters at a great Public 
School 

Childish Recollections .... 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, written by Mont- 
gomery, entitled " The Common Lot" . 

To the Rev. J. T. Becher 

The Death of Calmar and Orla. An Imita- 
tion of Macpherson's Ossian 

To E. N. L., Esq. .... 

To . . .... 

Stanzas 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
yard of Harrow on the Hill, September 2, 
1807 

Critique on " Hours of Idleness," extracted 
from the Edinburgh Review . 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 

Preface . 

Postscript 

Hints from Horace . . . 

The Curse of Minerva .... 

The Waltz 

To the Publisher 

The Age of Bronze 

The Vision of Judgment 

Preface 

Moroaxte Maggoibe .... 

Advertisement 

Canto I 

The Prophecy op Dantb .... 

Dedication . , . • . 

Preface 

Canto I 

Canto II 

Canto III , . 

Canto IV. 

Nctes 

Hebrew Melodies . ... 

Advertisement . . . . 

She Walks in Beauty .... 

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel Swept . 

If that High World 

The Wild Gazelle 

Oh ! Weep for Thoge 

On Jordan's Banks 

Jephtha's Daughter 

Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom , 

My Soul is Dark . . ... 

I saw Thee Weep 

Thy Days are Done ... 



Ffc«» 

436 
437 



43Ji 
435 
439 
44C 

442 

442 

446 

447 

447 
4-18 
449 
450 



45C 

451 
453 
453 
467 
468 
480 
483 
483 
487 
494 
494 
503 
603 
504 
510 
510 
610 
611 
512 
513 
615 
518 
518 
618 
olS 
618 
618 
618 
619 
619 
619 
619 
619 
620 
620 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
520 

520 
520 
521 
521 
521 



Song of Saul before his last Battle 

Saul 

" All is Vanity, saith the Preacher " 
When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay 
Vision of Belshazzar .... 
Sun of the Sleepless ! . . , 
Were ray Bosom as False as Thou deem'st it 

to be . . . . . . . .521 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne . . 521 
On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 

by Titus 522 

By the Rivers of Bauylon we sat down and 

wept 522 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . , 622 

From Job 522 

The Lament op Tasso .... 523 
Advertisement 523 

MONODT! ON THE DbATH OP THE RlGHT HoN. 

R. B. Sheriban 525 

OiWB TO Napoleon Bonaparte . .527 

Notea 528 

Ode on Venice ♦ 529 

The Dream ....*.. 530 

The Blues 532 

Miscellaneous Poems .... 537 

Written in an Album 537 

To * * * . 537 

Stanzas written in passing the Ambracian Gulf 537 
Stanzas composed during the Night, in a 

Thunder-storm 538 

— -^ Written at Athens 538 

Written after Swimming from Sestos to Aby- 

dos 538 

Song. Zcj/j ficv a&s ayairca .... 639 
Translation of the famous Greek War Song, 

AsvTE iraiSes rixiv 'EAA^j'om/ .... 6Ji» 
Translation of the Romaic Song, "Mttcvo) ^ej 

^ra ■niai^6yi 'SlpaidTaTtj X.ar)6fi '* , , , 640 

Written beneath a Picture . , , 640 

On Parting 640 

ToThyrza 640 

Stanzas 641 

To Thyrza 641 

Euthanasia 642 

Stanzas. " Heu quanto minus est cum reli- 

quis versari quam tui meminisse " . . 642 

Stanzas 643 

On a Cornelian Heart which was Broken , 643 
To a Youthful Friend .... 543 

To *•*♦♦« . . . . . .644 

From the Portuguese .... 644 

Impromptu, in reply to a Friend . . 544 
Address, spoken at the opening of Drury- 

Lane Theatre 644 

To Time . . ... 645 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song . . 645 
A Song . . .... 646 

On being asked what was the " Origin of 

Love" 6i6 



Remember Him, &c 64^ 

Lines inscribed upon Ji Cup formed from a 

Skull. .• 647 

On the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart. 547 

To a Lady weeping 547 

From the Turkish 547 

Sonnet. To Genevra 548 

Sonnet. To Genevra . . . . 518 
Inscription on the Monument of a Newfound- 
land Dog 5iS 

Farewell 648 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul 648 

When we Two Parted . . . . 540 

Stanzas for Music .... 649 

Stanzas for Music 649 

Fare Thee Well 650 

A Sketch 650 

To 651 

Ode. [From the French] .... 651 

From the French . . . . . 552 
On the Star of "the Legion of Honor." 

[From the French] .... 663 

'Napoleon's Farewell. [From the French] 55? 
Written on a blank Leaf of ** The Pleasures 

of Memory " 554 

Sonnet 554 

Stanzas to — — 654 

Darkness 554 

Churchill's Grave 555 

Prometheus 655 

The Prayer of Nature 656 

Romance muy Doloroso del Sitio y Toma de 

Alhama 557 

A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Granada .... 557 

Sonetto di Vittorelli. Per Monaca , 559 

Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun . 6o9 

To my dear Mary Anne . . . 559 

To Miss Chaworth 659 

Fragment . . .... 660 

Fragment 660 

On Revisiting Harrow . . , . 660 

L'Amitie est I'Amour sans Ailes . . 560 

To my Son . . ... 561 

Epitaph on John Adams, of Southwell . 661 

Fragment 661 

To Mrs. ♦ ♦ ♦, on being asked my reascn for 

quitting England in the Spring . . 662 

A Love Song . . . ' . . . 662 

Stanzas to •*•**•• . . . 662 

To the Same 663 

Song .663 

Stanzas to ♦ • ♦, on leaving England . 663 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson .... 664 

Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 664 

On Moore's Last Operatic Farce . . 664 

Epistle to Mr. Hodgson . . . 666 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems . . . 66a 

To Lord Thurlow . . . , M 



CONTENTS. 



To Thomas Moore ..... 566 
Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore 566 
The Devil's Drive . . . . . 566 

Windsor Poetics 567 

Additional Stanzas to the Ode to Napoleon 

Bouaparte 567 

To Lady Caroline Lamb .... 567 

Stanzas for Music 568 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledo- 
nian Meeting 5C8 

On the Prince Regent's returning the Picture 
of Sarah, Countess of Jersey, to Mrs. Mee 66S 

To Belshazzar 669 

Hebrew Melodies 569 

Lines intended for the opening of " The Siege 

of Corinth " 569 

Extract from an Unpublished Poem . . 570 

To Augusta 570 

On the Bust of Helen, by Canova . . 571 
Fragment of a Poem on hearing that Lady 

Byron was 111 571 

To Thomas Moore 572 

Stanzas to the Kiver Po . • . 572 

Sonnet to George the Fourth ... 572 

Francesca of Eimini 572 

The Irish Avatar 573 

Stanzas to Her who can best understand Them 574 
Stanzas written on the Boad between Florence 

and Pisa 575 

Impr/ mptu, on Lady Blessington expressing 
her Intention of taking the Villa called 
" II Paradise," near Genoa . . 575 
To the Countess of Blessington . . . 575 
On this Day I complete my Thirty-Sixth Year 576 
To a Lady who presented the Author with 
iha Telvet Band which bound her Tresses 576 



Remembrance 
The Adieu 
To a Vain Lady 
To Anne . 
To the Same 



576 

576 

5n 

578 
578 



To the Author of a Sonnet beginning ".'Sad 

is my Verse,' you say, ** * and yet no Tear* " 578 

On Finding a Fan 578 

Farewell to the Muse 579 

To an Oak at Newstead .... 579 

Lines, on hearing that Lady Byron was 111 679 

Stanzas. " Could Love for ever " . . 580 

Stanzas. To a Hindoo Air . . . 581 

Oh, never talk again to me . . . 081 
The Third Act of Manfred, in its original 

Shape, as first sent to the Publisher . 581 

Don Juan 585 

Dedication . . . • . . 585 

Canto 1 587 

Canto II 603 

Canto III 618 

Canto IV 627 

Canto V 635 

Preface to Cantos VI. VII. and VIII. . 647 

Canto VI 648 

Canto VII ; . 656 

Canto VIIL 663 

Canto IX. 673 

Canto X .679 

Canto XL . .... 685 

Canto XII 692 

Canto Xm 698 

Canto XrV ''00 

Canto XV. ?a8 

Canto XVL 721 

Notes . • .... • 730 



J 



\ 



• 

CONTENTS. 


I 


• 
LETTERS, ETC. 






P««e 




p»m 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 




I. to M188 Pigot 


. 739 


XXXIX. to Mr. Harness 


751 


II. to Mr. Pigot . 


739 


XL. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . 


761 


ni. to Miss Pigot 


. 739 


XLI. to Mr. William Bankes . 


751 


IV. to Mr. Pigot . 


. • 740 


XLII. to Mrs. Byron 


752 


V. to Mr. Pigot 


. 740 


XLIII. to Mr. Henry Drury 


752 


VI. to Mr. Pigot . 


740 


XLIV. to Mr. Hodgson . . . 


752 


VII. to Mr. Pigot 


. 740 


XLV. to Mr. Hodgson . . . 


752 


VIII. to Miss Pigot . 


741 


XLVI. to Mr. Hodgson . . 


. 753 


IX. to the Earl of Clare . 


. 741 


XLVII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


753 


X. to Mr. Pigot . 


741 


XLVIII. to Mr. Rushton . 


. 754 


XI to Mr. William Bankes 


. 742 


XLIX. to the Honorable Mrs. Byron 


755 


XII. to Mr. William Bankes . 


742 


L. to Mrs. Byron 


765 


XIII. to Mr. Falkner . 


. 742 


LI. to Mrs. Byron .... 


757 


XIV. to Mr. Pigot . 


742 


LIl. to the Hon. Mrs. BjTon 


. 757 


XV. to Miss Pigot 


. 743 


LIII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


757 


XVI. to Miss Pigot . 


743 


LIV. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


757 


XVII. to Miss Pigot 


. 743 


LV. to Mr. Henry Drury 


757 


IVIII. to Miss Pigot . 


744 


LVI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


759 


XIX. to Miss Pigot 


. 744 


LVII. to the Honorable Mrs. Byron 


759 


XX. to Miss Pigot . 


745 


LVIII. to Mr. Henry Drury . 


75£ 


XXL to Miss Pigot 


. 745 


LIX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron . 


760 


XXII. to Mr. Dallas . . . 


746 


LX. to Mrs. Byron 


761 


XXIII. to Mr. Dallas . . . 


746 


LXI. to Mrs. Byron .... 


761 


XXIV. to Mr. Henrv Drury 


747 


LXII. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


762 


XXV. to Mr. Harness . 


. 747 


LXIII. to Mr. Hodgson . . . 


762 


XXVI. to Mr. Harness . . 


747 


LXIV. to Mrs. Byron . . 


763 


XXVII. to Mr. Becher . . . 


. 748 


LXV. to Mrs. Byron .... 


764 


^XVIII. to Mr. Becher . . . 


748 


LXVI. to Mrs. Byron . . . 


764 


XXIX. to Mr. Jackson 


. 748 


LXVII. to Mr. Hodgson . . . 


764 


, XXX. to Mr. Jackson 


749 


LXVIII. to Mr. DaUas . . . 


765 


XXXI toMr. Jacksou . . 


. 749 


LXIX. to Mr. Henry Drury 


765 


XXXII to Mr. Becher . 


749 


LXX. to the Hon. Mrs. Byron 


766 


I.XXIII to the Honorable Mrfl. Byron 


. 749 


LXXI. to Dr. Pigot .... 


766 


XXXI V. to Mrs. Byron . 


749 


LXXII. to Mr. Scrope Dayies . 


766 


XXXV. to Mr. Hodgson . . . 


. 760 


LXXIII. to Bolton, Esq. 


766 


XXXVI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . 


760 


LXXIV. to Mr. Bolton 


767 


XXXVII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . . 


. 760 


LXXV. to Mr. Bolton . 


767 


tXXVlII. to Mrs. Byron . . . 


761 


LXXVI. to Mr DallM 


761 1 


2» 






1 





• 
CONTENTS. 






Page 




Pac« 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 




LXXVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 767 


CXXXV. to Lord Holland . . 


. 786 


LXXVIII. to Mr. Dallas . 


768 


CXXXVI. to Lord Holland 


786 


LXXIX. to Mr. Murray « 


. 768 


CXXXVII. to Lord Holland 


. 786 


LXXX. to Mr. Dallas . 


769 


CXXXVIII. to Lord Holland 


787 


LXXXI. to Mr. Dallas . . . 


. 769 


CXXX IX. to Lord Holland 


787 


LXXXII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


769 


CXL. to Lord Holland 


787 


LXXXIII. to Mr. Murray 


. 770 


CXLI. to Mr. Murray 


. 787 


LXXXIV. to Mr. Dallas . . 


770 


CXLTl, to Mr. Murray . 


781 


LXXXV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. ." 


. 771 


CXLIIl. to Mr. William Bankea . 


. m 


LXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . . 


771 


CXLIV. to Mr. Murray . 


;S8 


LXXXVII. to R. C. Dal as, Esq. . 


. 771 


CXLV. to Mr. Murray 


. 789 


LXXXVIII. to R. C. DaLas, Esq. 


771 


CXLVI. to Lord Holland 


789 


LXXXIX. to Mr. Murray . . 


• 11\ 


CXLVII. to Mr. Murray 


. 789 


XC. to Mr. Dallas . . 


771 


CXLVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


789 


XCI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


. 772 


CXLIX. to Mr. Murray 


. 789 


XCII. to Mr. Dallas . . 


772 


CL. to Mr. Murray . 


790 


XCni. to Mr. Dallas . . . 


. 772 


€LI. to Mr. William Bankes . 


790 


XCIV. to R. C. Dallas Esq. 


772 


CLII. to Mr. Murray , 


790 


XCV. to R. C. Dallas, Esq . 


. 773 


CLIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 790 


XCVI. to Mr. Dallas 


773 


CLIV. to Mr. Murray . . . 


791 


XCVII. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 774 


CLV. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 791 


XCVIII. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


775 


CLVI. to Mr. Murray . 


791 


XCIX. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . 


. 775 


CLVII. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 791 


C. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. 


775 


CLVIII. to W. Gifford, Esq. . . 


792 


CI. to R. C. Dallas, Esq. . 


. 775 


CLIX. to Mr. Moore . 


. 792 


CII. to Miss Pigot 


776 


CLX. to Mr. Moore . 


792 


cm. Mr. Moore to Lord Byron 


. 776 


CLXI. to Mr. Moore . 


792 


CIV. to Mr. Moore 


776 


CLXII. to Mr. Moore 


793 


CV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 776 


CLXIII. to Mr. Moore . . . 


. 793 


CVI. to Mr. Moore 


777 


CLXIV. to Mr. Moore 


793 


CVII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 777 


CLXV. to Mr. Croker . 


. 794 


CVIII. to Mr. Harness . . 


777 


CLXVI. to Mr. Murray . . . 


794 


CIX. to Mr. Harness 


. 777 


CLXVII. to Mr. Murray 


794 


ex. to Mr. Hodgson . 


778 


CLXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


795 


CXI. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 778 


CLXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


796 • 


CXII. to Mr. Harness . 


779 


CLXX. to Mr. Moore 


796 


CXIII. to Mr. Moore . . . 


. 779 


CLXXI. to Mr. Moore . 


796 


CXIV. to Mr. Moore . . , 


779 


CLXXII. to Mr. Moore 


797 


CXV. to Robert Rnshton . 


. 780 


CLXXIII. to Mr. Moore . 


797 


CXVI. to Robert Rushton . 


780 


CLXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


797 


CXVII. to Mr. Hodgson . . 


. 780 


CLXXV. to Mr. Moore . 


797 


CXVIII. to Master John Cowell 


780 


CLXXVI. to Mr. Moore 


798 


CXIX. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 781 


CLXXVII. to Mr. Moore . . . . 


791 


CXX. to Lord Holland 


781 


CLXXVIII. to Leigh Hunt 


799 


CXXI. to Mr. Hodgson 


. 781 


CLXXIX. to Mr. Moore . . . . 


799 


CXXII. to Lord Holland 


. 781 


CLXXX. to Mr. Murray 


800 


CXXIII. to Mr. William Bankes . 


. 782 


CLXXXI. to Mr. Gifford . . . . 


80C 


CXXIV. to Mr. William Bankes 


782 


CLXXXII. to Mr. Murray . . . 


800 


CXXV. to Lord Holland . 


. 783 


CLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . . . 


801 


CXXVI. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. . 


783 


CLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray . . . 


801 


CXXVII. to Lord Holland . 


. 784 


CLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . . . 


802 


CXXVin. to Lord Holland 


784 


CLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . . . 


802 


CXXIX. to Lord Holland . 


. 784 


CLXXXVII. to Mr. Murray . . . 


802 


CXXX. to Lord Holland 


784 


CLXXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


803 


CXXXI. to Lord Holland . 


. 784 


CLXXXIX. to Mr. Ashe . . . . 


803 


CXXXII. to Lord Holland 


785 


CXC. to Mr. Ashe 


804 


CXXXIII. to Lord Holland . 


. 785 


CXCI. to Mr. Gait . . . . 


804 


CXXXI V. to Lord Holland 


785 


CXCII. to Mr. Leigh Hunt . , 


804 





CONTENTS. 


ill 




P»«8 




•M* 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 




CXCTII. to Mr. Merivale . . 


. 804 


CCLI. to Mr. Murray 


. 823 


CXCIV. to Mr. Murray . 


804 


CCLII. to Mr. Murray 


824 


CXCV. to Mr. Moore 


. 805 


CCLIII. to Mr. Nathan . 


. 824 


CXCVI. to Mr. Moore . 


805 


CCLIV. to Mr. Moore . 


824 


CXCVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 806 


CCLV. to Mr. Moore 


. 824 


CXCVIII. to Mr. Murray .. . 


806 


CCL VI. to Mr. Moore . 


824 


CXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 


806 


CCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 825 


«• CC, to Mr. Murray . 


807 


CCLVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


825 


CCI. to Mr. Hodgson . 


. 807 


CCLIX. to Mr. Moore 


. 825 


ecu. to Mr. Moore . 


808 


CCLX. to Mr. Moore 


825 


CCIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


. 808 


CCLXI. to Mr. Moore 


. . 826 


CCIV. to Mr. Murray . 


809 


. . CCLXII. to Mr. Moore . 


82<^ 


CCV. to Mr. Rogers 


. 809 


CCLXIII. to Mr. Moore 


. 821 


CCVI. to Mr. Rogers . 


809 


CCLXIV. to Mr. Coleridge . 


82. 


CCVII. to Mr. Moore 


. 809 


CCLXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. . 828 


CCVIII. to Mr. Dallas . 


810 


CCLXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


828 


CCIX. to * * * * . 


. 810 


CCLXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 828 


CCX. to Mr. Moore . 


810 


CCLXVIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


828 


CCXI. to W * * W » *, Esq 


. 811 


CCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 


. 829 


CCXII. to Mr. Moore . 


811 


CCLXX. to Mr. Moore . 


829 


CCXIII. to Mr. Moore . . 


. 811 


CCLXXI. to Mr. Sotheby . 


. 830 


CCXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


812 


CCLXXII. to Mr. Sotheby 


830 


CCXV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


. 812 


CCLXXIII. to Mr. Taylor 


. 830 


812 


CCLXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


830 


CCXVII. to Mr. Moore 


. 813 


CCLXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 831 


CCXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


814 


CCLXXVI. to Mr. Hunt . 


831 


CCXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 814 


CCLXXVII. to Mr. Hunt 


831 


CCXX. to Mr. M array . 


814 


CCLXXVIII. to Mr. Hunt . 


831 


CCXXI. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 814 


CCLXXIX. to Mr. Moore 


832 


CCXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


814 


CCLXXX. to Mr. Hunt . 


832 1 


CCXXIII. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 815 


CCLXXXI. to Mr. Moore 


. 833 


CCXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


816 


CCLXXXII. to Mr. Moore . 


833 


CCXXV. to Mr. Moore 


. 816 


CCLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 834 


CCXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


816 


CCLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


834 


CCXXVII. to Mr. Rogers 


. 816 


CCLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


. 834 


CCXXVIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


817 


CCLXXXVI. to Mr. Moore . 


834 


CCXXIX. to Mr. Moore . . 


. 817 


CCLXXXVII. to Mr. Hunt . 


. 835 


CCXXX. to Mr. Moore . 


817 


CCjuXXXVIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


835 


CCXXXI. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 818 


CCLXXXIX. to Mr. Moore 


835 


CCXXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


818 


CCXC. to Mr. Hunt . 


836 


CCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 818 


CCXCI. to Mr. Moore 


. 836 


CCXXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 


818 


CCXCII. to Mr. Murray . 


837 


CCXXX V. to Mr. Murray . 


. 819 


CCXCIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


. 837 


CCXXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


819 


CCXCIV. to Mr. Murray . 


837 


CCXXXVII. to Mr. Moore 


. 819 


CCXCV. to Mr. Murray 


. 837 


liCXXXVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


820 


CCXC VI. to Mr. Murray . 


837 


CCXXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


. 820 


CCXCVII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 837 


CCXL. to Mr. Murray . 


820 


CCXCVIII. to Mr. Rogers . 


838 


CCXLI. to Mr. Moore 


. 821 


CCXCIX. to Mr. Murray . 


838 


CCXLII. to Mr. Moore . 


821 


CCC. to Mr. Murray . 


838 


CCXLIII. to Mr. Moore 


. 821 


CCCI. to Mr. Rogers 


839 


CCXLIV. to the Countess of * • < 


822 


CCCII. to Mr. Murray . 


839 


CCXLV. to Mr. Moore 


. 822 


CCCIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 840 


CCXLVI. to Mr. Hunt . 


822 


CCCIV. to Mr. Murray . 


840 


CCXLVII. to Mr. Moore . . 


. 822 


CCCV. to Mr. Murray 


. S4C 


CCXLVIII. to Mr. Henry Drury 


823 


CCC VI. to Mr. Murray . 


841 


CCXLIX. to Mr. Cowell . . 


. 823 


CCCVII. to Mr. Murray 


841 


CCL. to Mr. Moore . 


823 


CCCVIII. to Mr. Moore . 


'*42 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



LETTERS 




CCCIX 


to Mr, 


cccx 


to Mr. 


CCCXI 


to Mr. 


CCCXII 


to Mr. 


CCCXIII 


to Mr. 


CCCXIV 


to Mr. 


cccxv. 


to Mr. 


CCCXVI. 


to Mr. 


CCCXVII. 


to Mr. 


COCXVIII 


to Mr. 


CCCXIX. 


to Mr. 


cccxx. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXI. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXIV. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXV. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXVI. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXVII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXVIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXIX. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXX. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXXI. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXXII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXXIII. 


to Mr. 


cccx XXIV. 


to Mr. 


cccxxxv. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXXVI. 


to Mr. 


cccxxxva. 


to Mr. 


XCXXXVIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXXXIX. 


to Mr. 


CCCXL. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLI. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLIV. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLV. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLVI. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLVII. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLV III. 


to Mr. 


CCCXLIX. 


to Mr. 


CCCL. 


to Mr. 


CCCLI. 


to Mr. 


CCCLII. 


to Mr. 


CCCLIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCLIV. 


to Mr. 


CCCLV. 


to Mr. 


CCCLVI. 


to Mr. 


CCCLVII. 


to Mr. 


CCCLVIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCLIX. 


to Mr. 


CCCLX. 


to Mr. 


CCCLXI. 


to Mr. 


CCCLXII. 


to Mr. 


CCCLXIII. 


to Mr. 


CCCLXIV. 


to Mr. 


CCCLXV. 


to Mr. 


CCCLXVI. 


to Mr. 



Moore 

Moore . 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Murray 

Moore 

Moore . 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Rogers 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Hoppner 

Murray 

Miirray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Hoppner 

Murray 

Murray 

Murray 

Moore . 

Murray 

Hoppner 



Page 

843 
843 
845 
845 

846 
846 
847 
848 
849 
849 
850 
850 
851 
851 
852 
852 
853 
854 
855 
855 
856 
856 
857 
858 
858 
858 
859 
859 
859 
860 
861 
861 
861 
862 
862 
862 
863 
863 
863 
864 
864 
865 
865 
866 
866 
866 
867 
867 



869 
869 
870 
870 
870 
870 
871 



LETTERS 
CCCLXVII. to Mr. Rogers 
CCCLXVIII. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCLXIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXI. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXIII to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXIV. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCLXXV. to ♦ * * * * 
CCCLXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXVIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXX. to Capt. Basil HaU 
CCCLXXXI. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCLXXXII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXXIV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXXVI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCLXXXVII. to the Editor of Galignani'i 
Messenger 
CCCLXXX VIII^ to Mr. Murray . 
CCCLXXX IX. to Mr. Murray 

CCCXC. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCXCI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCXCII. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCXCIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCXCIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCXCV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCXCVI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCXCVII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCXCVIII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCXCIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCC. 'to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCI. to the Countess Guiccioli 
CCCCII. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCIII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCVI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCTII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCVIII. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCIX. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCX. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCCXI. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXII. to the Countess Gu:ecioli 
CCCCXIII. to the Countess Guiccioli 
CCCCXIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXV. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXVI. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXVII. to Mr. Moore . 
CCCCXVIII. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXIX. to Mr. Hoppner . 
CCCCXX. to Mr. Murray . 
CCCCXXI. to Mr. Bankes 
CCCCXXII. to Mr. Murray 
CCCCXXIII. to Mr. Bankes 



872 
872 
873 
873 
873 
874 
874 
•874 
875 
877 
877 
877 
878 
878 
878 
879 
879 
879 
880 
880 
1 
881 
881 
881 
882 
882 
882 
883 
884 
884 
885 
885 
885 
886 
887 
887 
887 
887 



889 



891 



892 



894 
894 





CONTENTS. 




▼ 




P»te 






fcg« 


lETTEKS 




LETTERS 






CCCCXX rV. to Mr. Murray 


. 896 


CCCCLXXXL 


to Mr. Murray. 


921 


CCCCXXV. to Mr. Murray 


897 


CCCCLXXXII. 


to Mr. Perry 


921 


GCCCXX VI. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 897 


CCCCLXXXin. 


to Mr. Murray . 


921 


CCCCXX VII. to Mr. Murray 


897 


CCCCLXXXIV. 


to Mr. Hoppner . , 


922 


CCCCXX VIII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 897 


CCCCLXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . , 


923 


CCCCXXIX. to Mr. Murray . 


897 


CCCCLXXXVL 


to Mr. Shelley , 


923 


CCCCXXX. to Mr. Murray. 


. 898 


CCCCLXXXVII. 


to Mr. Murray . . . 


923 


CCCCXXXI. to Mr. Hoppner . 


898 


CCCCLXXXVIII. 


to Mr. Moore 


924 


OCCCXXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 898 


CCCCLXXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore . 


924 


CCCCXXXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


899 


CCCCXC. 


to Mr. Murray . 


924 


CCCCXXXIV. to Mr. Hoppner . 


. 899 


CCCCXCL 


to Mr. Hoppner 


92.5 


CCCCXXXV. to Mr. Murray . 


899 


CCCCXCII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


925 


CCCCXXX VI. to Mr. Murray. . 


. 900 


CCCCXCIII. 


to Mr. Moore . 


925 


CCCCXXXVII. to Mr. Murray . 


901 


CCCCXCIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


926 


CCCCXXX VIII. to Mr. Murray. . 


. 901 


ccccxcv. 


to the Countess Guiceioli 


926 


CCCCXXXIX. to Mr. Moore . 


901 


CCCCXCVI. 


to Mr. Moore 


926 


CCCCXL. to Mr. Hoppner 


. 902 


CCCCXCVII. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


927 


CCCCXLI. to Mr. Moore . 


902 


CCCCXCVIII. 


to Mr. Murray . .* 


927 


CCCCXLII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 903 


CCCCXCIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


CCCCXLIII. to Mr. Moore 


903 


D. 


to Mr. Murray . 


927 


CCCCXLIV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 903 


DI. 


to Mr. Hoppner 


928 


CCCCXLV. to Mr. Murray . 


904 


DII. 


to Mr. Moore 


928 


CCCCXLVI. to Mr. Murray. . 


. 905 


Dili. 


to Mr. Moore . 


928 


CCCCXL VII. to Mr. Moore . 


906 


DIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


929 


CCCCXLVIII. to Mr. Murray . . 


. 905 


DV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


929 


CCCCXLIX. to Mr. Murray . 


906 


DVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


929 


CCCCL. to Mr. Murray . 


. 906 


DVII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


93C 


CCCCLI. to Mr. Murray . 


906 


DVIII. 


to Mr. Hoppner . 


93C 


CCCCLII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 906 


DIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


93C 


CCCCLIII. to Mr. Murray . 


906 


DX. 


to Mr. Moore 


931 


CCCCLIV. to Mr. Murray. 


. 907 


DXI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


CCCCLV. to Mr. Murray . 


908 


Dxn. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


CCCCLVI. to Mr. Murray. 


. 908 


DXIII. 


to Mr. Murray . 


932 


CCCCLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


909 


DXIV. 


to Mr. Moore 


933 


OCCCLVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


. 909 


DXV. 


to Mr. Murray . " . 


933 


CCCCLIX. to Mr. Moore . 


910 


DXVI. 


to Mr. Murray . 


933 


CCCCLX. to Mr. Murray. 


. 910 


DXVII. 


to Mr. Moore . . * . 


934 


CC^CLXI. to Mr. Murray . 


911 


DXVIII. 


to Mr. Murray 


934 


CCCCLXII. to Mr. Moore . 


. 911 


DXIX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


935 


CCCCLXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


912 


DXX. 


to Mr. Moore 


935 


CCCCLXIV. to Mr. Murray. 


. 912 


DXXL 


to Mr. Moore . 


935 


CCCCLXV. to Mr. Murray 


913 


DXXII. 


to Mr. Moore 


936 


CCCCLX VI. to Mr. Murray. 


. 914 


Dxxin. 


to Mr. Murray . 


936 


CCCCLXVII. to Mr. Moore . 


914 


DXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


937 


CCCCLX VIII. to Mr. Moore . . 


. 915 


DXXV. 


to Mr. Moore 


938 


CCCCLXIX. to Mr. Moore 


915 


DXXVL 


to Mr. Murray . 


9^* 


Address to the Neapolitan Government 


. 916 


DXXVIL 


to Mr. Moore 


93J> 


CCCCLXX. to Mr. Moore . 


916 


DXXVIIL 


to Mr. Moore . 


939 


CCCCLXXI. to Mr. Murray. . 


. 917 


DXXIX. 


to Mr. Moore 


939 


CCCCLXXII. to Mr. Murray . 


917 


DXXX. 


to Mr. Murray . 


940 


CCCCLXXIII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 018 


DXXXL 


to Mr. Murray , 


940 


CCCCLXXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


918 


DXXXII. 


to Mr. Rogers 


940 


CCCCLX XV. to Mr. Moore . 


. 918 


DXXXIIL 


to Mr. Moore 


941 


CCCCLXXVI. to Mr. Murray . 


918 


DXXXIV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


94' 


CCCCLXX VII. to Mr. Murray. 


. 919 


DXXXV. 


to Mr. Murray . 


941 


CCCCLXXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


919 


DXXXVI. 


to Mr. Moore . 


94i 


CCCCLXXIX. to Mr. Murray. 


. 920 


DXXXVIL 


to Mr. Shoppard . 


943 


CCCCLXXX. to Mr. Moor* . 


921 


DXXXVIIL 


to Mr. Murray . • . 


94S 



H CONTENTS. 




PV 


P*«« 


LETTERS 




LETTERS 


DXXXIX. to Mr. Murray . . . 


943 


DXCVI. to Goethe . . 96o 


DXL. to Mr. Moore . 


944 


DXCVII. to Mr. Bowring ... 965 


DXLI. to Mr. Shelley . 


944 


DXCVIII. to the General Government of 


DXLII. to Mr. Moore . . . 


944 


Greece . . . .966 


DXLIII. to Sir Walter Scott, Bart. . 


945 


DXCIX. to Prince Mavrocordato . 966 


DXLIV. to Douglas Kinnaird 


945 


DC. to Mr. Bowring . . .966 


DXLV. to Mr. Murray . 


946 


DCI. to Mr Bowring . . 967 


DXLVI. to Mr Moore . 


946 


DCII. to Mr. Bowring . . .967 


DXLVII. to Mr. Moore 


947 


DCIII. to the Honorable Mr. Douglas 


DXL VIII. to Mr. Moore . 


947 


Kinnaird . . .967 


DXLIX. to Mr. Moore 


947 


DCIV. to Mr. Bowring . . 968 


DL. to Mr. Moore . 


948 


DCV. to Mr. Moore . . .968 


DLL to Mr. Moore 


948 


DCVI. to the Hon. Colonel Stanhope 969 


DLII. to Mr. Murray . 


948 


DCVII. to Mr. Muir . . . .969 


DLIII. to Mr. Moore . 


949 


DCVIII. to Mr. C. Hancock . . 969 


DLIV. to Mr. Murray . 


949 


DCIX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 970 


^ DLV. to Mr. Murray . 


949 


DCX. to Mr. Charles Hancock . 971 


DLVI. to Mr. Murray . 


950 


DCXI. to Mr. Charies Hancock . 971 


DLVII. to Mr. Murray . 


950 


DCXII. to * * ♦ * . . . 971 


DLVIII. to Mr. Shelley . 


950 


DCXIII. to Mr. Charies Hancock . 972 


DLIX. to Sir Walter Scott . * . 


950 


DCXIV. to Andrew Londo . . 973 


DLX. to Mr. Murray 


951 


DCXV. to His Highness Yussuff 


DLXL to Mr. Moore . 


951 


Pacha ... 973 


DLXIL to Mr. Murray 


951 


DCXVI. to Mr. BarflF . . . .973 


DLXIII. to Mr. Murray . 


952 


DCXVII. to Mr. Mayer ... 973 


DLXIV. to Mr. Murray . 


952 


DCXVIII. to the Honorable Dcuglas 


DLXV. to Mr. Moore . 


952 


Kinnaird ... 974 


DLXVI. to Mr. Ellice 


953 


DCXIX. to Mr. Barff . . . .974 


DLXVII. to Mr. Murray . . 


953 


DCXX. to Mr. Murray ... 974 


DLXVIII. to Mr. Murray . 


953 


DCXXI. to Mr. Moore . . . 975 


DLXIX. to Mr. Moore . . 


953 


DCXXII. to Dr. Kennedy . 975 


DLXX. to Mr. Moore . . . . 


954 


DCXXIII. to Mr. Barff . . . .976 


DLXXI. to Mr. Moore . . 


954 


DCXXIV. to Mr. Barff ... 976 


DLXXII. to Mr. Murray . . . 


955 


DCXXV. to Sr. Parruca . . 976 


DLXXIII. to Mr. Murray . . . 


955 


DCXXVI. to Mr. Charies Hancock . 976 


DLXXIV to Mr. Murray . 


956 


DCXXVII. to Dr. Kennedy . . .976 


DLXXV. to Lady . 


957 


DCXXVIII. to Colonel Stanhope . 977 


DLXXVI. to Mr. Proctor . 


957 


DCXXIX. to Mr. Barff . . . .977 


DLXXVII. to Mr. Moore . 


957 


DCXXX. to Mr. Barff ... 977 


DLXXVIII. to Mrs. .... 


957 


DCXXXI. to Mr. Barff . . . .978 


DLXXIX. to Lady ♦ ♦ * . 


958 


DCXXXII. to *****, a Prussian Officer 978 


DLXXX. to Mr. Moore . . . 


958 


DCXXXIII. to Mr. Barff . . . .978 


DLXXXI. to the Earl of Blessington 


959 


DCXXXIV. to Mr. Barff ... 978 


DLXXXII. to the Earl of Blessington 


959 


DCXXXV. to Mr. Barff . . . .973 


DLXXXIII. to the Earl of Bless^.ngton 


960 


Extracts from a Journal, begun November 14, 


DLXXXIV. to the Count * ♦ . 


960 


1813 97« 


DLXXX V. to the Countess of Blessington 960 


Extracts from a Journal in Switzerland . 996 


DLXXXVI. to the Countess of * * * . 


961 


Extracts from a Journal in Italy . . . 998 


DLXXXVII. to Lady Byron . . . 


961 


Detached" Thoughts, extracted from various 


DLXXXVIII. to Mr. Blaquiere . 


961 


Journals, Memorandums, &c., &c. . 1010 


DLXXXIX. to Mr. Bowring 


962 


Review of Wordsworth'f) Poems . . 1022 


DXC. to Mr. Bowring . 


963 


Review of Gell's Geography of Ithaca, and 


DXCI. to Mr. Church, American 


Itinerary of Greece 1023 


Consul at Genoa . 


963 


The First Chapter of a Novel, contemplated 


DXCII. to M. H. Beyle 


963 


by Lord Byron in the Spring of 1812 ; (after- 


DXCIII. to Lady « * • ♦ . 


964 


wards Published in one of Mr. Dallas's 


DXCIV. to the Countess of Blessington 964 


Novels ... 1028 


DXC 7. to Mr. Bowring . 


964 


Parliamentary Speeches . . . . l!)2fl 



H, S ray^nient ... ... 

Letter to John Murray on the Rev. W. L. 

Bowles's Strictures on the Life and Writings 
of Pope ...•••• 

Notes 

Observations upon " Observations." A Sec- 
ond Letter to John Murray, Esq., on the 
Eev. W. L. Bowles's Strictiires on the Lift» 
and ^yritings of Pope ... 



CONTExN'TS. Vil 

Note .1064 

Some Observations upon an Article m Black- 
wood's Magazine 1055 

Letter to the Editor of My Grandmother's 

Review 1064 

Lord Bacon's Apothegms . . 1066 
Translation of Two Epistles from the Arme- 
nian Version .... . « 10^ 
Tho Will of Lord Byron > . 1070 



1025 



1037 
1046 



1046 



THE LIFE OF LOUD BYHON 



George Gordon Byron was bom in Holies 
street, London, on the 22d day of January, 1788. 
Soon after his birth, his father deserted him, and the 
whole responsibility of his early training devolved 
on his mother, who, with him, soon after repaired 
to Aberdeen, where they resided foi som*? time in 
nlmost complete seclusion. 

The infancy of Byron was marked with the work- 
ings of that wild and active spirit which he so fiiKy 
displayed in all subsequent years of his life. As a 
child, his temper was violent, or rather, suUen'y 
passionate. Being angrily reprimanded by his nur?e, 
one day, for having soiled or torn a new frock in 
which he had just been dressed, he got into one of 
his " silent rages," (as he termed them,) seized the 
frock with both hands, rent it from top to bottom, 
and stood in sullen stillnes* setting his ceusurer 
and her wrath at defiance. 

Notwithstanding these unruly *>utbreaks, in which 
he was too much encouraged by the example of his 
mother, who frequently proceeded to tb.o same ex- 
tremities with her own caps, gowns, &c., there 
was in his disposition a mixture of affectionate 
Bweotness and playfulness, which attached many to 
him, and which rendered him then, as in riper years, 
easily manageable by those who loved and under- 
stood him siufficiently to be at once gentle and firm 
enough for the task. 

The undivided affection of the mother was natu- 
rally centered in her son, who was her darling ; and 
when he only went out for an ordinary walk, she 
would entreat him, with tears in her eyes, to take 
care of himself, as " she had nothing on earth but 
him to live for ; " a conduct not at all oleasing to 
his adventurous spirit ; the more especially as some 
of his companions, who beheld the affectionate 
icene, would laugh and ridicule about it. This ex- 
cessive maternal affection and indulgence, and the 
entire absence of that salutary discipline so neces- 
sary to childhood, doubtless contributed to the 
formation of these unpleasant traits of character 
that distinguished Byron from all others in subse- 
quent years. 

An accident, at the time of birth, caused a mal- 
formation of one of his feet. Many expedients 
were used to restore the limb to its proper shape, 
under the direction of Dr. Hunter. His nurse, to 
whom fell the task of putting on the bandages, 
would often sing him to sleep, or relate to him sto- 
ries and legends, in which, like most other children, 
he manifested great delight. She also taught him 
to repeat a great number of Psalms ; and the first 
and twenty-third were among the earliest that he 
committed to memory. Out of these lessons arose, 
long afterwards, the " Hebrew Melodies ; " which, 
but for them, never would have been written, though 
Byron studied Lowth on the Sacred Poetry of tne 
Hebrews all his life. It is a remarkable fact, that, 



through the care and daily instruction of this mirse, 
he attained a far earlier and more intimate acquaint- 
ance with the Sacred Writings, than falls to the lot 
of most young people. 

The defect in the formation of his foot, and a great 
weakness of constitution, induced his mother to Keep 
him from an attendance on school, that he migh* 
expand his lungs and brace his limbs, upon th€ 
mountains of the neighborhood. 

Thit was evidently the most judicious method for 
imparting strength to his bodily frame ; and the se- 
quel showed that it likewise imparted tone and 
vigor to his mind. The savage grandeur of nature 
around him ; the feeling that he was upon tae hiUa 
where 

" Foreign tyrant never trod, 
But freedom, with her falchion hrso-Wf. 

I have a care how you proceed; be mnidful to go 
there in broad daylight, and with your eyes about 
vou. For, should you make any blunders, — should 
you go to the right of the hall steps, you aif laid 
hold "of by a bear; and should you go to the left, 
vour case is still worse, for you run full against a 
wolf.* Nor, when you have attained the door, is 
your danger over ; tor the hall being decayed, and 
therefore standing in need of repsiir, a bevy cl 
inmates are very probably banging at one end of it 
with their pistols; so that if you enter without 
giving loud notice of your approach, yo i have only 
escaped the wolf and the bet^r, to expire by the 
pistol-shots o chc merry monks of Ncwstead. 

"Our party consisted of Lord Bvion and four 
otliers, and was, now and then, increased by the 
l)re.sence of a neighboring parson. As for our way 
of living, the order of the day was generally this :— ■ 
for bre^kfaat we had no set hour, but each suited 
his own convenience, — every thing remaining on 
the table till the whole party had done; though 
had one wished to breakfast at the early hour of 
ten, one would have been rather huky to fuul any 
but, in the scene between Katherine and rt-truchio 
where the following dialogue takes place, — 

" Kalh.—i Know it li the mooa. 
/»«!.— Nay, then, you lie,— it !• the blene<1 ma," 

George started up, and ci ied out boldly, •' But I lay 
it is the moon, sir." 

Byron was not quite five years of age when he wat 
sent to a day school at Aberdeen, faught by Mi. 
Bowers. At that school he remiLiied about on* 
year. 

During his schoolboy days he was lively, warm- 
hearted, generous, and high-spirited. He was, how- 
ever, passionate and resentful, and to a remarkabU 
degree venturesome and fearless. If he received an 
injury, he was sure to revenge it : though the casti** 
gntion he inflicted might be long ou ita way, yet it 
ttame at length, and severely. 



Vlll 



BYRON'S WORKS 



He was a brave youth, and was much more anx- 
ious to excel his fellows by prowess in sport and 
gymnastic exez'cises, than by advancement in learn- 
ing. 

When any study pleased him, he devoted all his 
attention to it, and was quick in the performance of 
biis task. He cared but little where he stood in his 
class ; and at the foot was as agreeable to him as at 
the head. 

He remained at school until the vear 1796, when 
an attack of scarlet fever weakened kis, by no means 
strong, constitution, and he was removed by his 
Jnrother to the Highlands. • 

From the period of his residence in the High- 
lands, B}Ton dated his love of mountainous coun- 
tries and his equally ardent love of solitude. While 
at AoerJeen, he would escape unnoticed, and find 
his way to the sea-side. At one time, it was sup- 
posed he was lost, and after a long and anxious 
search he was found struggling for his life in a sort 
of morass or marsh, in which he would undoubtedly 
have perished, had not some one came to the rescue. 

Many like instances occurred during his residence 
among the Highlands. His love of adventure often 
led hi\n into difficulty and danger. While scram- 
bling over a declivity that overhung a small water- 
fall, called the Linn of Dee, some heather caught 
his lame foot, and he fell. He was rolling down- 
ward, when the attendant luckily caught him, and 
vas but just in time to save him from being killed. 

On the I7th of May, 1798, William, the fifth Lord 
Byron, died without issue, at Newstead, and young 
Byron, then in his tenth year, succeeded to his 
tiUes and his estates ; and his cousin, the Earl of 
Carlisle, the son of the late Lord's sister, was ap- 
pointed his guardian. 

Upon this change of fortune, Lord Byron was 
removed from under the immediate care of his 
mother. 



This gf'ntleman often spoke ot tae gaiet)' ui ms 
pupil, and the delight he experienced in exposing 
Lavender's pompous ignorance. One day he wrote 
down on a sheet of paper all the letters of the 
alphabet, put together at random, and placing them 
oeforc this concentrated body of pretension, asked 
nim ver)' seriously what language it was. Not 
wishing to expose his ignorance, and not dreaming 
of the snare to trip him, he replied as seriously as 
the inqu'ry was put, that it was Italian, to the 
infinite delight of the young satirist, who burst 
Into a loud laugh. 

At about this period, Lord Byron's first symptom 
pf a tendency to rhyme manifested itself. The 
occasion which gave rise to it is thus related : — 

An elderly lady, who was in the habit of visiting 

%i8 mother, had made use of some expressions that 

Tcry much affronted him ; and these slights, his 

said, he generally resented violently and im- 



placably. The old lady had some ciin'ous notioni 
respecting the soul, which, she imagined, took its 
flight to the moon after death, as a preliminarj 
essay, before it proceeded further. One day, aftei 
a repetition, it is supposed, of her original insult to 
the boy, he appeared before his nurse in a violent 
rage. " Well, my little hero," she asked, "what's 
the matter with you, now ? " Upon which the 
child answered, that J' this old woman had put him 
in a terrible passion, — that he could not bear the 
sight of her," &c., &c., — and then broke out into 
the following doggerel, which he repeated over and 
over, as if delighted with the ^eht he had found for 
his rage ; — 

" In Nottingham county, there lives at Swai Sreen, 
As curst an old lady as. ever was seen ; 
And when she does die, which 1 hope will be seen, 
Slie firmly believes stie will go to the moon." 

This was the occasion and the result of his first 
effort at rhyramg. His "first dash at joe try," aa 
he calls it, was made one year later, durmg a vaca- 
tion visit at the house of a cousin, Miss Parker. 
Of that poem, he says, " It was the ebullition of a 
passion for my first cousin, one of the most beauti- 
ful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten 
the verses, but it would be difficult for me to forget 
her — her dark eyes — her long eye-lashes — her com- 
pletely Greek cast of face and "figure ' I was tnen 
about twelve — she rather older, perhaps a year." 
Lo>e fur this young lady obtained strong hold of 
hip heart. Of her personal appearance, he says, 
"t do not recollect any thing equal to the tra^ispa 
re.it beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her 
temper, during the short period of our intimacy. 
Site looked as if she had been made out of a rain- 
bow—all beauty and p^ace." 

After a short viait at Cheltenham, in the summer 
of 1801, at the earnest solicitation of his mother, 
he was placed at Harrow, under the tuition 0/ 
Doctor Drury, to whom he testified his gratitude in 
a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold. In 
one of his manuscript journals, he sa)^s, " Dr. 
Dvury was the best, the kindest friend I ever had — 
and I look upon him still as a father." 

" Though he was lame," says one of his school- 
fellows, " he was a great lover of sports, and pre- 
ferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon 
for ' duck puddle,' and gave up the best poet that 
ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the 
common. He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) 
for his learning, but he was always a clever, plain- 
spoken, and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight 
by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the 
disadvantage of his lameness with all the spirit of 
an ancient combatant." 

It was during a vacation, and his residence fit 
Newstead, that he formed an acquaintance wilh 
Miss Chaworth, an event which, according to his 
own deliberate persuasion, exercised a lasting afd 
paramount influence over the whole of his sub- 
sequent character and eventful career. 

Twice had he loved, and now a tuird lime r»e 
bowed before beauty, wit, and worth. 

The father of this young lady had been killed in 
a duel by the eccentric grand-uncle of Byron, and 
the union of the young peer with her, the heiress 01 
Annesley Hall, "would," as he said, "have heal;d 
feuds in which blood had been shed by our father? ; 
it would have joined lands rich and broad ; it woul i 
have joined at least '»we heart, and two persons net 
ill-matched in years ' But all this was destinea tv) 
exist but in imagination. They had a parting 
interview in the following year ; and, in 1805, Misa 
Chaworth was married to Mr. Musters, with wh'".ra 
she lived unhappily. She died in 1831. Many oi 
his smaller poems are addressed to this lady. Tie 
scene of their last interview is most exquisitt ly 
described in " The Dream." 

During one of the Harrow vacations he studi'Ml 
French, but with little success, under the directioi 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYROW. 



IX 



of the Abb(^ de Rouffigny. The vacation of 1804 
he spent with his mother at Southwell, and in 
October, 180-5, he left Harrow, and entered Trinity 
College, Cambridge. He left with feelings of sad- 
ness. He savs, " I always hated Harrow till the 
last year and a half, but then I liked it." He now 
began to feel that he was no longer a boy,^and in 
solitude he mourned over the truth ; this sorrow he 
could not at all times repress in public. 

Soon after entering college, he formed an attach- 
mont with a youth named Ecldleston, f'hich exceeded 
in warmth and romance aU his schoolboy attach- 
ments. 

;n the summer of 1806, another visit to South- 
-vell resulted in an acquaintance with the family of 
Pigots, to a l;'dy of which the earliest of his pub- 
L"sh •'d letters were addressed. 

Ti-e temper of his mother exceeded all bounds. 
This temper, Byron in a great degree inherited. In 
his childhood, this passion often broke out in the 
most violent manner. Mother and son were often 
quarrelling, and provocations finally led to a sepa- 
ration, in Augiist, 18')6. Byron filed to London, 
where his mother followed him, made overtures of 
peace, and a reconciliation was brought about. 

Early in November, his first volume of poems 
were put in press. It was entitled " Poems on 
Various Occasions," and was printed anonymously 
by Mr. Ridge, a bookseller at Newark. Becoming 
dissatisfied with this, he caused a second edition to 
be printed in January, in which he omitted many 
pieces which had appeared in the first. This was 
not intended for public scrutiny, but merely circu- 
lated among his friends, and such persons as he 
thought well disposed towards the first efibrt of a 
young and inexperienced author. 

Encouraged by its favorable reception, he again 
re-wTote the poems, made many additions and 
alterations, and, under the name of *' Hours of 
Idleness," sent his volume forth to the public. 

This book, containing many indications of genius, 
also contained many errors of taste and judgment, 
which were fiercely assailed by a critique* in the 
Edinburgh Review, and brought forth from Byron 
the stiu<i;ing satire, " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers." 

The minor reviews gave the " Hours of Idleness " 
a better reception, yet we may, with no degree of un- 
reasonableness, suppose that to the scorching words 
of the Edinburgh he owed much of future success 
and fame. He was roused like a lion in its lair. 
He felt, though it might be true, he did not deserve 
such an article, and he resolutely determined to 
show the critic that he had talent and genius, 
though the reviewer, in his eager search for its 
absence, could not discovei its presence. 

Lord Byron supposed Jeffrey to be the 'author of 
the obnoxious article, and he poured out on him 
his 7ials of wrath and merciless satire. 

During the progress of his poem through the 
press, he added to it more than a hundred lines. 
New impressions and influences gave l)irth to new 
thoughts, and he made his Bards and Reviewers 
carry them forth to vex and annoy his victims. 
The person who 'Superintended its progress through 
the press, daily received new matter for its pages ; 
ftui i)i a note to that gentleman, Byron says, 
" Frir.t soon, or I shall overflow with rhyme." It 
was 80 in subse'iuent years. If he could reach his 
printer, he would continue to send his " thick- 
coming fancies," which were suggested by perusals 
of what he had already written. 

On the I3th of March, he took his seat in the 
House of Lords, and on the middle of the same 
month pul)lished his satire. From the hour of its 
Appearance, fame and f(jrtune followed him. Its 
Ruccess was such as to demand his attention in the 
preparation of a second edition. To this much Was 
ftdded, and to it was prefixed his name. 



tonl Bruufbiun. 



His residence was now at Newstead, where during 
the preparation of the new edition of his poems, he 
dispensed with a liberal hand the hospitalities ol 
the old Abbey to a party of college friends. C. S. 
Matthetos, one of this party, in a letter to an 
acquaintance, gives the following descilption of the 
Abbey at that time, and amusing account of the 
proceedings and habits of its occupants : — 

" Newstead Abbey is situated one hundred and 
thirty-six miles from Lond(m — four on this side 
Mansfield. Though sadly fallen to decay, it is still 
completely an abbey, and most part of it is ?tiil 
standing in the same state as when it was first 
built. There are two tiers of cloisters, vrAa a 
variety of cells and rooms about them, which, 
though not inhabited, nor in an inhabitable state, 
might easily be made so ; and many of the original 
rooms, amongst which is a fine stone hall, are still 
in use. Of the abbey-church only one end remains; 
and the old kitchen, with a long range of apart- 
ments, is reduced to a heap of rubbish. Leading 
from the abbey to the modern part of the h»bita-' 
tion is a noble room, seventy feet in Inngth and 
twenty -three in breadth; but every part of thb 
house displavs neglect and decay, save those which 
the present lord has lately fitted up. 

" The house and gardens are entirely sun'ounded 
by a wall with battlements. In front is a large 
lake, bordered here and there with castellated 
buildings, the chief of which stands on an eminence 
at the further extremity of it. Fancy all this 
surrounded with bleak and barren hills, with scarce 
a tree to be seen for miles, except a solitary clump 
or two, and you will have some idea of Newstead. 

'• So much for the place, concerning which 1 have 
thrown together these few particulars. But if the 
place itself appears rather strange to you, the ways 
of its inhabitants will not appear much less so. 
Ascend, then, with me the hall steps, that I may 
introduce you to my lord and his visitants. Bu 
have a care how you proceed ; be mindful to go 
there in broad daylight, and with your eyes about 
you. For, should you make any blunders, — should 
you go to the right of the hall steps, you are laid 
hold of by a bear ; and should you go to the left, 
your case is still worse, for you run full against a 
wolf.* Nor, when you have attained the door, is 
your danger over ; for the hall being decayed, and 
therefore standing in need of repair, a bevy cl 
inmates are very probably banging at one end of it 
with their pistols ; so that if you enter without 
giving loud notice of your approach, yo * have only 
escaped the wolf and the bekr, to expire by the 
pistol-shots the merry monks of Newstead. 

" Our party consisted of Lord Byion and four 
others, and was, now and then, increased by the 
presence of a neighboring parson. As for our way 
of living, the order of the day was generally this : — 
for breakfast we had no set hcur, bvit each suited 
his own convenience, — every thing remaining on 
the table till the whole party had done ; though 
had one wished to breakfast at the early hour of 
ten, one would have been rather lucky to find any 
of the servants up. Our average hour of rising 
was one. I, who generally got up betwf<>n elf ven 
and twelve, was always — even wlien an invalid — 
the first of the party, and was esteemi'd a [)rodi>;) 
of early rising. It was frecjuently past two before 
the breakfast party broke up. Then, for the amuse- 
ment of xhe morning, there was roadinsj;, feiuiu!.', 
single-slicK, or shuttlecock, in the yreat room ; 
practising with pistols in the hall; walkiuir, riding, 
cricket, sailing on the lake, playing wit'., tlu* boar 
teasing the wolf. Between seven and einht w<i 
dined; and our evening lasted from tliat time til. 
one, two, or three in the morning. 'I'hc evening 
diversions may be easily conceived. , 

*• I must not omit the custom of handing round 
after dinner, on the removal of the cloth, a humai 



Lrorcl BvrM'i pM auninMiU at N«w«tMiL 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



skull filled with Burgundy. After revelling on 
choice '^^ands, and the finest wines of France, we 
adjourned to tea, where we amused ourselves with 
reading or improving conversation, — each according 
to his fancy, — and, after sandwiches, &c., retired 
to r^st. A set of monkish dresses, which had been 
provided, with all the proper appaiatus of crosses, 
Deads, tonsures, &c., often gave a variety to our 
appearance, and to our pursuits." 

Byron was at London when he put the finishing 
touches upon the new edition, which, having done, 
he took leave of that city, and soon after sailed for 
Lisbon. After a passage of four days, he arrived 
at his destination, in company with his friend, Mr. 
John Cam Hobhouse. They remained but a short 
time in Lisbon, from whence they travelled on 
Lorstback to Seville and Cadiz. He was as free 
und easy in each of these places as he had been at 
tome. In Lisbon, as he said, he ate oranges, 
talked bad Italian to the monks, went into society 
with pocket pistols, swam the Tagus, and became 
the victim of musquitoes. In Seville, a lady of 
character became fondly attached to him, and at 

f>arling gave him a lock of her hair " three feet in 
ength," which he sent home to his mother. In 
Cadiz, " Miss Cordova and her little brother " 
became his favorites, and the former his preceptress 
in Spanish. He alludes to this in one of his poems. 

" "I'is pleasing to be school M in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
As was the case, at least, vrheie 1 have beau." 

t/caving Cadiz, in the Hyperion frigate, he sailed 
for Gibralter, where he remained till the 19th of 
August, when he left for Malta. 

At this liitter place, he formed an acquaintance 
vith Mrs. Spencer Smith, a lady whose life had 
been fertile with remarkable incidents, and whom 
he addresses, in his poetry, under the name of 
" Florence.'''' 

After remaining at anchor for three or four days 
ofi' Patras, Byron and his friend proceeded to their 
ulriaiate destination. On their passage, they had a 
must charming sunset view of Missolonghi. They 
Landed at Prevesa on the 29th of September. From 
PrevejAi they journeyed to the capital of Albania, 
and, soon after, to Yanina ; at which place he 
learned that Ali Pacha was with his troops in 
Illyrium, besieging Ibrahim Pacha in Berat. From 
Yanina, Lord Byron passed to Tepaleen. Being 
among the first English travellers in that part of 
the world, they met witli much attention, and the 
greatest show of hospitality. 

With the hitentiou of going to Patra's, Lord 
Byron embarked on board a Turkish ship of war, 
provided for him by Ali Pacha. A moderate gule 
of wind arose, and, owing to the ignorance of the 
Turkish officers, the vessel came near being \^recked. 
Lut;kilj- for all on board, the wind abated, and drove 
thorn on the coast of Suli, where tliey landed, and, 
by aid of tlie natives, returned again to Prevesa. 

While at the Suliote village, a poor but honest 
Albanian supplied his wants, Byron pressed him 
'o take money in return for his kindness, but he 
-efused, with the reply, " I wish you to love me, 
aot to pay me." 

Attended by a guard of forty or more Albanians, 
they passed through Acarnania and Etolia to Mis- 
sol inghi, crossed tlie Gulf of Corinth to Patras, 
and proceeded from thence, by land, to Vostizza, 
where they caught the first glimpse of Mount Par- 
nassus. In a small boat they were conveyed to the 
opposite shore of the gulf; rode on horseback from 
Ba'onH to Delphi, and after travelUng through Liva- 
dia, and making a brief stop at Thebes, and other 

E laces, arriv'ed at Athens on the 2oth of Decem- 
er. 

He remained at Athens between two and three 
months, employing his time in visiting the vast and 
splendid mor.ameuts of ancient genius, and calling 



around him from the depths of solitude the spirit! 
of other times to people its ruins. 

He made frequent excursions tJ Attica, on dim 
of which he came near being seized by a band oi 
pirates dwelling in a cave under the cliffs of Mi- 
nerva Sunias. 

His beautiful song, " Maid of Athens, ere we 
part," was addressed to the eldest daughter of the 
Greek lady, at whose house he lodged. 

Ten weeks had flown rapidly and pleasantly away, 
when the unexpected ofier of a passage in a Brit- 
ish sloop of war to Smyrna, induced the tiavellers 
to leave Athens, which they did, on the 5th Gl 
March, with much reluctance. 

At Smyrna, Lord Byron resided in the house ol 
the Consul-General. In the course of his residence 
here, he made a three-day visit to the ruins of Ephe- 
sus. While at S.. he finished the two first cantos 
of " Childe Harold," which he had commenced five 
months before at Joannina. 

The Salsette frigate being about to sail for Con- 
stantinople, Lord Byron and Hobhouse took pas- 
sage in her. It was while this frigate lay at anchor 
in the Dardanelles, that Byron accomplishbw. his 
famous feat of swimming the Hellespont. The 
distance across was about two miles ; but the tide 
ran so strong that a direct course could not be pur 
sued, and he swam three miles. 

He arrived at Constantinople on the 13th of May 
While there, he wore a scarlet coat, richly embroi- 
dered wHh gold, vnth two hea-\7 epaulettes and f 
feathered cocked hat. He remained about two 
months, during which time he was presented to the 
Sultan, aiid made a jotirney to the Black Sea and 
otlier .places of note in that vicinity. On the 14th 
of July, they left in the Salsette frigate,— Mr. Hob- 
house intending to accompany Mr. Adair, the Eng- 
lish ambassador, to England, and Byron determined 
to visit Greece. 

The latter landed at Zea, with two Albanians, a 
Tartar, and his English servant. Leaving Zea, he 
reached Athens on the 18th. From thence, he mad( 
another tour over the same places he had previously 
visited, and returned to Athens in December, with 
the purpose of remaining there dudng his sojourn 
in Greece. The persons with whom he associated 
at Athens, were Lord Sligo, Lady Hester Stanhope, 
and Mr. Bruce. Most of nis time was employed in 
collecting materials for those notes on the state ol 
modern Greece, appended to the second canto of 
Childe Harold. Here also he wrote, " Hints from 
Horace," a' satire full of London life, yet, singular 
as it may appear, dated, *' Athens, Capuchin Con 
vent, March 12, 1811." 

He intended to have gone to Egypt, but failing 
to receive expected remittances, he was obliged to 
forego the pleasure of that trip, and he left Athene, 
and landed at Malta. There he suffered severely 
from an attack of fever, recovering from which, he 
sailed in the Volage frigate for England. He left 
Greece with more feelings of regret than he l:a( 
left his native land, and the mr mories of his sojourn 
in the East, immortalized in Childe Harold, ^vers 
among the pleasantest that accompanied him thi oug t 
life. 

He arrived at London after an absence of just tWD 
years. Mr. Dallas, the gentleman who had super- 
intended the publication of " English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers," called on him the day after his 
arrival ; Lord Byron mentioned having written a 
new satire,, and handed the MSS. to him for exami- 
nation. Mr. Dallas was grieved, supf)Osing that 
the inspiring lands of the East had brought from 
his mind no richer poetical works. 

Meeting him the next morning, Mr, Dallas ex 
pressed surprise that he had, during his absence, 
w^jitten nothing more. Upon this. Lord Byron told 
him that he had occasionally written short poems 
besides a great many stanzas in Spenser's measure, 
relative to the countries he had visited. " They ar« 
not worth troubling yoti with," said Bvron, "but 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XI 



Sw shall have t\em all with you, if you like." 
c then took Chiide Harold's Pilgrimage from a 
»mall trunk, and handed it to Mr. Dallas, at the 
name time expressing a desire to have the " Hints 
from Horace " put to press immediately. He 
undervalued Chiide Harold, and overvalued the 
*' Hints." He thought the former inferior to the 
latter. As time passed on, he altered his mind in 
reference to fhis matter. " Had Lord Byron," 
says Moore, "persisted in his original purpose of 
giving this poem to the press, instead of Chiide 
Harold, it is more than probable, that he would 
nuve been lost, as a great poet to the world." 

He finall) consented to the publication of Chiide 
Harold, yet to the last, he expressed doubts as to 
its merit, and the reception it would meet with at 
the lands of the public. Doubts and difficulties 
arose as to a publisher. Messrs. Longman had re- 
fused to publish '• English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers ; " and it was expressly stipulated with Mr, 
Dallas, to whom Lord Byron had presented the 
copyright, that Chiide Harold should not be offered 
to i;hat house. An application was made to Mr. 
Miller, but owing to the severity in which a per- 
sonal friend of that gentleman was mentioned, in 
the poem, he declined publishing it. At length it 
passed into the hands of Mr. Murray, then residing 
in Fleet street, who was proud of the undertaking, 
and by whom it was immediately put to press ; — 
and thus was laid the foundation of that friendly 
and profitable connection, between that publisher 
and the author, which continued, with but little 
interruption, during the poet's life.* 

About this time, the fifth edition of his satire was 
issued, and, soon after, every copy that could be 
found was taken and destroyed. In America, how- 
ever, and on the continent, where the law of Eng- 
land had no power, it continued to meet with an 
unprohibited sale. 

While busily engaged in literary projects, he was 
suddenly called to Newstead, by information of the 
sickness of his mother. He immediately departed, 
and travelled with all possible speed, yet death pre- 
ceded him. VV'hen he arrived, he found her dead. 

In a letter, the day tif'ter, he says, " I now feel 
the truth of Mr. Gray's observation, Mve can only 
have one mother.' " Mrs. Byron had, undoubtedly, 
loved her son, and he her, with a depth of feeling 
hardly supposable by those who had seen them in 
their fits of ungovernable passion. An incident 
that occurred at Newstead, at this time, proves the 
fciiiicerity of his affection. On the night after his 
arrival, the waiting woman of Mrs. Byron, in pass- 
ing the door of the room, where the deceased body 
lay, heard a sound as of some one sighing heavily 
from within ; and, on entering the chamber, found, 
to her surprise. Lord Byron, sitting in the da)k, 
beside the bed. On her representing to him the 
vreakness of thus giving way to grief, he burst into 



•The Ibllowiiig iiiemorandiiin exhibiu tlie umouiiU 


paid by Mr. Murray, 


4 VBjio 11 tiiiiea, for tli' 


cupyrighu of liia 


|M)enis : 




(:W1J« H-jroW, I. 11. 


. 


. 


. . 600i. 


" " III. 


. 




. . 1,575 


.< .. ,v. 






. 2,100 


SUaur, 






&i5 


ErMea Ab]:doi . 






. . f'iS 


Coraair 




. 


. . 525 


Ura, . . 


, 


. 


. . 700 


B.C((e of Corinth 






S'25 


ParUiiia, . . 


. 


• 


. . 623 


Lariieiit ul TuMO, 


. 




. . 315 


Manfreu, . . 






315 


BeiHK), 








OonJumi, 1. 11. . 


. 




. . 1,525 


" III. IV. V. . . . 


. 


. . 1.925 


Oo^« of Venice, . 


. 


, 


. . 1,050 


•anlamvpuliii, Cain 


t3d KoMUi, . 




. . 1,100 


Maiepiw, 


t • • 




. . 625 


Pltaorcr of '.'hBicii 


. 




. . 6-25 


liwdl M. . . 


• • 


• • 


450 



Toitl. 



tears, and exclaimed, " O, Mrs. By, I kai but one 
friend in the world, and she is gone ! " 

He was called at this ticne to mourn over the loss, 
not only of his mother, but of six relatives and 
intimate friends. 

He returned to London in October, and resumed 
the toils of literary labor, revising Chiide Harold, 
and making many additions and alterations. He 
had, also, at this time, two other works in press, 
"Hints from Horace," and "The Curse of Minej^- 
va." In January, the two cantos of Chiide Harold 
were printed, but not ready frr sale until the month 
of March, when " the effect it produced on the 
public," says Moore, " was as instantaneous &3 it 
has proved deep and lasting. It was electric ;— his 
fame had not to wait for any of the ordinary grada- 
tions, but seemed to spring up, like the palace of a 
fairy tale, in a night." Byron, himself in a mem- 
oranda of the sudden and wholly unexjected effect, 
said, " I awoke one morning, and found my self 
famous." 

It was just previous to this period, that he 
became acquainted with Moore, the poet. The 
circumstance which led to their acquaintance was 
a correspondence caused by a note appended to 
" English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." The ac- 
quaintance thus formed, was continued, with the 
utmost familiarity, through life. Lord Byron was 
personally introduced to Moore at the house oi 
Rogers, the poet, where, on the same day, these 
three, together with Campbell, dined 

Among the many tributes to his genius, which 
Lord Byron received, was that of the Prince Re- 
gent. At an evening party he was presented to 
that personage, at the request of the latter. The 
Regent expressed his admiration of Chiide Harold 
and entered into a long and animated conversation, 
which continued all the evening. 

In the month of August, 1811, the new theatre in 
Drury Lane was finished, and, after being urgently 
requested, Byron wrote an opening addiess for the 
occasion He now resided at Cheltenham, wheiM, 
in addition to the address, he wrote a poem on 
" Walt/ing." In May, appeared "The Giaour," 
which rapidly passed through several editions. The 
first contained but about four hiindred lines, the 
last edition, about fourteen hundred. Many of it8 
choicest parts were not in the early copies, yet it 
was received with the greatest favor, and the admir- 
ers of Chiide Harold equally admired this new pro- 
duct of the mind of its author. 

In December, 1813, he published "The Bride oi 
Abydos." To this, while being printed, -he addcid 
nearly two hundred lines. It met with a better re- 
ception, if possible, than either of his former works 
Fourtemi tlionsand copies were sold in one week, 
and it was with the gieatest difficulty and L'bor that 
the demand for it could be supplied. In January 
following, appeared the " The Cor«air." In April 
the " Ude to Napoleon," and, during the ensuing 
month, he published " Hebrew Melodies." 

In May, he adopted the straiige and singular reso 
lution of calling in all he had written, buying \iy 
all his copyrigiits, and not ^vTiting any more. For 
two years, he had been the literary idol of the neo 
pie. They had bestowed upon him the higliest 
words of praise, and shouted his genius and farao 
to the skies. His name had ever been on the lips, 
his writings in the head, and his sentiments in tlie 
heart of the great public. This strong popularity 
began to wane, as the excitement caused by the 
sudden appearance of any new thing, always will. 
The papers raised a hue and crv against a' few oj 
his minor poems. His moral ana social charactei 
was brouglit into prominency ; all that had occurred 
during his short, but eventful life, and much that 
had luver an existence, except in the minds of hifl 
opponents, was related with minute particularity 
Not only this, but the slight opinion these journal 
ists expressed of his genius, — seconded, as it was 
by that inward dissatisfaction with his own powen 



Xll 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tvhich they, whose standard of excellence is highest, 
are always surest to feel, mortified and disturbed 
him. In noticing these attacks, he remarks, " I 
am afraid what you call trash is plaguily to the pur- 
pose, and, to tell the truth, for some time past, I 
have been myself much of the same opinion." In 
this state of mind, he resolved upon bidding fare- 
well to the muses, and betaking himself to some 
other pui-suit. Menti^)ning this determination to 
Mr. Murray, that gencleman doubted his serious- 
ness ; but on the arrival of a letter, enclosing a 
draft for the amount of the copyrights, and a re- 
quest to withdraw all the advertisements, and de- 
stroy all copies of his poems, remaining ir. store, 
except two of each for himself, all doubts var.ished. 
Mr. Murray wrote an apswer, that such an act 
would be deeply injurious to both parties, and final- 
ly induced him to continue publishing. 

In connection with " Jacqueline," a poem, by Mr. 
Rogers, "Lara" appeared in August. This was 
his last appearance as an author, until the spring 
of 1816. 

On the 2d of January, 1815, Lord Byron pro- 
posed and was accepted in marriage, by an heiress, 
Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sir Ralph Milbanke, a 
baronet, in the county of Durham. Her fortune 
was upwards of ten thousand pounds sterling, which 
was Considerably increased by the death of her pa- 
rer^ts, a few years subsequent to her union with the 
poet. This union cast a shade on his .hitherto 
Dright career. A twelve-months' extravagance, 
embarrassments,, and misunderstandings, dissolved 
it, and the lady retired to the country-seat of her 
parents, from the unpleasant scenes of her own 
home. One child was the result of this marriage, 
Ada Augusta Byron. Previous to the separation, 
Byron's muse was stimulated to exertion by his 
fast-gathering misfortunes, and he produced the 
" Siege of Corintli " and " Parisina." 

At the time of their separation, T/Ord Byron and 
Lady Byron resided in London. He entered into, a 
giddy whirlpool of frolicking and unrestrained gai- 
ety, which at length brought upon him great pecu- 
niary embarrassments, Avhich so increased, that in 
November, he was not only obliged to sell his libra- 
ry, but his furniture, and even his beds, were seized 
by the bailiffs. 

As soon as the separation took place, the full tide 
of public opinion set against him, and those who 
had sought his acquaintance, coveted his friendship, 
and envied him his position, were among his dead- 
liest foes and his most slanderous vilifiers. "In 
every form of paragraph, pamphlet and caricature, 
ooth his person and character were held up to odi- 
um hardly a voice was raised, or at least listened 
to, ii his behalf; and though a few faithful friends 
remained unshaken by his side, the utter hopeless- 
ness of stemming the torrent, was felt as well by 
them, as by himself; and after an effort or two to 
gain a fair hearing, they submitted in silence." 

Thus miserable, yet conscious of his newly- 
awakening strength, Byron determined to leave 
England. At leaving, the only person with whom 
he parted with regret, was his sister, and to her he 
penned the touching tribute, " Though the Day 
of my Destiny's over." To Mr. Moore he addressed, 
**My Boat is on the Shore;" and to Lady Byron, 
•*Faie thee well." 

He sailed for Ostend on the 25th of April. His 
journey lay by the Rhine, He made a short stay at 
Brussels. At Geneva he spent the remainder of the 
lummer ; living in a beautiful villa on the borders 
ot the lake. While there, he made frequent excur- 
sions to Coppet, Chamouni, the Bernese Alps, and 
other places of interest. Mr. and Mrs. Shelley were 
also residing at Geneva at that time. It was in this 
rilla, on the banks of the lake, that he finished the 
Jiird canto of " Childe Plarold." He also wrote 
' The Prisoner of Chillon," stanzas "To Augusta," 

The Fragment," "Darkness," and "The Dream." 

It Ike moith of August he was visited by Mr. 



M. G. Lewis, Mr. Hobhouse ml Mr. S. I>avlei> 
with whom he made the excuisions previously al 
luded to. It was while here, that he began his prosw 
romance of " The Vampire ; " also another, founded 
upon the story of the Marriage of Belphegor, both 
of which he left unfinished. 

From the commencement of the yea'' 1817, to that 
of 1820, Lord Byron's principal resiv-ence was at 
Venice. Soon after reaching that rity, he begaD 
the study of the Armenian language, in which he ' 
made considerable progress. While there, he pur 
sfued his literary labors with much diligence and 
success. He wrote " The Lament of Tas.so." the 
fourth canto of " Childe Hai-old," the dramas of 
" Marino Faliero," and the " Two Foscari , " " Bep' 
po," " Mazeppa," and the first cantos of " Don 
Juan." 

He formed an acquaintance with Madame Guicci- 
oli, which soon grew to a passionate love, and was 
duly reciprocated by her. She was a Romagnese 
lady. Her father was Count Gamba, a nobleman oi 
high rank and ancient name, at Ravenna. She had 
been married, when at the age of sixteen, without 
reference to her choice or affection, to the Count 
Guiccioli, an old and wealthy widower. At the 
time Byron was introduced to her, she was about 
twenty ; with fair and delicate complexion, large, 
dark eyes, and a profusion of auburn hair. This 
lady almost entirely governed the movements of 
Byron, while in Italy; and it w^as a government* 
which he appeared to love, and from which he man 
ifested no desire to escape. 

She proceeded with her husband to Ravcnrui, in 
April, 1819, and Lord Byron soon folloAvcd. He 
shortly returned to Venice, where he received a visit 
from Moore, in the course of which he presented to 
him a large manuscript volume, entitled, " My Life 
and Adventures." As he handed it to him, he re 
marked, "It is not a thing that can be published 
during my lifetime ; but you may have it, if you 
like, — there, do whatever you please with it; " and 
soon after added, " This will make a nice legacy for 
my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter days 
of the nineteenth century with it." 

This manuscript was a' collection of various jour- 
nals, memorandas, etc. At Byron's request, Mr. 
Moore sold the copyright to Murray for two thou- 
sajid pounds, with the stipulation that it was not to 
be published until after the author's decease. When 
that event occurred, Mr. Moore returned to Mr. 
Murray the money advanced, and placed the manu- 
script at the disposal of Lord Byron's sister, Mrs. 
Leigh ; at whose request, and, with the accordant 
opinion of Lord Byron's best friends, it was de- 
stroyed. The motive for its destruction is said tc 
have been an unwillingness to offend the feelings of 
many of the individuals mentioned in it. 

Towards the close of the year 1819, Lord Byron 
removed to Ravenna, where he wrote " The Proph- 
ecy of Dante," " Sardanapalus," "Cain," "Heaven 
and Earth," the third, fourth and fifth cantos of 
"Don Juan," and " The Vision of Judgment." 

He remained at Ravenna during the greater part 
of the two succeeding years. In the autumn, of 
1821 he removed to Pisa, in Tuscany, where ho 
remained until the middle of ISIay. His habits of 
life, while at Pisa, are thus described by Moore :— 

" At two, he usually breakfasted, and at three, or, 
as the year advanced, four o'clock, those persons 
who were in the habit of accompanying him in his 
rides, called upon him. After, occasionally, a game 
of billiards, he proceeded, — and in order to avoid 
stares, in his carriage, — as far as the gates of the 
town, where his horses met him. At first, the route 
he chose for these rides was in the direction of the 
Cascine, and of the pine forest that reaches towards 
the sea ; but having found a spot moie convenient 
for his pistol exercise, on the road leading fronj 
Portallc. Spiaggia to the east of the city, he took 
daily this course during the remainder of b is stay 
When arrived at the Podere, or farm, in the gardef 



THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



xiu 



5f which tl f^vwere allowed to erec* their target, his 
friends and he dismounted, and, after devoting 
ibout half an hour to a trial of skill at the pistol, 
returned, a little before sunset, into the city." 

Leaving Pisa, he removed to Genoa, where he 
remained till his final departure for Greece, in July, 
1823. During this time, he produced "Werner," 
"The Deformed Transformed," "The Island," 
" The Age of Bronze," and the last cantos of '* Don 
/uan.'i 

He became interested in the struggle of the 
Greeks for freedom, and offered his services in their 
oehalf. He obtained the advance of a large sum of 
Cioney, and chartered an English vjessel, the Hercu- 
les, for the purpose of taking him to Greece. 

AH things being ready, on the 13th of July, he, 
and those who were to accompany him, embarked. 
His suite consisted of Count Pietro Gamba, brother 
of the Countess Guiccioli; Mr. Trelawny, an Eng- 
lishman ; and Doctor Bruno, an Italian physician, 
who had just left the university, and was somewhat 
acquainted with surgery. He had, also, at his ser- 
vice, eight servants. 

There were on board five horses, arms and ammu- 
nition for the use of his own party, and medicine 
enough for the supply of one thousand men for one 
year. 

On the morning of the 14th of July, the Hercules 
sailed ; but, encountering a severe storm, was obliged 
to put back. On the evening of the loth, they 
again started, and after a passage of five days, 
reached Leghorn, where they shipped a supply of 
gunpowder, and other English goods. Receiving 
^hese, they immediately sailed for Cephalonia, and 
reached Argnlosti, the principal port of that island, 
on the 21st of July. He was warmly received by 
the Greeks and English, among whom his presence 
' reated a lively sensation. 

Wishing information, in order to determine upon 
the best course for him to pursue, he despatched 
Mr. Trelawny and Mr. Hamilton Browne with a 
letter to the Greek government, in order to obtain 
j,n account of the state of public affairs. Here, as 
in many other places, he displayed his generosity, 
by lelieving the distressed, who had fled from Scio. 

He was delayed at Argolosti about six weeks, by 
adverse winds. At length, the wind becoming fair, 
he embarked on board the Mistico, and Count 
Gamba, with the horses and heavy baggage, in a 
large vessel. 

The latter was brought to by a Turkish frigate, 
\i)(\ C4,rried, with its valuable cargo, into Patras, 
<rhere the commander of the Turkish fleet was sta- 
doned. Count Gamba had an interview Avith the 
t*f clia, and was so fortunate as to obtain the release 
of his vessel and freight ; and sailing, reached Mis- 
iolonsj,hi on the 4th of January. He was surprised 
\o learn that Lord Byron had not arrived. 

On his lofdrfhip's departure from Dragomestri, a 
violent galj came on, and the vessel was twice 
iriven into imminent danger on the rocks ; and it 
was owing to Lord Byron's firmness and nautical 
skill, that the vesi^el, several lives, and twenty-five 
thousand dollars, were saved. 

It was while at Dragomestri, that an imprudent 
oath brought on a cold, which was the foundation 
•f that sickness which resulted in his death. 

He reached Missolonghi on the 6th of January, 
mi was received with nuthusiastic demonstrations 
of joy. No mark ol welcome or honor that the 
Greeks co\ild devise, was omitted. 

One of the first acts of Lord Byron, was an at- 
tempt to mitigate the ferocity of war. He rescued 
a Turk from the liands of some sailors, kept him at 
his house a few days, until an opportunity occurred 
to send him to Patras. He sent four Turkish pris- 
oners to the Turkish Chief of Patras, and requested 
that orison crs, on both sides, be henceforward 
treated with humanity. 

Forming a corps of Suliotes, he equipped them 
at hu own expense. They numbered about six 



hundred, brave and hardy mountaineers, but •Kholl> 
undisciplined and unmanageable. Of these, having 
obtained a commission, he, on the first of Febru 
ary, took the command. 

An expedition against Lepanto was proposed; 
but, owing to some difficultv with the rude and riot 
ous soldiery, it was suspended. 

Disease now began to prey upon him, and he 
was attacked with a fit of epilepsy on the loth of 
February, which deprived him, for a short time, of 
his senses. On the following morning, he appeared 
to be much better, but still quite ill. 

On the 9th of April, after returning from a ride 
with Count Gamba, during which they had met a 
violent shower, he was again prostrated with dis- 
ease. He was seized with shuddering, and com- 
plained of rheumatic pains. The following day h* 
arose at his accustomed hour, transacted business, 
and rode into the olive wogds, accompanied by his 
long train of Suliotes. 

On the 11th his fever increased ; and on the 12th 
he kept his bed all day, complaining that he could 
not sleep, and taking no nourishment whatever. 
The two following days, he suffered much from 
pains in the head, though his fever had subsided. 
Ou the 14th, Dr. Bruno, finding sudorifics unavail- 
ing, urged the necessity of his being bled But of 
this Lord Byron would not hear. At length, how- 
ever, after repeated entreaties, he promised that, 
should his fever increase, he would allow it to be 
done. He was bled ; but the relief did not answer 
the expectations of any one. The restlessness and 
agitation increased, and he spoke several times in 
an incoherent manner. On the 17th, it was repeated. 

His disease continued to increase ; he had not, 
till now, thought himself dangerously ill ; but now, 
the fearful truth was apparent, not only in his own 
feelings, but in the countenances and actions of his 
friends and attendants. 

A consultation of physicians was had. Soon 
after, a fit of delirium ensued, and he began to talk 
wildly, calling out, half in English, half in Italian, 

Forwards ! — forwards ! — courage ! — follow my ex 
ample ! " &c., &c. 

On Fletcher's asking him whether he should 
bring pen and paper to take down his words, he 
replied : — •' Oh, no, there is no time — it is now nearly 
over. Go to my sister — tell her — go to Lady Byron 

you will see her — and say — "* Here his voice fal 
tered, and became gradually indistinct. He con 
tinned speaking in a low, whispering tone " My 
Lord," replied Fletcher, "I have not understood 
a word your Lordship has been saying." "Not 
understood me ! " exclaimed Byron, with a look of 
distress, " what a pity ! — then it is too late ; — all is 
over." " I hope not," answered Fletcher; but the 
Lord's will be done ! " " Yes, not mine," said 
Byron. He then attempted to say something; bat 
nothing was intelligible, except "my sister — mj 
child." 

About six o'clock in the evening of the 19th, he 
said, "Now I shall go to sleep;" and, turning 
round, fell into that slumber from which he nevei 
awoke. 

The sad intelligence was received by the people 
of Missolonghi with feelings of sorrow, which we 
are unable to describe; and all Europe was in 
mourning over the lamentable event, as its tidings 
&l)read through its cities, towns, and villages. 

It was but a short time previous, that the Greeks 
were inspired by his presence, and inspirited bv the 
touch of his ever-powerful cenius. Now, all waa 
over. The future triumphs which they had pictured 
forth for their country's freedom, vanished. Their 
bright hopes departed, and lamentation filled hearts 
lately buoyant with rejoicing. 

In various parts of Greece, honors were paid to 
his memory. 

The funeral ceremony took place in the church of 
St. Nicholas. His remains were earned ou the 
shoulders uf the ofiicers of his vorpa On hit coffin 



XIV 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



irere placed a helmet, a sword, and a crown of laurel 
The church was crowded to its utmost extent, dur 
Ing the service. 

On the 2d of May the body was conveyed to Zante 
under a salute from the guns of the fortress. From 
thence, it was sent in the English brig Florida, in 
charge of Col. Stanhope ; and, being landed under 
the direction of his Lordship's executors, Mr. Hob- 
house and Mr. Hanson, it was removed to the house 
of Sir Edward KnatchbuU, where it lay in state dur- 
ing the 9th and lOth of July. On the 16th of July 
t;ie last duties were paid to the remains of the great 
poet, by depositing them close to those of his mother, 
m the family vault in the small village church of 
Hucknall, near Newstead. It is a somewhat singu 
lar fact, that on the same day of the same month 
in the preceding year, he said to Count Gamba, 
" Where shall we be in another year ? " 

On a tablet of white marble, in the chancel of the 
church of Hucknall, is the following Inscription : — 

IN THE VAULT BENEATH, 

WHEBE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHEB. 

ABE BURIED, 

LIE THE REMAINS OP 

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, 

LORD BYRON, OF ROCHDALE, 

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER; 

THE AUTHOR OP 

** CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE." 

HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THB 

22d OF JANUARY, 1788. 

BB DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, 

ON THE 19tH of APRIL, 182t, 

BNGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO 

BESTORE THAT COUNTRY TO HER 

ANCIENT FREEDOM AND 

RENOWN. 

HIS SISTER, THE HONOBABLB 

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH, 

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY. 

Thus lived and died the poet Byron. With a 
mind, blest with an active genius, which but few are 
nrivileged to possess, he passed through this world, 
like a comet, on its bright but erratic course, leaving 
a luminous trace behind to mark his passage, and 
to keep his memory fresh in the hearts of many fu- 
ture generations. It is not our purpose, in this 
place, to speak of the general tone of his writings 
or of their influence. That he had faults, we are 
ready to admit ; and that he had an inward good- 
ness of heart, we are as ready to assert. But few 
men, with like temperament and associations with 
his, would have pursued a different course. 

In height he was five feet eight inches and a half. 
'His hands were very white and small. Of his face, 
the beauty may be pronounced to have been of the 
kighest order, as combining at once regularity of 
features with the most varied and interesting ex- 
pression. His eyes were of a light gray, and capa^ 



ble of all extremes of expressior, fcom the mofl 

joyous hilarity to the deepest sadness, from theverj 
sunshine of benevolence to the most concenteatea 
scorn or rage. 

But it was in the mouth and chin that the great 
beauty of his countenance lay. Says a fair critic of 
his features, '• Many pictures have been painted ol 
him, with various success ; but the excessive beauty 
of his iips escaped every painter and sculptor. In 
their ceaseless play they represented every emotion, 
whether pale with anger, or curled in disdain, Wil- 
ing in triumph, or dimpled with archness and love. 
This extreme facility of expression was sometimes 
painful, for I have seen him look absolutely agly — I 
have seen him look so hard and cold that you must 
hate him, and then, in a moment, brighter than the 
sun, with such playful softness in his look, such 
affectionate eagerness kindling in his eyes, and 
dimpling his lips into something njore sweet than a 
smile, that you forgot the man, the Lord Byron, in 
the picture of beauty presented to you, and gazed 
with intense curiosity — I had almost said — as if to 
satisfy yourself, that thus looked the god of poetry, 
the god of the Vatican, when he conversed with the 
sons and daughters of man." 

His head was small ; the forehead high, on which 
glossy, dark-brown curls clustered. His teeth 
were white and regular, and his countenance color- 
less. 

He believed in the immortality of the soul. In 
one of his letters, he said that he once doubted it 
but that reflection had taught him better. . The 
publication of " Cain, a Mystery," brought down 
upon him the severest denunciations of many 
of the clergy, whose zeal took rapid flight and bore 
away their reason and judgment. They called it 
blasphemous. This, Lord B}Ton denied in the 
most positive terms. The misunderstanding was 
owing to the fact that Byron caused each of the 
characters to speak as it was supposed they would 
speak, judging from their actions, and that these 
fault-finders, who raised such an outcry, understood 
the language to be the belief of the author, than 
which nothing could be more unreasonable. 

At the time of Byron's death many tributes to his 
memory were paid by the most celebrated authors. 
Among them was one from Rogers, from which we 
take the following as best fitted, in closing thi« 
sketch, to leave on the mind of our read-»TS a just 
view of the strange and eventful life of the poet 
and at the same time to call forth that charity is 
judgment which it is our duty to bestow : — 

"Thou art gone; 
And he who would assail ibee in thy grare, 
Oh, let him pause I for who among lis all, 
Tried as thou wert— even from thy earliest yean, 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a Highland boy- 
Tried as thou wert, and witli thy love of fame ; 
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy chMik, 
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine. 
Her cbamied cup— ah, who Mnongsl us all 
C««ld WT te tod w( (n«d as mucb aad bbbm ** 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



A ROMATJNT 



fjuniren est une eaptee de Ihrre, dont on n'a lu que la premie page qivuid on n'a ru qne ton pa}n. J'en 
ai feullleti un auez grand nombre, que J'ai trouv^ dg&lemem maiivaiae*. Cel exam'sn ne m'a point ^t^ inftuctueux 
Je haluaia ma palrie. I'Dutei lea inipeninence* rteg peuples divers, parmi lesqneli j'*^ ^^cu, m'oiit reconcill^ avse 
die. Quand je D'auraia tir^ d'autre b^n^Ace de ines voyages que celui-ii, je ti'en rsg^retterai« ni lea fraii ni let 
(aUguea • L£ COSMOPUUTE. 



PREFACE. 

Thb tollowing poem was written, for the most 
part, amid the scenes which it attempts to (inscribe. 
It was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to 
Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's 
observations in those countries. Thus much it may 
be necessary to state for the correctness of the de- 
scriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched 
are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and 
Gheece. There for the present the poem stops: its 
reception will determine whether the author may 
venti.re to conduct his readers to the capital of the 
East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos 
are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connexion to the piece ; which, how 
ever, makes no pretension to regularity. It has 
been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions 
I set a high value, that in this fictitiouscharacter, 
"Childe Harold," I may incur the suspicion of 
having intended some real personage : this I beg 
leave, once for all, to disclaim — Harold is the child 
of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. In 
g'.me very trivial particuuArs, and those merely local, 
*.l-ere might be grounds for such a notion ; but in 
U:e main points, I should hopt\. none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to meni:':>n that the ap- 
pellation "Childe," as " Childe Waters," "Childe 
Childers," &:c., is used as more consonant with the 
old structure of the versification which I have 
adopted. The " Good Night," in the beginning of 
the first canto, was suggested by " Lord Maxwell's 
Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by 
Mr Scott. 

With the different poems which have been pub- 
lished on Spanish subjects, there may be found some 
■light coincidence in the first part, which treats of 
lit Fepinsula, but it can only be casual; as, with 



the exception of a few concluding stanzas, the whf ic 
of this poem was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of oui 
most successful paets, admits of every variety. Dr 
Beattie makes the following observation : " Not 
long ago I began a poem in the style and stanza oi 
Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my 
inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descrip- 
tive or sentimental, tender or satiirical, as the humor 
strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, the measure 
which I have adopted admits equally of all these 
kinds of composition." * — Strengthened in my opin- 
ion by such high authority, and by the example oi 
some in the highest order of Italian poets, I shall 
make no apology for attempts at similar vari'\tiong 
in the following composition ; satisfied that, if they 
are unsuccessful, their failure must be ir 'ti execu 
tion, rather than in the design sanctioned by tb« 
practice of Ariosto, Thomson , and Eeattie. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I HAVE now waited till almost all our penodica^ 
journals have distributed their usual portion gi 
criticism. To the justice of the generality of thsir 
criticisms I have nothing to object ; it would ill bo- 
come me to quarrel with their very slight degree cf 
censure, when, perhaps, if they had been less kli.d 
they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, 
to all and each my best thanks for their liberality, 
on bne point alone shall I venture an obser>'ati<m. 
Among the many objections justly urged to the very 
indiffert nt character of the '* vagrant Childe," 
(whom, notwithstanding many hints to the con 



18 



BORON'S WORKS. 



trary, I still maintain to be a fictitious personage,) 
it has been stated, that, besides the anachronism, 
ht is very unknightly, as the times of the Knights 
were times of love, honor, and so forth. Now it so 
happens that the good old times, when " I'amoxir 
du bon vieux tems Tamoiir antique " flourished, 
were the most profligate of all possible centuries. 
Those who have any doubts on this subject may 
consult St. Palaye, passim, and more particularly 
vol. ii., page 69. The vows of chivalry were no 
better kept than any other vows whatsoever ; and 
the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, 
and certainly were much less reflned, than those of 
Ovid The *• Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour ou 
de courtesie et de gentilesse " had much more of 
love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Rolland 
on the same subject with St. Palaye. Whatever 
other objection may be urged to that most unamia- 
ble personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly 
knightly in his attributes — "No waiter, but a 
knight templar."* By the by, I fear that Sir 
Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they 
Bhould be, although very poetical personages and 
true knights "sans peur," though not "sans re- 
proche." If the story of the institution of the 
" Garter " be not a fable, the knights of that order 
have for several centuries borne the badge of a 
Countess of Salisbury of indifferent memory. So 
much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted 
that its days are over, though Maria Antoinette was 
quite as chaste as most of those in whose honors 
lances were shivered, and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of 
Sir Joseph Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated 
of ancient and modern times,) few exceptions will 
be found to this statement, and I fear a little inves- 
tigation will teach us not to regret these monstrous 
mummeries of the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold," to live his day, 
Bi'.cl as he is ; it had been more agreeable, and cer- 
tainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable charac- 
ter. It had been easy to varnisli over his faults, to 
makt him do more and express less, but he never 
was intended as an example, further than to show 
that oai'ly perversion of mind and morals leads to 
Batietj of past pleasures and disappointment in 
new ones, and that even the beauties of nature, and 
the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most 
powerful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so 
constituted, or rather misdirected. Had I pro- 
ceeded with the poem, this character would have 
ierjpened as he drew to the close : for the outline 
which I once meant to fill up for him was, with 
some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, 
perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 



l-itt R«f«rt. AntiJaMbin. 



TO lANTHE. 



Not in those climes where I have late beet 

straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matcblesi 

deem'd ; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd : 
To such as see thee not my words were wexk ; 
To those who gaze on the^ what language could 

they speak ? 

Ah ! may' St thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,* 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears 

Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My 5%ars already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye umoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed* 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd vnth. pangs to Love's even loveliest hourfl 
decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as ti.e Gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigb, 
Could I to thee be 6ver more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord: nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless Uly blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined : 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
'Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as ry.ou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Frier.4 
ship less require ' 



CHILDE HAROLD^S PILGRIMAGE 



CANTO I 



Oh thou . in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd c'or Delphi's long desei-ted shrine,' 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
Tc grace so plain a ale — this lowly lay of mine. 

II. 

"WTiilorae in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth. 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
And vex'd with mii-th the drowsy ear of Night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
<Lnd flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he highf , — ^but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits 'ne not to say ; 
Sufficr it, that perchance hey were of fame, 
A.nd had been glorious in tnother day: 
Bi't one sad Imel soils a lame for aye. 
However rP'^^h^-y in the oMen time: 
Nor all that lieralds rake from coffin 'd clay. 
Nor florid prr^e, nor hor..ied lies of rhjrme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Cnilde Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
Fut long ere scarce a tnird of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He ffilt the fulne^.i of satiety : 
Then loathed he ir^ Ms native laud to dwell. 
Which seem'd to airo rr.or* lone than Erwmite's sad 
cell. 



V. 

For he through S!in's long labyrinth had run. 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one. 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste 

VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at aeai i 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start. 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie. 
And from his native land resolv'd to go. 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd he almost long'd for wo. 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shadec 
below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall. 
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condcmn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den, 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smik \ 
And monks might deem their time was come ageiii 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy mc| . 

VIII. 

Yet ofttimes in his maddest mirthfxil mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold't 
As if the memory of some deadly feud [brovr, 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: 
But this none knew, nor baply cared to know; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow How, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condol*" 
Wliate'er his griff mote be, which he could nof 
coutrnl 



20 



BYROK'S WORKS. 



IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But Domp and power alone are woman's care, 
Aiid where these are light Eros finds a fere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
A.nd Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
despair. 

X. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgi'image begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to pone. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Bach partings break the heart they fondly hope to 
heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxur)' invite. 
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's cen- 
tral line. 

XII. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew. 
As glad. to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sat and wept, 
^d to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 



XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string. 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 
And tuned his farewell in the deep twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her sno^vJ' wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
rhua to the elements he pour'd his last "Good 
Night." 

1. 

*' ABiBr adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
. The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar. 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night I 



2. 

" A few short hours, and He will rjse 

To grve the Morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother Earth. 
Deserted is my ovm. good hall. 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

3. 

" Come hither, hither, my little ps^ ! 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye » 

Our ship is swif+ snd strong • 
Our fleetest falcon scarce could fly 

More merrily along." 



' Let, winds be shrill, let waves roll bigh* 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 
For I have from ray father gone, 
■ A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone. 

But thee — and one above. 

5. 

' My father bless'd me fervently. 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
" Enough, enough, my little lad! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 



" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeomas 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or shiver at the gale ? " 
' Deem' St thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 



* My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordei-ing lake ; 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ? '— 
" Enough, enough, my yeoman good. 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood. 

Will laugh to flee away. 

8. 
"For who would trust the seeming sight 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGR'MAGK. 



a 



•• And now I'm in the world alone, 

"Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain 

Till fed by stranger hauds ; 
But long ere I come back again, 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

10. 

•• With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me too. 

So not again to mine. 
VVelctitne, welcome, ye dark blue waves , 

And when you fail my sight, 
V\''elcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My rative Land — Good Night ! " 

XIV. 

on, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay, 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
New shores descried fliake every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
ftnd steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics 
reap. 

XV. 

Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
"What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high 

command. 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Saul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 

purge. 

XVI. 

What beauties doth Lisl)6a first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusiaus did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and -pride. 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing 
lord. 

XVIL 

But whoso entercth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsiglitly to strange ee ; 
For hut and paliice show like fllthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for dcannf ss of surtout or Hhirt, 
riough shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
lU-wash'd, uuhiurt. 



XV nL 



Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'mid- 1 noblest scenes 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pep 
To follow half on which the eye dilates, 
Through views more dazzling unto. mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates. 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elyaiuiu'i 
gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy stetp 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep. 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from clifi" to valley leap. 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, mth varied beauty glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way. 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest yet at our " Lady's house of wo ; " * 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundi-y legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo . 
Deep in yon cave Honorious long did dwell. 
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags yqu spring. 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's ort'ering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land where law secures not 
life.3 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the ile beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kin.^^s did make repair,' 
But now the wild flowers round thom only breathe , 
Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair ; 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest soa, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware [done, 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to siUL 

XXIIL 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure 

plan, 
Bonoath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow . 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man. 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scur(>e allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, hi»w 
Vain are thi> jileasauncos on earth sui)pli(vl; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tid» 



22 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIV. 



Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! * 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scotfs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array 'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroU, 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
WTiereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his 
soul. 

XXV. 

convention is the dwai-fish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And Policy regained what arms had lost ; 
For chiefs Uke ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
bbice baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret. 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for 
How will posterity the deed ploclaim ! [shame. 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Wliere Scorn her finger points through many a com- 
ing year ? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to fiee. 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here a while he leamed to moralize. 
For meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth misspent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on feuth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul ; 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil nis thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience 
8;ige. 

XXIX. 

Vet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,* 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
And church and court did miiigle their array, 
And mass and revel were alterr tte seen ; 
Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
That men forget the bbod which she hath spilt, 
hnd bow tho knee to Pomf that loves to varnish 
guilt. 



XXX. 



O'er vales that teem vith fruits, romantic hilig, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a free born race !) 
Whereon to gaze the eye wth joy ance fills, [plaet 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasan 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to tracer 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to sL&re. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede. 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend: 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, wthouten end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the tradet 
knows — 
'- Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend ' 

For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes. 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection'i 
woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her sister meet. 
Deem ye what bounds th* rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark SieiTas rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from 
Gaul. 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides. 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the dift'erence know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low * 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng • 
Of Moor and knight, in mailed splendor dresc 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 
The Paynim turban and the Christian ere ?t [strong ; 
Miz'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 
press'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelaojio bore, 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the b;ind 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothk 

gore ? ' 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? [pile, 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matronV 

waiL 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



23 



XKXVL 



Teems not each ditty wivxi the glorious tale ? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
VVlien granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! [estate, 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve the great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
W^her Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does 
^ee Avrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thii-sty lance. 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
^''hen her war-song was heard on Andalusia's 
shore ? 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fij-es of death 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe. 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Re(' Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 
shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds axe done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet. 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
sweet. 

XL. 

By heaven, it is a Splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! [lair 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share; 
V. e Grave sliall bear the chiefest prize away, 
AwUd Havoc scarce for joy can number their arra/. 

. XLI. 

Three hosts 'combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, tlie victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — a« if at htnne they could not die- 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain. 
And lertilize the field that each pretends to gain 



XLII. 



There shaU they rot — Ambition's honor I fools 
Yes, honor decks the turf that wraps their clay 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools. 
The broken tools, that tjTants cast aAvay 
By myriads, when they dare to pave theii- way 
With human hearts — to what ? — a dieam alone. 
Can despots compass ought that hails then- sway . 
Or call with truth one span of earth their otvx, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble booe by 
bone ? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steel, 
^Vho could foresee thee, in a space so brief, [blt-ed . 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and 
Peace to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph then- reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient 
song ! 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay. 
Though thousands fall to deck somq single name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim [good, 
Who strike, blest hii-elings ! for their country's 
And die, that liWng might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wished-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive. 
And Vbtue vanquish all, and Mmder cease to thrive 

XLVL 
But all unconscious of the coming doom. 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of men'iment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these pati-iots with their country'! 

wounds : 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls ; 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnigbl 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, [roundj • 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring w&ll« 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic — with his trrniMing mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afr<r, 
liCst he should view his vineyard desolate 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting stai 
Fandango twirls his jocund castajiot: 
Ah, moujirchs ! could ye taste the mirth yo inar» 
Not in the toils of Glory would yc frot , 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man m 
happy yet 1 



24 



BYRON'S WORKS 



XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jinging on the way ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Viva el iley ! "8 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day [boy. 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed 
And gt re-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate 

XLIX. 

On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scattered hoof-marks dint the wounded 

ground ; [vest 

And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
Here the bold peasant stonn'd the dragon's nest; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast. 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 

lost. 

L. 

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet, 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Whicb tells you whom to shun and whom to greet ;'^ 
Wo to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wi-apt beneath the cloak. 

Could blunt the^sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
smoke. 

LI. 
At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's u-on load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight. 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling pallisade, the fosse o'erflow'd. 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. 
The bolster'd steed beneath the shed of thgtch, 

rhe ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing m»J;ch,io 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — ^but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little moment deigneth to delay : [vpay ; 

Soon will his legions sweep through these then- 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day. 
When soars Gaul's Vultiire, with his wings 

unfiirl'd, 
lr4 thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades 

hurl'd. 

LIII. 
And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the 

brave, 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Viuth's fire, and Manhood's 

heart of steel • 



LIV. 



Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war j 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scai 
Appall'd, an owlet's 'larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quak« 
to tread. 

LV. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear hei tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer Lour, [veil, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face. 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearfa] 
chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their'base career ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host ; 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope ia 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, [lost ? 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? " 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons 
But form'd for all the witching arts of Iovp 
Though thus in arms they emulate her song 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as 
great. 

LVIIL 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his toucn : '* 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave tneir nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glanc^ how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amoroui 

clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek t 
How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, 

and weak ! 

LIX. 

Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud 
Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, [knov 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



25 



LX. 



Oh, thou Parnassus ! i3 whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye. 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly w ^o thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
wave her ^^ing. 

LXl 

i>ft have I dreiim'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
WTien I recount thy worshippers of yore 
f tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
(a silent joy to think at last I look on Thee I 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Wliose fate to distant homes confined their lot. 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene. 
Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
\nd glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 

LXIII. 

• 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIV. 

Hut ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was 
Sie round thy giant base a brighter choir, [young. 
No. e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung. 
The Pythian hymn vvith more than mortal fire. 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nuist in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
An ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
Ki Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her 
glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, [days; '< 
Calls fortli a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy volui)luous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling who can 'scupo 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub- nydi-a n»und us dost thou gapo, 
lind mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 



LX^I. 



When Paphos fell by time — accursed Time ! 
The queen who conquers all must yield to thee— 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime 
And Venus, constant to hei native sea. 
To naught else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright. 

LXVII. 

From mom till night, from night till startled Mcru 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn, 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour bj 
turns. 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
What hallows it upon this Chaistian shore ? 
Lo ! it ie sacred to a solemn feast ; 
Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's ro \r ? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn, 
The throng'd arena shakes with shoits for morej 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor plirinks the female eye, nor ev'n afiects to 
mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayw: 
Then thy spiiice citizen, wash'd artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chaii, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair , 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian chmL 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thames row the ribbon'd fair, 
Others along the safer ttu-npike fly ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Waie, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Bcctian shades ! the reason why ? '* 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, [swora.. 
In whose dread name both men and maids an 
And consecrate the oath with di-aught, aud dauc« 
till morn. 

LXXL 

All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell prodoiineth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the V^iiioiN teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin tliere) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsnum be; 
Tlien to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, ut cnco the same diveraicQ 
share. 



26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXII. 

The lists are c^d, the spacicus area clear'd, 
- Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
Long ere«the first loud ti-umpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill d in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
N me through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
4.8 moonstruck bards complain, by Love's sad 
archery. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
With milk-white crest, gold-spur, and light-poised 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance, 
And lowly bending to the lists adva,nce ; 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance. 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
A.ad all that itings or chiefs e'er gain their toils 
repay. 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er. 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
His arms a dart, he tights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
A.las ! too oft condemn 'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thricte sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty bmte, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe ; 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to'suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd ; away, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: 

• He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 

Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings 
speak hia woes. 

LXXVII. 

Aga^i he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail. 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man, and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame h e rears, 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unhaim'd he 
bears. 



LXXVIIL 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furioi.s to the 'a»l> 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lane s bras' 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray ; 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the readj' brand 
Once more throug^h all he bursts his thund' ring waj 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the 'r»T.vrjge haad, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past— i < sihk;* upon tiu 
sand! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles witn the spine 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries. 
Without a groan, without a sti'uggle, dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse i's piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes- 
Four steeds thattspurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx 'd host should meet th» 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, [foe 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, |»^ 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's wanit 
stream must flow. 

LXXXL 

But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
His wither' d sentinel. Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could enc.ge. 
Have pass'd to darkness ^-ith the vanish'd age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage.) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since Raptme is a dream i 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learnid with truth to aeem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings ; 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling vecoa 
flings.'^ 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise , 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deigned to bend her chastely-awful eyes . 
But Passion raVes itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own vDluptuous tomb. 
Had buried long his hopes, nc more to rise : 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's um'esting doom. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21 



LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; 
But view'd theiu not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now ha^ . joined the dance, the song, 
But who may smile that sinks beijeath his fate ? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this vm.preraeditated lay 
fo (harms as fair as those that sootlied Ms happier 
d'iy. 

TO INEZ. 

1. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Vet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vaiu 



Ajid dost Ihou ask, what secret wo 
I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 

A.nd Avilt thou vainly seek «,o know 
A pang, ev'n thou must fail to sooth ? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate, 
Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most : 

4. 
It is that weariness which springs 

From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarae a charm for me. 

5. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wauJerer bore ; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 



What Exile from himself can flee ? 

To Zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursiies, where'er I be. 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 



Yef; otners rapt m ])leasure seem. 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 



Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst ; 

And all my solace is to know, 
Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 

9. 
What is that worst ? Nay do not ask— 

lu pity from the search forbear: 
Smile ou — nor venture to unmank 

Man's hearty aud view the Uell that's there. 



LXXXV. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adiej ! 
Who may forget how well thy walls havf fit,0)d < 
When all were "hanging thou alone weit bue. 
First to be free and last to be subdued . 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : i' 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save faUea 
Chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her £.,-e 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kingless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : . 
Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, *' War even to th« 
knife ! " '8 

LXXXVIL 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life: 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed 

LXXXVIII. • 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red , 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain. 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, [stain, 
Let their blei.ich'd bones, and blood's unbleaching 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we sawl 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadftil work is done , 
Fresh legions pour adowni the Pyreneen : 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she free^ 
More than her fell Pizan'os once cnchain'd : 
Strange retribtition ! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'J 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder ua- 
restrain 'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavcra shed, 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight. 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
Have won for Spain her well-usserted right. 
W]ie<i shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight* 
When snail she breathe her from the blushing toil; 
How many a doubtftil day shall sink in night, 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his rpoil, 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil 



28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCI. 



And thou, my fiiend ! ^^ — since unavailing wo 
Burst from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
H ad the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain ; 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
Wa&\ hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to 
rest ? 

XCII. 

Oh, kr.own the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 

- In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 

4jid mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

XCIII. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble nioe. 
I? ^his too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was dooni'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Kre Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands we 
quell'd. 



CANTO II. 
I. 

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas . 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,' 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire ; 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
rhat thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow.* 

II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, 
Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone glimmering through the dream of things that 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal [were : 
They vwn, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophists stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering 

tower. 
Oini with the mist o*" years, gray flits the shade of 

Power. 



III. 



Son of the morning, rise ! approaca you here , 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulcnre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer bum. 
Even gods must yield — religions take then- turn 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is biiiH 
on reeds. 

IV. 

Bound to the earth* he lifts his eye to heavea-* 
Is't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou would'st be again, and go 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, u 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies r 
Still wdlt thou dream on future joy and wo ? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies ; 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 

V. 

Or burst the vanished Hero's lofty mound ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :^ 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weepa, 
Nor war-like worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records t( 11. 
Remove yon scull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd 
cell! 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul ; 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall. 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul ; 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyejc'is hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control; 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever wTit, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ; 

VIL 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shan } 
Each has his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-bom dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated gue&t, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rect 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to*adore 
,With those who made our mortal labors lirht ! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ' 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught thj0 
right. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



29 



IX. 



rh«Te!,»taou ! — ^whose lovo and life together fled 
Kare left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to ray vacant breast ; 
[f aught of young Remembrance then remain, 
Be as it may Futmity's behest, 
for me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest. 



Hera let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne.^ 
Mightiest of many such ! hence let me trace 
The. latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be ; nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labored to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols 

by 

XI. 

But wno, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loath to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : [free ; 
Thy free-born men should spare what once was 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
Kud bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine.* 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 
Cold as the crags upon his native coasts [spared ;6 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains. 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,^ 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's 
chains. 

XIIL 

What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom ivrung. 
Tel not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
Th? ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land ; 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears. 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
IVliich envious Elb forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 

XIV. 

WTicre was thine -^gis, Pallas, that appall'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?* 
"Wbere Pelcus' son ? whom Hell in vain enthrall'd. 
His shades from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Kor now preserved the walls he loved to shield 
before. 



XV. 



Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks n tb«»o. 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the 4ust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see [movei 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re 
By British hands, which it had best behooved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they rovci^ 
And once again thy hapless bosom gorei 
And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northtri. climes 
abhorr'd I 

XVL 

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave. 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XVIL 

He that has. sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
"When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be. 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorioiis main expanding o'er the bow, 
,The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now. 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow 

XVIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,* 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din. 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high* 
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman, that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides, 

XIX. 

"White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks • 
Ijook on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swenre 
From law, however stern, which tends their strengtk 
to nerve. 

XX. 

Blow ! swiftly blow, thou kecl-compclHng gale \ 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessoning ray; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the swoctest 'oreeael 
What leagues ore lost, before the dawii of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas. 
The flapping sail hiul'd down to halt for logs Uk« 
these 1 



30 



B IRON'S WORKS 



XXI. 



The moon is up by Heaven, a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe. 
Such be our fate when we rettu-n to land ! 
Meantime, some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk hannony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to 
rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore ; 

£hirope and Afrie on each other gaze ! 

Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 

Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze ; 

How softly on the Spanish shore she plays. 

Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest bro^vn, 
. Distinct, though darkening Avith her waning phase ; 

But Mauritania's giant-shadows fro^vn, 
Fiom mountain cliff to coast descending sombre 
iown. 

XXIII. 

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at end. 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dieam it had a friend. 
Who M-ith the weight of years would wish to bend 
T^Tien Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, * 

Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Kh ! happy years ! once more who would not be a 
boy ? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave reflected sphere. 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride. 
And flies unconscious o'er each b<tckward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
Where things that o-wn not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alont o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her store 
unroll'd. 

XXVL 

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men. 
To bear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless. 
Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress ! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
riia ie to te alone ; this, this i« solitude ! 



xxvn. 



More blest the life of godly Eremite, 

Such as on lonely Athos may be seen. 
Watching at eve upon the giant height 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies s: seiene 
That he who there at such an hour hath :ieeu 
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching scene, 
Sigh forth one \\Tish that such had been his lot, 
Then tulu to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell. 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land I and al! is well 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,'* 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for Ae weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep 
And o'er her clifls a fuitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
Wliile thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doublx 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 

Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless off'ering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought; 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway w«« 
o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze. 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw. 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, paw; 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, theit 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims ; 
And much she marvelled that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely 
anger dames. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



HI 



XXXIIl. 

LiitUe knew she that neeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relit J; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
"'et never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Erisk confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Fique her and sooth in turn, soon Passion croAvns 
thy hopes. 

XXXV. 

Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true. 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost ; 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost. 
These are thy fniits, successful Passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song. 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair \vithal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read. 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that compted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXVIL 

Dr.ar Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in h'cr aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, ^ 
He' nevtr-wean'd, though not her favor'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
WTierc nothing polish 'd dures pollut^e her path ; 
1 3 me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
iod sought her more and more, and loved her best 
in wrath. 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-ballltd foes 
Shnmk from his deeds of chivah-ous emprize: 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou nigged ntirse of savage men ! 
The Cross deaceniH, thy minareta arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Vhrrugh many a cypress grove within eadi city's 
keiH 



XXXIX. 



Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot' 
"Where sad I^enelope o'erlook'd the wave ; 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lovers refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such imn.ortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children vaty 
aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd ifsar, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ; '^ 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some;remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laughed at mai 
tial wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love,'* 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow ; 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his palVJ 
front. 

XLIL 

Morn dawns ; and viith it stem Albania's hills 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills, 
AiTayed in many a dun and purple streak. 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the moimtaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing 
year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on s shore unknown, 
\yhich all admire, but many dread to view ; [few 
His breast was arm'd 'gairst fate, his want*. wer« 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet; 
The scene was savage, but the scene was ne"sr; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen %vinter's blast, and welcomed siun 
mer's heat 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scolFd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear , 
Churchman and votiiry alike dc8])i8ed. 
Foul Siiporstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross. 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! 
Wlio from true worship's gold can separate th) 
dross ? 



a2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLV. 



LI. 



Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king '* 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! ^^ 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering: 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
ftOD I was thy globe ordain 'd for such to win and 
lose ? 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Throxigh lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm *.hey know not ; lovied Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground, and consecrated most, 
to match some spots that lurk within this lowering 
coast. 

XLVIL 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, ^"^ 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief, '8 whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nktion, turbulent and bold ; 
Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. ^^ 

XLVIII. . 

Monastic Zitza ! 20 from thy shady brow, 
Though small, but favor'd spot of holy ground! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below. 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 

. Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volunied cataract doth roll 

Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please 
the soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
Wliich, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still. 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
The convents's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer, * nor rude is he. 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to 
see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease ; 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
%nd gaze, untired, the mom, the noon, the eve 
away. 



Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,'^ 
Chimaera's alps extend from left to right ; 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; [Ai 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain 
Nodding above : behold black Acheron ! *• 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade sh^ll ledl 
for none ! 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills ; here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote ^ 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock 

LIII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona] is thine aged grove. 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
What valley echo'd the response or Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderei's 

shrine ? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of Gods may well be thine . 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink be- 
neath the Stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epii'is' bounds recede, and mountains fail , 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale, 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die ; 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie. 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along the banks are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 
trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,26 
And I^aos wide and fierce came roaring by ; *• 
The shades of wonted night v;ere gatheiing yet. 
When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, [nigh, 

Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing 
He heard the busy hum of warrior men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the leng'he* 
ing glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the -vnde o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power. 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no comm^ n pomp the despot sate, 
While busy jjreparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wail 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of eyery clime appear tii make resort. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



S3 



LVII. 



ivichly caparison'd. a ready re^f 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circlc-J the wide extending coiirt below ; 
Above, strange groups adom'd the corridor ; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door 
8ome high-cdpp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
HThile the deep war-drum's sound announced the 
close of day. 

LVIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
yVith shawl-girt head and ornamented gun. 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see ; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive : the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups. 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are 

found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound. 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
* There is no god but God ! — to prayer — lo ' God is 

great ! " 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
is page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart. 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart. 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove ; 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares. 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears. 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion 
shares. 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes ; 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
"While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face. 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
disgrace. 



LXIII. 



It is not that yon hoary lengtnening beaid 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath aveTr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of Ruth^ 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth; 
Blood follows blood, and, thi'ough their mortal 

span, Vi, 

In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood 

began. 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys. 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secvire 
Than they in doubtful times of troublous ne*d 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship vof o 
WTien Gratitude or Va'.^r oids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on wnere'er tueir chief maj lead 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain'* tuwei 
Thronging to war in splendor and success ; 
And after viewed them when, within their power 
Himself, awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotHer press 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof. 
When less barbarians would have cheer'd him lesa. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — -' 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand th* 
proof ! 

LXVli. 

It chanced that adverse winds jnce drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate and dark « 
To land was pci-ilous, to sojourn more; 
Yet for a while the mariners forbore. 
Dubious to tnist where treachery might lurk : [soit 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butch or- work 

LXVIIl. 
Vain fear ! the Suliotes strctch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves, though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and Avi-ung their garments 

damp, 
And flll'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all thcv had ; 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp- 
To rest the weary and to sooth the sad, 
Dotlv lesson happier men, and shames at least tlM 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIX. 

It jame to pass, that when h*^ did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labors tann'd. 
Till he did greet white Achelous tide, 
A nd from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. 

LXX. 

Where I me Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
Hi)w brown the foliage of the green hill's 'grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come lightly whispering from the west 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene. 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 
glean. 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,28 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar29 his sabre from him cast. 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
Celling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled 
clan. 

LXXII. 

Ghilde Harold at a little distance stood 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude ; 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd. 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long Avild locks that to their girdles stream'd 

Wliile thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
s cream 'd : ^o 

I. 

*i Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! * thy 'larum afar 

Gives hope to the valiant, and pi omise of war ; 

All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 

Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote ! 



Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the \vavet 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flo\ving hair. 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 



I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
Let her bring from the chamber her many-tor ed lyje 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

8. 
Remember the moment when Prei^sa fell,^^ 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell. 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we sharedl, 
The wealthy we slaughter 'd, the lovely we spared 



Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the 
rock. 

3. 

t^all the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 

4. 
Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 



I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw 

10. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let theyellow-hair'd* Giaoursf view his horse- 4iilJ 
with dread ; [bank^, 

When his Delhis^ come dashing in blood o'er th» 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranke ! 

11. 

Selictar ! || unsheathe then our chiefs scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shores 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more » 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great t 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth* 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate .' 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom. 
In bleak Thermopylte's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume. 
Leap from Eurota's banks, and call thee from tlw 
tomb ? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow3< 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour whicft B(m 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain '- 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. 
From birth .till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, 
unmann'd. 



I 



• Yellow ia th« epithet given to the 
^Hone-tailt are the inaigi<u of a Fncha. 
IHoiwrnen. aiuwerinK to our forlorn hope. 



t InHdel. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
WTio but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal fhe hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Jr tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful 
page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not [blow ? 

Who would be free themselves must strike tie 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low. 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Ihy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 

LXXVIL 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 35 
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest 
The ^ prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil. 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil. 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless 
toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin. 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear. 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all. 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share ; 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
^d join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife Avith merriment than thine. 
Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
hM W3o'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 
Oft Music chan^^'pd, but never ceased her tone. 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
Tho Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
A.nd when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
Twas, as if darting from her heavenly tlirone, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
rUl sparkling billows seem'd to light the bauks they 
Ure. 



LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home. 
While many a languid eye and rhrilUng hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, retum'd the pressure still : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle ac he will. 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's yeais Ol 



ill! 



LXXXII. 



But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb vnih secret pain. 
Even through the closest searment half betray'd ? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re(*cho all they mourn in vaiji ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayAvard thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud. 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud .' 

LXXXIIL 

This must he feel, the true-bom son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-bom patriot still can boast • 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet mth smooth smile his t}Tant can accost. 
And Avield the sla\-ish sickle, not the sword.: 
Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe the« 

most! 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde 

* LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedopmon's hardihood, 
Wlien Thebes Epaminond,as rears again. 
When Athens' childi-en are with hearts endued. 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
Then may'st thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to fctrm a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man in shatter'd splendor renovate. 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fat* \ 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of ■wn, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men I art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,*^ 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
Thy fame, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commiiigling slowly with heroic earth. 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough 
So perish monximents of mortal birth, 
So perisli all in turn, save well-recorded Worth, 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary' column moxims 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; * 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna'a cliff, and gloanis along the wave; 
Save o'er some warrior's half- forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, l)\it not oblivion, feebly brave. 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gajje, and sign 
" Alas ! " 



36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXTII. 



Tet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freebom wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
lit. Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 

LXXXYin. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
B^t rne vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Til the sefise aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush' fl. thy temples gone : 
Ige shakes Ather.a's tower, but spares gray Mara- 
thon 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except ks foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the mom to distant Glory dear. 
When Marathon became a magic word ; ^ 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
rhe camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's ca- 
reer, 

XC. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
Mountains above. Earth's, Ocean's plain below. 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear I 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground. 
Recording freedom's smile, and Asia's tear ? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
rhe dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
around. 

XCI. 

Yet tc the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied throng; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boas*, of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate, and bards adore, 
ki Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

xcn. 

The pioted bosom clings to wonted home. 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth. 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide. 
And scarce regret the region of his birth. 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Dt gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian 



xcin. 



Let such approach this consecrated land« 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, alr^dy how defaced! 
Not for such purpose were these altars plac9d ] 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth v as rear i 
By every honest joy of love and life endear 'd I 

XCIY. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious Uyi, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days ; 
To such resign the strife for fading bays,— 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial pndse ; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve. 
And none are left to please, -vhen none are left to 
love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me , 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home. 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see : 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
Would he had ne'er returned, to find fresh cause te 
roam. 

XCTI. 

Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
And cHngs to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. [hast. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stem Death I tha« 
The parent, friend, and now the more than Mend ; 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend. 
Hath snatch'd the Little joy that life had vet to lend 

XCYIL 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud. 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek. 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer. 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear. 
Or raise the writhing lip >vith ill-dissembled snecc 

XCYIII. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
To view each loved one blotted from life s rag** 
And be alone on earth, a^ I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow 
O'er hearts divided, and o'er hopes destroyed; 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flowr. 
Since Time hath reft what«'er my soul erioy'd. 
And nith the ills of Eld mine earlier year* ^uloj'd 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMA(iB. 



37 



CANTO III. 



** Ata que cet*,e a.\ pli^tion tous forgit de penaer i autre ehose ; Q n'y a en 
•riti de rpinode que clui-lk et le tempa. "—LeUre du iJot de Prusie a 
IP- AUmUrt, Sept. 7, 1776. 



Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
A.da ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
^hen last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start. 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
WTien Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye. 

II. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome, to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale. 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, ' 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail 
Wliere'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 

In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloudy onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a steril track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower 
appears. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion — -ioy, or pain. 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
And both may jar ; it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling. 
So that it ween me from the wear}- di-eam 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgctfulncss around me — it shall seem 
I ) me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 



He, who grown aged in this world of wo. 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, sti-ife. 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thoiigbt seeks u-fuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy imj" ^es, and shapes which dwell 
%i.\] uniinpair'd Miougb old, in the soul's hiiunted 
ceil. 



VI. 



'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form or fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I } Nothing : but not so art thcu, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom J travere e earth 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy biith, 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelicgt 
dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly : — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain becanae. 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrougllt, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame ; 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame^ 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the sam« 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fa**» 

VIII. 

Something too much of this ; — ^but now 'tis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel. 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'ei 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him [heal; 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quafF'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fiU'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain ! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd, for ever fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank 'd not ; worn with pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took through many « 
scene. 

X. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to ilnd 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature'f 
hand. 

XL 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor leek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek. 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the voitox, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his vonth'ii frnd 
prime. 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS 



XII. 



But poon lie knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit [quell'd 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breath without mankind. 

XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him were 

friends ; 
Where r<Wrd the ocean, thereon was his home; 
"VSIiere a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : [jars, 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
I'hat keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 

XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild- bom falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome. 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Tul the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Df his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again. 
With nought of hope left, h|it ^vith less of gloom ; 
The very knowledi^e that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, [wreck 
Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the plunder'd 
Wlien mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

XVII. 

Stop ! — For thy tread is on an Empire's dust . 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is tne spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
None ; but the moral's ti-uth tells simpler so. 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
fhou first 5,nd last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 



XVIII. 



And Harold stancts upon this place of skulll 
The grave of Frame, the deadly Waterloo; 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place " ' here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations througk , 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's brokca 
chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more fiec ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No : prove before ye 



praise 



XX. 



If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 

. In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain, years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 

Such as Harmodius- dzew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Cljivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fail' women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ;' and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous sWell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; ^ 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once motv. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening row I 

XXIII. , 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Wliich stretch'd his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting fell 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



39 



XXIV. 



Ah . then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Btush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
^ince upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise ? 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, th» beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up thf soldier ere the morning star ; 
■While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or wrhispering, with white lips — "The foe! They 
come ! they come ! " 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills [rose ! 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
"With the fierce native daring which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And ^Evan's, ^Donald's fame rings in each clans- 



man s ears ! 



XXVII. 



And Ardennes^ waves above them her green leaves 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass 
Grieving', if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
"Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
A-ud burning with high hope, shall moulder cold 
and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent. 
The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
Wh. ch he:* own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
ftiiei and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
blent ! ' 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line. 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And hi3 was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files al'^ng. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, 
gallant Howard! 



XXX. 



There have been tears and breaking henrts for tl e6^ 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to lire 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could col 
bring.' 

XXXL 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom tc teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their 6aKe ; 
The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 
Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound o! 
May for a moment sooth, it cannot slake [Fame 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honcr'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, 
The tree will \vither long before it fall ; [mouin: 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn : 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind- worn battlements are gone; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; [?x^n ■. 
The day drags through tho' storms keep out the 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken minor, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was. 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
Li\'ing in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow ache* 
Yet withers on till all ^vithout is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untoh 

XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair. 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it wettt 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit. 
Like to the apples on the ''Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years or life, — say, would he namfl 
threescore ? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist numbcr'd out the years of nan •. 
They are onont^lt ; and if thy talc ho frn>'. 
Thou, who didst grudfjje him even tha. fleeting sput 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thoe, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo tbcm, and say— 
" Here, wheie the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this is much, and all which will not pads awnv 



40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVl. 



Tliere sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
"VThose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fixt, 
Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 
4nd shake again the world, the Thunderer of the 
scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Cunqaeror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself ; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst 
• assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
Battling with nations, flying from t/ie field ; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush command, rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest 
star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning tide. 
With that untaught innate philosophy. 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the whole host af hatred stood hard by, 
T«» watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — [smiled 
Wlien Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite child, 
Ele stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use. 
Fill they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 
'Tis but a worthless world to -mri or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 
choose. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to- stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy 
TTieir admiration thy best weapon shone ; [throne. 
The pait of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless af'jde thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes t<» mock at men ; 
for sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den ! ^ 



XLII. 



But quiet to quick bosom? is a tell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is r. flw; 
And motion of the soul which will not 'iwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyond the fitting medium of (fesire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core. 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men maS 
By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool,* 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to snine oi 
rule ; 

• XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past. 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow aud supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloiiously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, ehall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind. 
Must look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow. 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Rotmd him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those sunumtl 
led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells. 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountaia 

vine. 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farevells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin gree&l} 

dwells. 

XLVII. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind. 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind- 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud 
There was a day when they were yoimg and proud 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below • 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud. 
And thosewhich waved are shredless dust ere now 
And the bleak battlements shall bttar no future blow 



CHILDE HAROLJ>S PILGRIMAGE. 



41 



XLYIII. 



Ueneath these battlements, within those walls, 
Fower dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. [have ? 
"What want these outlaws**^ conquerors should 
But History's purchased page to call them great r 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
Their hopes were nc t less warm, their souls were full 
as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
Wliat deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and di-ew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
^'hw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L. 

But Thou, exultiag and unbounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
"With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 
B reui now what wants thy stream ? — that it should 
Lethe be. 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks. 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away. 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they r , 
Thy tide wa(»n'd down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
But o'e the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
I'hy waves wo aid vainly roll, all' sweeping as they 
seem. 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear ; 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere. 
And tranquil Rternn«-,s which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy ■« IS not always absent from his face, 
B i: ?r it in such scenes would steal >vith transient 
trace. 

LIII. 

Nor ^as all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On HUf'h as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt. 
For there was soft remc'mbranc«\ and sweet trust 
In one fond breattt, to which his own would melt, 
A.n(l in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 



LIV. 



And he had learned to love, — I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood.— 
The helpless looks of blooming infaEcy, 
Even in its earl 'est nurture ; what subdued, 
To change Hke this, a mind so far imbued 
"With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to 
glow. 

LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been s&id. 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though uawe^ 
That love was pure, and, far above disg'.iise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
"Well to that heart might his these absent greetingf 
pour. 

1. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels^' 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine. 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine. 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees. 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 



And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes 

And hands which offer early flowers, 

Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 

Through green leaves lift their walls ot gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lowers. 

And noble arch in proud decay. 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 

But one thing want these banks of Rhine,- 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 

I send the lilies given to me; 
Though long before thy hand they iouco 
I know that they must wither'd be 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I have cherish 'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine I 



The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchantod ground, 

And all its thousand tunis disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 

The haughtiest breast its wish n'light bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth o spot be found 

To npture and to nip so dear, 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeteQ more these banks of Rhin*il 



42 



BYRON'S V^rORKS 



LVI. 



By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyi amid, 
Cro^vning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envjing such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume. 

LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pi ay for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was freedom's champion, one of those. 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soulj and thus men o'er him 
wept. '2 

LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein," with her shatter'd wall 

Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain ; 
But Peace destroy'd what war could never blight. 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in 
vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here. 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
' Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine; 
The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shinep 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
rhs brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 

LXI. 

The negligei\tly grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between. 
The •wild rocks shaped as \hey had turrets been, 
In mockery of man's art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
.'till springing o'er thy banks, though Emoires near 
them fa i. 



LXII. 



But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 

The palaces of Na'.Tire, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalpu, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold siiblimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow I 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals. 
Gather around these summits, as to show ' 

How eartn may pjerce to Heaven, yet leave TUI 
man below 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! wheie mau 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
Themselves then- monument ; the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 
wandering ghost.^^ 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; 
They were true Glory's stainless virtories. 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconie 
clause. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years. 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze. 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Leveird'^ Aventicum, hath stiew'd her subject 
lands. 

LXVI. 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name !— 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heavej^ ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers woi.1'1 oraie 
The life she lived in, but the judge was just. 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust. 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, on* 
dust.»« 

LXVII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away, 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires vrith a just decay, [birth ; 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo. 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow ' 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



48 



LXVIII. 

Lake Lamaii woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their fair height and hue 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
'. Thoughts hid, but not less cherish 'd than of old, 
Ftie mingling pJ-th the herd had penn'd me in their 
fold. 

LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
strong. 

LXX 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul turn all oui- bh^od to tears. 
And color things to come with hues of Night ;. 
The race of life becom'^s a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea. 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Wliose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
B/ the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, '8 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear. 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or 
bear ? 

LXXII. 



LXXIV. 



^ I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me : and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshy chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
D/ ooeaUj or the stars, minglC; ind not in vain. . 



LXXIII. 



y.n- 



And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life ; 
1 look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife. 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To aflr'and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I feol to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on d»;lighted wing, 
Upurnir g the q ay-cold. bonds which round our being 
cling. 



And when, at length, the mind snail bf all ftw 

From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and wonai, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
Of which, even now, I share at time*, the immorta 
lot; 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skieSj a paic 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? y- 

Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not cpntemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only tum'd below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dar» 
not glow ? 

LXXVI.. 

But this is not my theme; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire. 
A native of the laud where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sa^'tficed all rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him^vretched ; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er eiTing deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and 
fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; vith ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to* be 
Thus, a-j.d enainor'd, were in him the same 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams. 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd thougL it Bccms 

LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and swecli 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Wliich every morn his fever'd lip would greet 
From hers, wlu) but with friendship hi« would meei. 
Hut to that gentle touch, througli hram and broa«l 
Flash'd the thrill'd sjjirit's love-devotiring heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perrJuince more bleat, 
Than Vlilgar minds may bt with nil thev seek 
poraest.>* 



(^4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXX. 



His life was oue long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banished ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was frensied, — wherefore, who may know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find ; 
But he was frensied by disease or wo, 
to that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning 
show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 

. Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and Irembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 

ft.oused up to too much wrath, which follows 
o'ergrown fears ? 

LXXXII. 

rhey made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew 
Breathed from the birth of time ; the veil they 
And what behind it lay all earth shall view, [rent. 
But good with ill they also overthrow. 
Leaving but ruins, wherevsdth to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew [fill'd. 

Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour re- 
ks heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will nor endure, nor be endured ! [felt. 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made, it 
They might have used it better, but allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another : pity ceased to melt 
"With her once natural charities. But they. 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt. 
They were not eagles, noui'ish'd vdth the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their 
prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What J^ep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart 'sjbleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which distgures it ; and they who war [bear 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, 
Silence, but not submission : in his lab- 
Fix 'd passion holds his breath, until the horir 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despair: 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
f'o punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower . 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness to forsake 
Earta's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quie^sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Tom ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
Chat I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 



LXXXVl. 



It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet cieiu 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darken" d Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and di-awing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood : on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol it>r.|« 

LXXXVU. 

He is an evening reveller^ who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into a voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
AH silently their tears of love instil. 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues 

LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A brauty and a mystery, and create 
In X s such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, hath named thicm 
selves a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still- — though not in sleep , 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep ;— 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high hos( 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountam-coast. 
All is concenter'd in a life intense. 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence 

XC. 

Then stirs the feeling mfinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A tnith, which through our being then doth melt 
And purifies from self: it is a tone 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, nnd sheds a chai-m, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould diearm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to ttaim.- 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, 20 and thas take 
A fit, and unwall'd temple, there to seek» 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak* 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compart 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air 
Nor fix on fou*^ '»bodes to circumscribe thy praj'r 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



4A 



XCII. 
J he sky is changM ! — and such a change ! Oh 

night.si 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as it the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answe^-s, through her misty shroud, 
Rack to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud . 

xcm. 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills- shakes with its mountain mirtn, 
iks if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 

XCIV. 
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted . 
Tho' in their souls, which thus each other thwarted 
Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted : 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — ^war within themsr ives to wage. 

xcv. 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand. 
Flashing and cast around: of all the band, [fork'd 
The brightest throuf:^h these parted hills hath 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand. 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 
lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
With tiight, and clouds, and thunder, a7\d a soul 
To make these felt anil feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me vvatchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the 'moll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the gi)al ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high 
nest? 

XCVII. 

Could I embody and unbosom noiv, 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
.Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelijigs, strong or 

weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek. 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word wore lightning, I would speak ; 
But u it is, I live and die unheard, [sword. 

With % most Toiceleu thought, sheathing it as a 



XCVIII. 



The mom is up again, the dewy mom, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all biooj^ 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb. 
And glowing into day ; we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus 1 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly 

XCIX. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birth-pla».e if deep Lora, 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought! 
Thy trees take root in Love : the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught, 
.\nd sunset into rose hues sees them wrought** 
By rays which sleep there lovingly ; the rocks 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who 

sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that wooB« 

then mocks. 

C. 

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod. 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light,— ~so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolata 
hour. 

CI. 

All things afe here of Mm ; from the black pine*. 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore. 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it 
stood. 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd andmany-color'd things, [words, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than 
And innocently open their glad ^vings, 
Fearless and full of life ; the gush of springes, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty eaA. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lort, 
And make his heart a spirit : he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is love's recess, where vain men's woe«. 
And the world's waste, ha\e driven him far fronj 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; [thos^ 

He stands not still, hut or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lighta, in its eternity ' 



4A 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



CIV. 



'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this sjK)t, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the groTind 
Where eaxly Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness : here the Rhone 
Kath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd 
a throne. 

CV. 

Lausanne ! and Femey ! ye have been the abodes^s 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name ; 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous 
A path to perpetuity of fame ; [roads. 

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
"Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile [flume 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the 
Of heaven, again assail'd, if heaven the while 
On man and man's research could deign do more 
than smile. 

CVI. 

The one was fire and fickleness, a child. 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind, 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or \vild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, conabined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents ; But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind. 
Blew where it listeth, laying all things prone, — 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 

CVII. 

• 
The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year. 
In meditation dwelt, with learning Avrought, 
And shaped his weapon A\ith an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
The lord of ii'ony, — that master-spell, [fear, 

"Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Wliich answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If roerited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge,— far less condemn ; [made 
The hour must come when such things shall be 
Known unto all, — or hoi>e and di-cad allay 'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
Twrill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

CIX. 

But let me quit man'? works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, • 
Uutil it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds abevc me to the white Alps tend. 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
rh« «arth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 



ex. 



Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee. 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
"Who glorify thy consecrated pages : 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empii-es ; stili 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thii-st of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal somce of Rome's imneria 
hill. 

CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in. a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices ; to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
"^Ve are not what we should be, — and to steel 
The heart against itself ; and to conceal 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile. 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coined my cheek to smiles, — ^nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such : I stood 
Among them, but not of them : in a shroud [could 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and stil] 
Had I not filed^-i my mind, which thus itself sub- 
dued. 

CXIV. 

I have not lovpd the world, nor the world me,— 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will no* 

deceive. 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve:* 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem,— 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 

cxv. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song begun 
My daughter ! with thy name thus much shaB 
I see thee not,— I hear thee not, — but none [end- 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend • . 
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold. 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend. 
And reach into thy heart, — ^when mine is cold,— 
A token and a tone even from thy father's mould. 



CHILJDE HAROLD 3 PILGRIMAGE. 



47 



CXVI. 



lo Rid thy miud's development — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
Tin's, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not rhat is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim ; [same — 
Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being, were an aim, 
And an •ii.ttainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life 
retain. 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — ^though born in bitterness, 
And nurtiired in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall bo more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sw°et be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
A_ud from the mountains where I now respire, 
"Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
(ks, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to 
me! 



(TANTO IV. 



VWto ho ToBcana, Lombardin, Roma^^ 

find Monte che divide, e tiiiRl che serra 

ItfUiu, « uii miure e 1' altro, che lu bagna. 

ArioaU,, Salira 



Venice, January 2, 1818. 

TO 

JOHN HOBH JUSE, ESQ., A.M. F.R.S., 
&c., &c., &c. 

K\ DKAR HOBHOU8B, 

A FTEK an interval of eight years between the 
comp'Sitior of the first and last cantos of Childe 
Bar:; id, the conclusion of the poem is about to be 
snbmitttd to the public. In parting with so old a 
friend, it Is not extraordinary that I should recur to 
one still older and better, — to one who has beheld 
the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am 
far more indebted for the social advantages of an 
enlightened friendship, than — tho<igh not ungrate- 
ful — I can or could be, to Childe Harold for any 
public favor reflected through the poem on the poet, 
—to one, whom I have known long, and accompa- 
nied far ; whom I have found wakeful over my sick- 
ness, and kind in my sorrow ; glad in my prosperity 



In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth, and in 
dedicating to you in its complete, or at least con« 
eluded state, a poetical work which is the longest, 
the most thoughtful and comprehensive of ray com- 
positions, I wish to do honor to myself by the recora 
of many years' intimacy with a man of learning, of 
talent, of steadiness, and of honor. It is not for 
minds like ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet 
the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to 
the voice of friendship , and it is not for you, no. 
even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not 
elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to 
the encounter of good-will as to tvithstand the 
shock firmly, ♦'ha'; I thus attempt to commemorate 
your good qu«..litie6, or rather the advantages which 
I have derived n:om their exertion. Even the recur- 
rence of the date of this letter, the anniversary oi 
the most unfortunate day of my past existence, but 
which cannot poison my future, while I retain the 
resource of your friendship, and of my own facul 
ties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollec- 
tion for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this 
my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable re- 
gard, such as few men have experienced, and no one 
could experience, without thinking better of his 
species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at 
various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, 
and fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy : 
and ivhat Athens and Constantinople were lo us a 
few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more 
recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, 
have accompanied me from first to last ; and per 
haps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces 
me to reflect with complacency on a composition 
which in some degree connects me with the spot 
where it was produced, una the object, it would fain 
describe ; and however unworthy it may be deemed 
of those magical and memorable abodes, however 
short it may fall of our distant conceptions and im- 
mediate impressions, yet, as a mark of respect foi 
what is veneral/.K. and of feeling for what is glori- 
ous, it has been to me a sourc? of pleasure in the 
production, and I part T^ith it v/ith a kind of regret, 
which 1 hiudly suspi»ctcd that events could havelelt 
me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, 
there wiU be found less of the pilgrim than in any 
of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, 
separated from the author speaking in his own per- 
son. The fact is, that I had become weary of draw- 
ing a line which every one seemed determined not 
to perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's "Cit- 
izen of the "World," whom nobody would bclievr. in 
be a Chinese, it was in vain that I nssertcd. ;n'd im- 
agined that I hiid drawn, a distinction between th« 
author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to 
preserve this difference, and disaiipointmcnt at find- 
ing it unavailing, so far crusbed my efforts in the 
composition, that I determined to abandon it alto- 
gether — and have done so. The opinions which 
have been, or may be, formed on that subject, arf 
tMw a matter of indifference ; the work is to depend 
on itself, and not on the wiiter; and the author, 
who has no resources in his own mind beyond th* 
reputation, transient or permanent, which is t© 



and firm ;n my adversity; tnie in counsel, and trusty arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate (4 
til peril,- -to a friend often tried and never found i authors. 



WKAtiig , — tn joursclf. 



In the course of the following canto, it was mv 



48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



mtention, either in the text or in the notes, to have 
touched upon the present state of Italian literature, 
and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the 
limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient foj 
the labyrinth of external objects and the conse- 
qufint reflections ; and for the whole of the notes, 
excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to 
yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the 
elucidation of the text. 

If is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to 
dissert upon che literature and manners of a nation 
80 dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impar- 
tiality which would induce us, — though perhaps no 
inattentive observers, nor ignorant of the language 
or customs of the people amongst whom we have 
recently abode, — to distrust, or at least defer our 
judgment, and more narrowly examine our informa- 
tion. The state of literary, as well as political 
paity, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that 
for a stranger to steer impartially between them is 
next te impossible. It may be enough then, at 
least for my purpose, to quote from their own beau- 
tiful language — "Mi pare che in un paese tutto 
poetico, che vanta la lingua la pin nobile ed insieme 
la pill dolce, tutte tutte le Vie diversi si possono 
tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti 
tton ha perduto I'antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe 
essere la prima." Italy has great names still — 
Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, 
Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, 
Mustoxidi, Agiletti, and Vacca, will secure to the 
present generation an honorable place in most of 
the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Let- 
tres ; and in some of the very highest ; — Europe — 
the "World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La 
pianta uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qua- 
lunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che 
vi si coramettono ne sono una prova." Without 
subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a 
dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be dis- 
puted on better grounds, namely, that the Italians 
are in no respect more ferocious than their neigh- 
Dors, that man must be wilfully blind, or igiiorantly 
heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary 
capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admis- 
sible, their eapabiliiies, the facility of their acqiiisi- 
tions, the rapidity of their conceptions, th# fire of 
their genius, their sense of beauty, and amidst all 
the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the des- 
olation of battles, and the despair of ages, their 
still unquenched '* longing after immortality," — 
the immortality of independence. And when Ave 
ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard 
the simple lament of the laborers' chorus, " Roma ! 
Rorr-ft ! Roma ! Roma non ^ piii come era prima," 
it Tr»s I'fficult not to contrast this melancholy dirge 
with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation 
Btill yelled from the London taverns, over the car- 
nage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, 
of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men 
whoge conduct you yourself have exposed in a work 
worthy of the better days of our history. For me, 

Oe la tiirba di sue ciance 



What Italy has gained by the late transfer of 
nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till 
;t becomes ascertained that England has acqtiired 



something more than a permanent army and a 9at 
pended Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them tc 
look at home. For what they have done abroad, 
and especially in the South, " Verily they will have 
their reward," and at no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and 
agreeable return to that country whose real welfar* 
can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to 
you this poem in its completed state ; and it peal 
once more how truly I am ever 

Your obliged and affectionate fiiend, 

BYRON 



I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; * 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structxires rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles ! 

IL 

She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 2 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers, 
And such she was ; her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap ah gems in sparkling showers 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity iiK 
creased. 

IIL 

In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more,' 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone— but beauty still is here — 
States fail, arts fade— but Nature doth not die : 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear. 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. 

IV. 

But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which vdW not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierra, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'ej 
For us rer copied were the solitary shore. 



The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this oui- state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spuits sunplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have die4 
And with a fresher growth replenishirg the void. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



4)> 



VI 



touch is the refuge of our youth and age, 
rhe first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-la^d ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of sucli, — ^but let them go — 
They came like truth, and disappear'dlike dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go — for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound, 
And other voices spe-^k, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country vnth — ay, or without mankind ; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage ^nd free, 
ind seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well ; and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are. 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

X. 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honor'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
** Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."< 
Merntime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
t should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. 

XI. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies, rotting unrcstored. 
Neglected garment of her widoAvhood ! 
St. Mark yrt sees his Lion where he stood* 
Stand, but in mockery of his witluT'd power, 
Over the proud place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 



XII. 



The Saubian sued, and now the Austrian reigns—* 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptered cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when tney nave fell 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! ' 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering fo^ 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in tue sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass ?8 
Are they not bridled? — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done 
Sinks, like a sea- weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun^ 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repos* 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a. new Tyre,— 
Her very hfy-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion,"^ which through flr« 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pill 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. 
Have yielded to the stranger ; empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,^" 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice* lovell 
walls. 

XVL 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse," 
Her voice their only ransom from afar ; 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermastcr'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chainf 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and hii 
strains. 

XVIL 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Wore all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memorj' of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tusso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion I to thee : the Ocean queen should nrt 
Abandon Ocean's children;. in the fall 
Of Venice thmk of thine, despite thy waterv w«U 



50 



BYRON'S WORKS 



XYIII. 

1 loved her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising lil«e tvater-cohimns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art.^"^ 
H id stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, wt did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of wo, 
than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 

XIX. 

] can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought. 
And meditation chastened do^vn. enough ; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
And of the happiest moments which were A\TOught 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fail- Venice! have their colors caught: 
There are some feelings Time can not benumb, 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
dumb. 

XX. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow ^^ 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought ]jelow 
Of soil supports them 'gainst" the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and 

mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came. 
And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the 

same. 

XXI. 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolate bosoms : mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 
All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer ; and in each event. 
Ends : — Some with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd. 
Return to whence they came — with like intent. 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime. 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb : 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting. 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Iside for ever : it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 
wound, 
fViking the electrii chain wberewith we are darkly 
bound; 



XXI\. 

And how ind why we know not, nor can trac€ 

Home to is cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efiace 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd. 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, [anew, 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead— > 
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many!-fe1 
how few ! 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and fWia, 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome J 

And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree : 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which can not be defaced. 

XXVII. 

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mo\ ntains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Wkf re the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still'* 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remain? 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rha?tian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd with a 
it glows, 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow &tieW8 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting df.y 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbue* 
With a new color as it gasps away. 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gon&— and all li 
gray. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



ftl 



XXX. 



There is a tomb in Arqua,— rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name '' 
IVith his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

rhey keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; '^ 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years,; and 'tis their pri^^— >. 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze ; 

His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain \ 

And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain. 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXIL 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbnige of a green hill's shade, 
"Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Jf a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, — 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves and fio\rers. 
And shining in the brawling brook, where-by. 
Clear as its current, glide the saxmtering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, » 

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
Ho hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair *^ 

The strength of butter thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the panus that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets. 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the <hang<ng mood 
Of petty power impel) 'd, of those who wore 
Che wreath which J)ante'K brow alone had worn 
befcst 



XXXVI. 



, And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 



XXXVII. 



thine 



The tears and praises of al] time ; whil^ 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formes t in his fortunes bids us think . 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee v?ith scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st tfl 
mourn: 

XXXVIII. 

Thou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty ■ 
He with a glory round his fuiTow'd brow. 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow '8 [lyre, 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking 
That whetstone of the teeth — ^monotony in wire 1 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. 
Oh,. victor unsurpass'd in modern song I 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine r though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not fomj 
a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet paralell'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shin*' 
The bards of Hell and Chivalrj^ : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then not uneciual to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd foivA 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightlt 
worth, 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust '• 
The iron crown of laurel's mimic'(^lcaves 
Nor was the ominous element unjiist, 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weave* 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his bfow 
Yet still if fondly Superstitioji grieves, 
Know, that the lighning sanctifies l)i<l<)\v«> 
Whute'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacrel no« 



52 



BYEON'S WORKS. 



X^II. 



Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast ^ 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became * 

A funeral dower of pi-esent woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood ''aid drink the tears of thy distress : 

XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired. 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish d, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,^^ 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megai-a before me, and behind 
^gina lay, Piraeus on the right. 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In rain, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light. 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish' d might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
the moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that was 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form,24 
fl' recks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 



XLVIli 



XLVII. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy Avrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the Yarbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 



But Arno wins us to the fail white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Gii-t by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and ^vine, and oil, and Plenty leips 
To laughing life, vrith her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps. 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born. 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new mon 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and nils' 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
Th« ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part ot its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undra'mti ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What mind can make, when Nature's self would 
And to the fond idolaters of old [fail ; 

En'VT^ the innate flesh which such a soul could mould; 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there- 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise. 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — ^we have eyes : 
Blood — ^pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep» 
herd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not in Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish' d Lord of War ? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
•Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they bum^ 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from 
an urn ! 

LII. 

Glovring, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us : — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, [gro'" 
From what has been, or might be, things which 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIII. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands. 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend and the voluptuous swell ; 
Let these describe the undescribable : [stream 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruflled mirror of the loveliest dream 
I That ever left the sky on the de^'u soul to beam 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



63 



LIV. 



In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie ^ 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality. 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — ^here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,28 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
QLere Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence itrose.29 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creatiou : — Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wi'ong'd thee mth ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky. 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Buch as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their iilial earth intrust ?, 

LVII. 

^ Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,** 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ;3i 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown ^8 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore^ 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 

His life,'his fame, his grave, though rifled-^not thine 
own. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd ^ 
His dust, — and lies it now her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hy«na bigot's wTong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead Hnd room, 
N >i claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, 
Yet for tiiis want more noted, as ot yore 
The Tflesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: 
Hapjjier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore. 
Fortress of falling empire I honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of •un<'ful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
Whiik Florence vainly begs her bauish'd dead and 
wecpi. 



LX. 



What is her pyramid of precious s.ones ** 
.■ Of phorphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are the mausoleums of the muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the priuoclj 
head. 

LXI^ 

There be more things to greet the heart and ej^f 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mind; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wieldi 

LXII. 

• Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home, 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore. 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files. 
And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, 

Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered 
o'er 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, benealh the fray 
An earthquake reel'd unheedingly away ! ^ 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a vnnding sheet ; 
STich is the absorbing hate when warring natior-n 
meet ! 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe [birdh 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-top\iling nests ; and bellowing 

herds 
Stumbling o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hitL 

no words. 

LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimcne noAv ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
llcr aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'til 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain* 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and tnrn'd the unwilling wataw 
red. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXVI. 

But tliou Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest -wave ^ 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-wlute steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle vv'aters ! 
^Jid most serene of aspect, and most cleai- ; 
Surely that stream was unpvofaned by slaughters — 
4 mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daugh- 
ters ! 

LXVII. 

A ad on thy happy shore a temple still, 
Of small 8.nd delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy cun-ent's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub- 
bling tales. 

LXVIII. 

Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the diy dust 
Of weary Ufe a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Fay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters ! fiom the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hias, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wnmg out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gilds the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground. 
Making it all one emerald :— how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound. 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
^^ith his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
vent 

LXXI. 

T : the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which Aoav gushingly, [back ! 
With many windings, through the vale : — Look 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
farming the eye with dread. — a matchless cata- 
ract." 



LXXII 

Horribly beautiful ! but on ti.^ verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering mpK& 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,** 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn. 
Resembling, 'raid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd 

more : 39 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and neaii 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acroeeraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for famt. 
For still they soar'd unutterably high; 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
Athos, Olympiis, ^tna. Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
All, save the lone Soracte's heights display a 
Not iwiD in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, nis recollections rake 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes ; 1 abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The dritl'd dull lesson, forced down word by word** 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVL 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
My sickening memory; 'and, though Time hatb 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, [taught 
Yet such the tix'd inveteracy v,Tought 
By the impatience of my early thougtit, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sougfcl. 
If free to choose, I cannot now lostore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, stil' abhor. 

LXX VII. 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hatv.d so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a cuise 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakeninp without wounding the touch'd heart 
Yet fare thee well — upon Soractp's ridge we part. 



"^x 

uhildV^arold's pilgrimage. 

lxxviii. x lxxxiy. 



6/. 



Ch itome ! my country ! city of the soul ! '^, 
/ ' The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
^ Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
k world is at oux feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands 
Chil Hess and crownless, in her voiceless wo, 
A.n empty urn, within her wither'd hands, 
WTiose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now;<i 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
rtise, vidth thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and 

Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
A.nd say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly 

night ? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
.■Right's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map. 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry '* Eureka ! " it is clear — 
•IFhen but som« false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Aias ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! <" and the day 
T^Hien Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
Tie conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall Ave see 
Itiftt brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free ! 

LXXXIIL 

Oh, thou, whose chariot roU'd on Fortune's whcel,*^ 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
'lay country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wi-ath of thy OAvn wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Korjian, too. 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
W^ith an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 



The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou di'-ne 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid I 
She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth Avith her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'ercanopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty 
hail'd ! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
Wliat crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield nifl 
breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.** 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and ewap 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so in man's, how different were nJ« 
doom. 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet exist in** 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheld'st 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Ciesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXVIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken i;iurse of Rome . «• 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of con(}uest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
Wliich the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's cthcrial dart, 
And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou j^l 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 
forget ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster babes are dead— • 
The men of iron_,; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, [steer a 
And fought and conqucr'd, and the same coursi 
At apish distance ; btit as yet none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the «rare, 
E^-, va:.4'ii8h'd by himself, to his own sluTes a 
slave — 



56 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XC. 



The fooi of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
"With steps unequal : for the Roman's mini 
Was modeU'd in a less terrestrial mould,*^ 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd. 

ici. 

And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van. 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
Lt what ? can he avouch — or answer what he 
claim'd ? 

XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sui-e grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have fiow'd, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for Avretched man's abode, 
Ajid ebbs but to reflow !-r-Renew thy rainbow, God ! 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap ? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, ^s 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale: 
Opinion and Omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mnntles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
A.nd their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 
too much light. 

XCIV. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery. 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
Tc the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Ilveir fe lows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 

XCV. 

I speak not ^( men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker, — but of things allow'd, 
A'^er'd and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd. 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd. 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And sho ok them from their slumbers on the throne ; 
' v» gloricjs. were this all his mighty ai-m had done. 



XCVI. 



Can tyrants but oy tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Oi must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no «uci 
shore ? 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit crima, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime * 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst— iuB 
second fall. 

XCVIII. 

Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying. 
Screams like the thunder-storm against the wind 
The trumpet voice, though broken now and dying 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring fcrtb 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,** 
Fu-m as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's baffled strength delays. 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of i%'y grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all oy rime o'erthrown ;— » 
"What was this tower of strength ? within its care 
"What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's 
grave. 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? was she chaste and fair ? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
"What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was iiu 
So honor'd — and conspicusly there, [aol 

"Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal Ic t ? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
"Who love the lords of others ? such have beeu 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen. 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in viitue ? did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely, bar 
Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affen 
tions are. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



&1 



CII. 



Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
rhat weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death ; yet shed*° 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Df her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

CHI. 

f erohance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
It may'be, still a something of the day 
When they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 

By Rome But whither would Conjecture stray ? 

Thus much alone we know — Metella died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife; behold his love or 
pride I 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee, 
It seems as if I had thine inmate knoAvn, 
Thou tomb ! and other days come back oii me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thimder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
Korms from the flowing wi-eck which Ruin leaves 
behind ; 

CV. 

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks. 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what 
is here. 

CVI. 

Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
yhall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'ejiilie bird of darkness' native site, 
An8werin>, each other on the Palatine, [bright, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and 
And flailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
IFliat are our petty griefs ? — let me not number 
mine. 

cvn. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column 
strovvn fstcep'd 

In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes 
In subterranfian damps, where the owl peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight: — Temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for all th:it Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperia" Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty 
falls.*' 
8 



CVIII. 



There is the moral of all human tales ; ** 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails. 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page, — 'tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd 
All treasures, all deHghts, that eye or ear, 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away wiih 
words ! draw near, 

CIX. 

Admire, exult— despise — laugh, weep, — for ttre 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man . 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, wbose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 

i Of Glory's gewgags shining in the van 

Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd I 

Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared 
to build ? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
Thou nameless column with the buried base . 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's ? No— 'tis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sub 
Iime,»3 

CXL 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd. 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd. 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was raorit 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd. 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's nam« 
adore.*"* 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where th« 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, [steep 
The promontory whence the Traitor's leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — bmns witk 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood . 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled. 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when f\irthor worlds to conqti^ir fail'd ; 
But long before had freedom's face been veil'd^ 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavisb mutei 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXIV. 



Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants tmn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch;^hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree ^^ 
Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too 
brief. 

cxv. 

Egeira ' sweet creation of some heart** 
Which foimd no mortal-resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
I!hou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
forth. 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years uuwrinkled. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild mai-gin now no more erase ^ 
Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
fke rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and 
ivy creep 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in theii- class 
Implore the pausing step, and ivith their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its 
skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating ' 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out foi the greeting 
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell 
iiaunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sigh'ig, 
Share with immortal transports ? could thinf art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys. 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart— 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
Ln6 roi>t from out the «oul the deadly weed which 
cloys ? 



CXX. 



Alas ! our young affections run to wasta* 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxmiance, tares of Haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyet. 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies. 
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the plan- 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion fliei 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For soine celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

'CXXL 

Oh Love ? no habitant of earth thou art— 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But rlever yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied— 
wrung — and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And feyers into false creation ; — where, 
^\1iere are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized / 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
"^Tiere are the charms and vii-tues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pmsue as men, ' 
The umeach'd Paradise of our despair, 
WTiich o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
again ? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm un%\ind 
"Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells ft-om out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal speU, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft^-sown winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when most 
undone. 

CXXIV. 

We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslak'd the thirsti 
Though to the last, in verge of our dt-oay. 
Some phantom lures, such as we sough* at first— 
But all too late, — so are we doubly citf;^. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis t>t;' same» 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst— 
For all are meteors with a different name. 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 
flame. 

cxxv. 

Few — none — find what they love or could imrt 
loved. 

Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
* Necessity of loving, have removed 

Antipathies — hut to recur, ere long, 

Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 

And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 

And raiscreator, makes and helps along 

Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we aO 
have trod. 



CHILDE HARCLD'S PILGRIMAGj*. 



5£ 



CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 

'I'he harmony of things, — this hard decree, 

This uneradicable taint of sin, 

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 

The skies which rain their plagues on men like 

dew — 
Diseaso, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 

through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base ^^ 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; thi? at least, shall still be mine : 
Thoi'gh from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'dand tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind. 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the 
blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moojibeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assumd 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven. 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of the earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement. 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Uust yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, ^ 

Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
"Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! unto thoo I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heait, and crave of thee a 
gift: 

CXXXI. » 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate. 
Among v'.iy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of ye;u-8 — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, xnd reserved my pride against the hatj 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have woni 
Cliis iron in Hiy soul in vain — bhall they not m >ura ? 



CXXXII. 



And then, who i.ever yet of human wiong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! ** 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long— 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hisa. 
For that unnatural retribution — just. 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou ishalt, 
and must, 

CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have mcurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 
But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; 
To thee I do dp vote it — thou shalt take [found, 
The veugeaure, which shall yet be sought and 

Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is sufFer'd : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my cutm 

cxxxv. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not— 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. Heaven !— 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not sufFer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away I 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI. 

From mighty \\Tongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The J aims glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sight 
Deal round to hapj y fools its speechless obloquy. 

CXXXVII. 

But I hare lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in couepiering pain 
But there is that within me which shall tire 

• Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire; 
Something unearthly, which they deem nut of, 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Sliall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 

In hearts all rocky now the late rcmoise of lov* 



60 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXXVIII. 



The seal is set. — Nowwelcome, thou di-ead power ! 
Nameless yet thus omnipotent, which here 
"Walk' St ill the shadow of the jaidnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all dist net from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
iLud grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughter' d ? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
B3th are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : ^^ 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his di-oop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the fu'st of a thimder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — he is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 
wretch who won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away. 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play. 
There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — ^ 
All this rush'd \vith his blood — Shall he expire 
4Jid unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your 
ire! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,^' 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena void — seats crush 'd — walls bow'd — 
Ind galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — ^yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Alas ! developed, opens the decay. 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd ; 
It will not bear the brightness of tne day, 
Vhich streams too much on all years, man, have 
reft away. 



CXLIV. 



But when the rising moon begij.s to cliiiLb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; ^2 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on theii dust y< 
trpad. 

CXLV. 

•* While stands the Coliseum, Romp shall stand ; • 
"When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
"And when Rome falls — the World." From out 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 

ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; •< 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empii-e, each thing round thee, and man ploda 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome i 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrant's 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home [roif 

Of art and Piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome \ 

CXLVIL 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts arouad 
them close.^^ 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear iight •• 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight- 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what does she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and 
bare? 

CXLIX. 

Full swells the d'eep pure fountain of young life. 
Where oti the heart, and from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and sriiall suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from oiit its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain wai 
Eve'8. 



I 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



61 



CL. 

But heii youtK offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sii;e 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide [higher 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
'>ink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 
holds no such tide. 

CLI. 

The stt^rfV fable of the milky way 
Has lAt IjSJ' story's purity ; it is 
A congelation of a sweeter lay. 
And sacreJ Nature triumphs more in this 
Ileversc of her decree, than in the abyss 
WTiere sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as o'lr freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,®' 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles. 
Colossal copyist of deformity. 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth. 
To view the huge design which STj7ung from such a 
birth! 

CLIII. 

But lo ! — the dome — thf vast and wondrous dome,®8 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyena and the jackall in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In tkia etema' ark of worship undefiled. 

CLV. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind. 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A. fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Bhah one day, if found worthy, so defined. 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
fiit Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 



CLV J 

Thou movest — ^but increasing with the advance. 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth risei 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonize-' 
All musical in its immensities ; [flame 

Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dcmc which viei 
In air ^vith Earth's chief structure, though theii 
fraELo 
Sits on the firm-set ground— and this the cloudfl 
must claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou mustbr»*« 
To seperate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make. 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart', 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward senne 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intenpe 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'ervvhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first cur Nature's littleness, 
■ Till, growing ^:th its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of what they contemplate 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlightened ; there is mcie 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought conld 
The fountain of sublimity displays [plan : 

Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conception! 
can. 

CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
LaoccoOn's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending ; — Vain 
The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
The old man's clench ; the long envenomed chaix 
. Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gaxp^ 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs ai-ray'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow 1 right 
With an immortai's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by 
Develuoiug in that one glance the Deitv 



62 



BYRON'S WOI ti:S. 



CLXII. 



But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Jtarlike around, until they gather' d tc a god . 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
^^^lich this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glorj' — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
k tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
'twas wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
/ The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last. 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast. 
And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

"V^Tiich gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit in its mqj^al shroud, 
And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 
Through which all things grow phantoms ; and the 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame. 
And to wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
1 1 is enough in sooth that once we bore 
rbc«€ fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 
was gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; [ground, 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrow'd, 
And pale, but lovely, w.th maternal grief 
'V e clasps a babe to '"^xom her breast yields no relief. 



CLXVIII. 



Scior of chiefs and monarchs, where art tl^ou) 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could :iot the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever ; with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to c\kJ 

CLXIX. **■ ^ 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it J^f ' 
Oh thou that wert so ha^py, so adorcdf ^-» ' 
Those who weep not for kings shall we^»r thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cea^ lb hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; I'or she had pjqjflr'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head ' ' 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ' 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made : 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherd's eyes : — 'twas but a meteot 
beam'd. 

CLXXL'" • 

Wo unto us, not her ; foijshe sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate** 
Which stumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 
Against thair blind omnipotence a weight [flung 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon oi 
late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Wliose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprew 
The land which loved thee so that none could l)Vt 
thee best • 

CLXXIII 

'" Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills - 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface weart. 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coii'd into itself and round, as sleeps the Pnake 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



6a 



CLXXIV. 

And litJai Albano's scarce divided waves 
Thine fro n a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprai .g the Epic war, 
"Arms and the Man," whose reascending star 
Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
TuUy reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bai 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
f he Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bards delight.'" 



CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
rhose waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine 
roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades : long years—. 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our moral race hath run, 
"We have had our reward — and it is here : 
That we can yet feel gladden 'd by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
Af if th« re were no man to troub'a what is clear. 



CLXXVII. 

Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race. 
And, hating no one, love byt only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
rhough with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 



CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes. 
By the deep 833, and music in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
Fiom :ill I may be, or have been before. 
To ininglo with the Universe, and feel 
Who"" 1 can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal 



CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark bhie ocean — roll! 
Fen thousand fleets sweep over thf*e in vain ; 
Man marks tho earth with ruin — his control 
S*op8 witb the shore; — ^upon the watery pUia 



The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and vsk 
knoAvn. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise [wields 
And shake him from thee : the vile strength he 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shi''ering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay 



CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walla 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And ihonarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war : 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of v^aves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgai* 



CLXXXIL 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee- 
- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free. 
And many a tyrnnt since ; their shores obev 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; theii* decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou. 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play- 
Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now 



CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests : in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, andsublime- 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each aon« 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathoml«M 
alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to \^ 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: fr.»m r. boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fes»r. 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
iAnd laid my hand upon thy mano— ^« I do ham 



64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXV. 



My task is done — my song hath ceased — ^my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
"Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
WlJch in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 



CLXXXVI. 



Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been- 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell 
Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his.sandal-shoon and scallop-shell; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — with v<«<, the moral of his straii. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



CANTO I. 



Tes ! sigh*d o'er DelpkVa long deserted shrine. 
Stanza i. line 6. 

The little village of uastri stands partly on the 
site of Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, 
from Chrysso, are the remains of sepulchres hewn 
in and from the rock. " One," said the guide, " of 
a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty 
^ad certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an 
achievement. 

A little above Castri is a cave, supposed the 
Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of it is 
paved, a»d now a cow-house. 

On the other side of Castri stands a Greek 
monastery ; some way above which is the cleft in 
the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, 
and apparently leading to the interior of the moun- 
tain ; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned 
by Pausahiiis From this part descend the fountain 
and the " Dews of Castalie." 



2. 

And rest ye at o^i'*' ** Lady's house of wo." 

Stanza xx. line 4. 
The Convent of "Our Lady of Punishment," 
Nossa Senora de Pena,* on the sunrmit of the rock. 
Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, 
where St. Honorius dug his den, over which is his 
epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty 
of the view. 



• Since the publication of thi* poem, I hav« been informed tf the mJtappie- 
henaion of the term Notta Senorxi de P*na. It wu owing to the want of 
Ihe tildt, or mark over the n, wbkh alters the (ignification of the word : with 
It, Ptnti signifies a rock ; without it, Perm ha* the aenae 1 adopted. 1 do not 
lUuk it necessary to alter the passa^, as, though the common acceptation 
tffixed (11 it Is " Our Lady of the Rock," 1 may well assume the other sense 
wm tte •«T«ritfes practised there. 



8. 

Throughout this purple land, where law secures noi 
life. Stanza xxi. line last. 

It is a well known fact, that in the year 1809 the 
assassinations in the streets of Lisbon and its 
vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to 
their countrymen ; but that Englishmen were daily 
butchered : and so far from rediess being obtained, 
we were requested not to interfere if we perceived 
any compatriot defending himself against his allies. 
I was once stopped in the way to the theatre at 
eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were 
not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop and in a carriage 
with a friend ; had we not fortunately been armed, 
I have not the least doubt that we should have 
adorned a tale instead of telling one. The crime 
of assassination is not confined to Portugal; in 
Sicily and Malta we are knocked on the head at a 
handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian za 
Maltese is ever punished ! 



Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened! 
Stanza xxiv. line 1. 

The Convention of Cintra was signed in the 
palace of the Marchese Marialva. The late exploit* 
of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies ol 
Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders ; he hai 
perhaps changed the character of a nation, recoii 
ciled rival superstitions, and baffled an enemy who 
never retreated before his predecessors. 

5. 
Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay. 

Stanza xxix. line 1. 
The extent of Mafra is prodigious ; it contains a 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



65 



palace, ccnTent, and most superb church. The six 
or^aus are the most beautiful I ever beheld, in 
point of decorations ; we did not hear them, but 
were told that their tones were correspondent to 
their splendor. Mafra is termed the Esciirial of 
Portugal. 

6. 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
Ttrixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low. 
Stanza xxxiii. lines 8 and 9. 

As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized 
them. That tliey are since improved, at least in 
courasje, is evident. 

7. 
W7ie9i Cavd's traitor sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore. 
Stanza xxxv. lines 3 and 4. 

Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. 
Pelagius preserved his independence in the fast- 
nesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his 
lollowers, after some centuries, completed their 
Btiuggle by the conquest of Grenada 

8. 

No! as he speeds, he chants, ** VivA el Rey !" 
Stanza xlviii. line 5. 

'*Viva el Rey Fernanda!" Long live King Fer- 
dinand ! is the chorus of most of the Spanish 
patriotic songs: they are chiefly in dispraise of the 
old king Charles, the Queen, and the Prince of 
Peace. I have heard many of them ; some of the 
airs are beautiful. Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, 
was born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, 
and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish 
Guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, 
and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. 
It is to this man that the Spaniards universally 
impute the ruin of their country. 



Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you w/iom to shun ayid whom to greet. 
Stanza 1. lines 2 and 3. 

The red cockade, with " Fernando Septimo" in 
the centre. 

10. 
The hall-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match. 
Stanza li. line last. 
All who have seen a battery will recollect the 
pyramidal form in which shot and shells are piled. 
The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile 
through which I passed in my way to Seville. 

n. 

FoiVd by a woman's hand, before a hatter'd wall. 
Stanza I'i. line last. 

Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza. 
When the aiithor was at Seville she walked daily 
on the Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by 
command of the Junta. 

12. 
The seal Love's dimpling ^nger hath impressed 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch. 
Stanza Iviii. lines 1 and 2. 
** Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitulo 
\ entigio demonstrant moUitudinem." AuL. Gel. 

13. 

Oh, thou Parnassus ! 

Stanza Ix. line 1. 

These Btansas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) 
At the foot of Parnassus, now called Aiuxvpa— 
liiakur^. 



14. 

Fair is pioud Seville ; let het country boast 

Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient iays. 

Stanza Ixv. lines 1 anl i 
Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 

15. 

Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason whyf 

Stanza Ixx. line 5. 
This was written at Thebes, and consequently in 
the best situation for asking and answering such a 
question : not as the birthplace of Pindar, bun ia 
the capital of Boeotia, where the first riddle was 
propounded and solved. 

16. 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flv/ig» 
Stanza Ixxxii. line Iak*t. 
"Medio de fonte leporum 
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus augat." 

Luc. 
17. 
A traitor only fell beneath the feiul. 

Stanza Ixxxv. line 7. 
Allujding to the conduct and death of Solano, 
the Governor of Cadiz. 

18. 
"IFar even to the knife /" 

Stanza Ixxxvi. line last. 
"War to the knife."* Palafox's answer to the 
French general at the siege of Saragoza. 

19. 
And thou, my friend! S^c. 

Stanza xci. line 1 
The Honorable I*. W**. of the Guards, who 
died of a fever at Coinbra. I had known him ten 
years, the better half of his life, and the happiest 
part of mine. 

In the short space of one month I had lost her 
who gave me being, and most of those who had 
made that being tolerable. To me the lines o{ 
Young are no fiction : 

" Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of 
the late Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of 
Downing College, Cambridge, were he not too 
much above all praise of mine. His powers of 
mind, shown in the attainment of greater honors, 
against the ablest candidates, than those of any 
graduate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently 
established his fame on the spot where it wa« 
acquired: while his softer qualities live m the 
recollection of friends who loved liim too veil tt 
envy his superiority. 



CANTO II. 
1. 

despite of war and wasting fir» 

Stanza i. line i. 
Part of the Acropolis was destrt)yed by the 
explosion of a maj;azine during thu Venetian tiefO. 



66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



2. 



Btit worse than steel and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who ntver felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. Stanza i. line 6. 

We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with 
which the ruins of cities, once the capitals of 
empires, are beheld ; the reflections suggested by 
such objects are too trite to require recapitulation. 
Bnt never did the littleness of man, and the vanity 
of his very best virtues of patriotism to exalt, and 
of valor to defend his country, appear more con- 
spicuous than in the record of what Athens was, 
and the certainty of what she now is. This theatre 
of contention between mighty factions, of the 
stmggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition 
of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of gen- 
erals, is now become a scene of petty intrigue and 
per^ etual disturbance, between the bickering agents 
of certain British nobility and gentry. " The vnld 
foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins of Baby- 
Ion," were surely less degrading than such inhab- 
itants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for 
their tyranny, and the Grreeks have only suffered 
•.he fortune of war, incidental to the bravest; but 
how are the mighty fallen, when two painters 
contest the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, 
and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each 
succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip 
subdue, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained 
for the paltry antiquariAi, and his despicable 
agents, to render her con'^tnptible as himself and 
his pursuits. 

. The Parthenon, before its destruction in part, by 
fire, during the Venetian siege, had been a temple, 
a church, and a mosque. In each point of view it 
is an object of regard: it changed its worshippers; 
but still it wfs a place of worship thnce sacred to 
devotion ; its violation is a triple sacrilege. But 

'♦ Man, vain man, 
Drest in a little brief authority. 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep." 

3. 

Far on the solitary shore he sleeps. 

Stanza v. line 2. 
It was not always the custom of the Greeks to 
burn their dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, 
was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became 
gods after their decease ; and he was indeed neg- 
lected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or 
festivals in honor of his memory by his countrymen, 
as Achilles, BraBxdas, &c., and at last even Anti- 
nous, whose death was as heroic as his life was in- 
famous. 



Here, son of Saturn I was thy favorite thront. 
Stanza x. line 3. 

The temple of Jupituj Olympius, of which six- 
teen columns, entirely of marble, yet survive ; orig- 
inally there were one hundred and fifty. These 
enlumns, however, are by many supposed to belong 
to the Pantheon. 

5. 

dnd bear these altars o'er the long relitctant brine. 

Stanza xi. line last 
The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

6. 

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time have spared. 
Stanza xii. line 2. 
At this moment, (January 3, 1809,) besides what 
aas been already deposited in London, an Hydriot 
fessel is in the Pyraeus to receive every portable 
relit' Thus, as I heard a young Greek observe, in 



common with many of his countrymen — for, lost u 
they are, they yet feel on this occasion — thus may 
Lord Elgin boast of taving ruined Athens. Ax 
Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, 
is the agent of devastation ; and like the Greek 
ftider of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same 
profession, he has proved the able instrument o{ 
plunder. Between this artist and the French Con 
snl Fauvel, who vdshes to rescue the remains for 
his own government, there is now a violent dispute 
concerning a car employed in their conveyance, the 
wheel of which — I wish they were both broken upon 
it — has been locked up by the Consul, and Lusieri 
has laid his complaint before the Wayv.ode. Lord 
Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice of 
Signor Lusieri. During a residence of ten years in 
Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as far 
as Sunium,* till he accompanied us in our second 
excursion. However, his works, as far as they go, 
are most beautiful ; but they are almost all unfin- 
ished. While he and his patrons confine them- 
selves to tasting medals, appreciating cameos, 
sketching columns, and cheapening gems, theif 
little absurdities are as harmless as insect or fox- 
hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or 
any such pastime ; but when they carry away tnree 
or four shiploads of the most valuable and massy 
relics that time and barbarism have left to the most 
injured, and most celebrated of cities; when they 
destroy, in a vain attempt to tear dovTi, those works 
which have been the admiration of ages, I know no 
motive which can excuse, no name which can desig- 
nate, the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. 
It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charge 
of Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in tne 
manner since imitated at Athens. The most un- 
blushing impudence could hardl> go farther than to 
afiix the name of its plunderer to the walls of the 
Acropolis ; while the wanton and useless deface- 
ment of the whole range of the basso-relievos, in 
one compartment of the temple, will never permit 
that name to be pronounced by an observer without 
execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a 
collector or admu'er of collections, consequently no 
rival ; but I have some early prepossession in favor 
of Greece, and do not think the honor of England 
advanced by plunder, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he 
has done less ; but some others, more or less noble, 
yet "all honorable men," have done best, because, 
after a deal of excavation and execration, bribery to 



* Now Cape Colonna. In all Attica, if we except Athens itself, ami 
Marathon, there is no scene more interesting tlian Cape Colonna. To tho 
antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of obserra- 
tion and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plalo't 
conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck with 
the beauty of ths prospect over " Isles that croten the jEgean deep:" but fcl 
an Englishman, Coloima has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot 
of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten, ic the reco^ 
lection of Falconer and Campbell : 

" Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along tlie deep." 

This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In Ivm 
journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view tioia 
either side, by land, was less strilnng than tl.e approach from th* isles. Is 
our second land excursion, we had a narrow escapi- from a party of Mir ^oees, 
eoncesded in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one ol jjik 
prisoners subsequently ransomed, that tliey were deterred Iroi i attacking i» 
by the appearance of my two Albanians: conjecturii.g very Eegad.-.txsi^, ial 
falsely, th« we had a complete guard of these Amaouts at hand, they 
remained stationary and thus saved our party, which was too f-iajl to twcn 
opposed any effectual resiaunce. 
Colonna (s no less a resort of painters than of pirates : there 

" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk. 
And makes degradeil nature picturesque." 

',See Hodgw>n's Lady Jaue urej, to . 

But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herieM. 1 wai 
fortunate enough to engage a very suj^rior German artist; au(' bop0 Is 
renew my acquaintance with this and many other Levantine Keoos, toj Um 
anivsL of his performances. 



KITES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



61 



the 'Wa3rvirode, mining and countermining, they have 
done nothing at all. We had such ink-shed, and wine- 
shed, which almost ended in bloodshed ! Lord E.'s 
" prig " — see Jonathan Wild for the definition of 
** priggisrn " — quarrelled with another, Gropius* by 
name, (a very good name too for his business,) and 
muttered something about satisfaction, in a verbal 
answer to a note of the poor Prussian : this was 
Btated at table to Gropius, who laughed, but could 
eat no dinner afterwcards. The rivals were not 
reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to re- 
member their squabble, for they wanted to make me 
their arbitrator. 

7. 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to gtiard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains. 
Stanza xii; lines 7 and 8. 

I cannot resist availing myself of the permission 
of my friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no 
ccir^ment wth the public, but Avhose sanction will 
add tenfold weight to my testimony, to insert the 
following extract from a very obliging letter of his 
to me, as a note to the above lines- 

" When the last of the Metopes was taken from 
the Parthenon, and in moving of it, great part of 
the superstructure with one of the triglyphs was 
thrown down by the workmen whom Lord Elgin 
employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief 
done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, 
diopped a tea'*, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, 
said to Lusieri, TiAwj ! — I was present." 

The Disdai alluded to was the father of the pres- 
ent Disdar. 

8. 
Where was thine jEgis, Pallas ! that appalVd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way t 

Stanza xiv. lines I and 2. 

According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles 
frightened Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others 
relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischiev- 
ous as the Scottish peer.-nSee Chandler. 

•9. 

the netted canopy. 

Stanza xviii. line 2. 
The netting to prevent blocks or splinters from 
falling on deck during action. 

10. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles 

Stanza xxix. line 1. 
Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 

11. 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 

Stanza xxxviii. lines 5 and 6. 
Albania comprises; part of Macedonia, Illyria, 
Chaonia, and Erixus. Iskauder is the Turkish 
word for Alexander ; and the celebrated Scander- 
berg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in the third and 
fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. I do not 
know whetlicr I am correct in making Scanderberg 
th(; countryman of Alexander, who was born at 
Pella in Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so. 



* Th'i'Sir Oropiiw wn* employed by a noble Lord for the (ole purix)iie of 
Aetchinjr, ill wliich he cxci-ls; but I am sorry to Miy, thiU he ha», lhnui(jfh 
die nbu»i;il (iirijlloii of th;il iniiBt rinpscinble iioiiie, been trfiidlng at humble 
dkUincc 111 tlw ab'pi uf Sr. l/iiiieri. A nhipliill ol lii* tropliici wiu detiiined, 
tnd I \*-\v-\e :<)iiri«u:at<-(l, Ht t'oiiiUuitlnopl. , hi 1810. I iiiii iiio»l Imppy lo 
ke now cimbwl to itnte, that " lhl» win not In hii Imiid; " (hut he wlh 
•irploye.l nolrly oa a painter, nnd Una hiii noble ixitron dimivowi nil auiiiex- 
lon with huii, except ii» un nrtl»l. If the emir in llu' fltit iind iecond edition 
of thU ijTKMii niia given the noble Ion! a iiioiiient'H puiii I am very Borry for it ; 
■r. Orop'uit 'iM iiMumed for yeum the imiiie of hi* w^'M : itnd Ihoiijfh I oiin- 
>ot mud) 0. ndernn mv«elt for ihiiriiipr in the miitake of lo niiiny, 1 «m 
Uvpy in bejig one of Uie Ant lo U- uiult'wiv.Ml. Indeed, 1 have aa much 
tleaawe in crau«c :Uu( thia ift 1 fell tvgrvi is utatiiif it 



and adds Pyrrhus to the list, in ^e&king of hi* ex- 
ploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks that a country 

** within sight of Italy is less knc wn than the inte- 
rior of America." Circumstances, of little conse- 
quence to mention, led Mr. Hobhouse and mysell 
into that country before we visited any other par\ 
of the Ottoman dominions ; and, with the exception 
of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, 
no other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond 
the capital into the interior, as that gentleman very 
lately assured me. Ali Pacha was at that time (Oc- 
tober, 1809), carrying on war against Ibraham 
Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a strong for- 
tress which he was then besieging : on our ai'iiva] 
at Joannina we were invited to Tepoleni, his high 
ness's birthplace, and favorite Serai, only one day't 
distance from Berat; at this junctui-e the Vizier 
had made it his head-quarters. 

After some stay in the capital, we accordingly 
followed ; but though furnished with every accom- 
modation, and escorted by one of the vizier's secre 
taries, we were nine days (on account of the rainsj . 
in accomplishing a journey which, on our return 
barely occupied four. 

On our route we passed two cities, Argyrocastr« 
and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina 
in size ; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to 
the scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, 
the frontier village of Eph-us and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling 
to descant, because this Avill be done so much better 
by my fellow-traveller, in a work which may proba- 
bly precede this m publication, that I as little wish 
to follow as I would to anticipate him. But some 
few observations are necessary to the text. 

The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly by 
their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, 
in dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very 
mountains seemed Caledonian, with a kinder cli- 
mate. The kilt, though white; the spare, active 
form ; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their 
hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. Nc 
nation are so detested and dreaded by their neigh- 
bors as the Albanese ; the Greeks hardly regard 
them as Christians, or the Tm-ks as Moslems ; and 
in fact they are a mixture of both, and sometimes 
neither. Their habits are predatory — all are armed . 
and the red-shawled Arnaouts, t?ie Montenegrins, 
Chimariots, and Gegdes, are treacherous ; the others 
differ somewhat in garb, and essentially in charac- 
ter. As far as my own experience goes, 1 can speak 
favorably. I was attended by two, an Inndel and a 
Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other paa 
of Turkey which came within my observation ; ana 
more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service^ 
are rarely to be found. The Infidel was nan>ed Ba- 
silius, the Moslem, Dervish Tahiri ; the founer a 
man of middle age, and the latter about my own. 
Basili was strictly charged by Ali Pacha in p6.-son 
to attend us ; and Dervish was one of fifty who ac- 
companied us through the forests of Acarnaniu to 
the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalou^hi 
in .(Etolia. There I took him into my own service, 
and never had occasion to repent it till the moment 
of my di'parture. 

WhcTi, in 1810, after the doi)arture of my friend 
Mr. H. for England, 1 was seized with a severe fever 
in the Morea, these men saved my life by frighten- 
ing away my physician, whose throat they tin eat- 
ened to cut if 1 was not cured within a given time. 
To this consolatory assurance of i)osthumous retii 
bution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. llt)manelli'i 
prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. I had left 
my last remaining English servant at Athens ; nif 
dragoman was as ill as myself, and my poor A»- 
naouts nursed me with an attention that would 
have done honor to civilization. 

They had a variety of adv«'nt>ires ; for the Mo* 
1cm, Dervish, beinn a remarkably hand<om»> nma 
was always squabbling with the husbands of AthonM 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



, Insomiicli that four of the principal Turks paid me 
a visit of remonstrance at the Convent, on the sub- 
ject of his having taken a woman from the bath — 
whom he had hiwfully bought, however — a thing 
quite contrary to etiquette. 

Basili, alsoj was extremely gallant among his ovm 
persuasion, and had the greatest veneration for the 
church, mixed with the highest contempt of church- 
men, whom he cuffed upon occasion in a most het- 
erodox manner. Yet he never passed a church 
without crossing himself ; and I remember the risk 
he ran in entering St. Sophia, in Stambol, because 
it had once been a place of his worship. On renion- 
■trating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, 
he invariably answered, " our church is holy, our 
priests are thieves ; " and then he crossed himself 
as usual, and boxed the ears of the first "papas " 
who refused to assist in any required operation, as 
was always found to be necessa^ where a priest had 
any influence with the Cogia Bashi of his village. 
Indeed, a more abandoned race of miscreants can- 
not exist than the lower '^'•'1«r of the Greek clergy. 

"When preparations were maae lor luy leturn, my 
Albanians were summoned to receive their pay, 
Basili took his with an awkward show of regret at 
my intended departure, and marched away to his 
quarters, with his bag of piastres. I sent for Der- 
vish, but for some time he was not to be found ; at 
last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, father to 
the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some 
other of my Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. 
Dervish took the money, but on a sudden dashed it 
to the ground ; and clasping his hands, which he 
raised to his forehead, rushed out of the room, 
weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour 
of my embarkation, he continued his lamentations, 
and all our efforts to console him only produced this 
answer, " Ma (papei," " He leaves me." Signor Lo- 
theti, who never wept before for anything less than 
the loss of a para,* melted ; the padi-e of the con- 
vent, my attendants, my visitors — and I verily be- 
lieve that even Sterne's •' foolish fat scullion " 
would have left her "fish-kettle," to sympathize 
with ,the unaffected and unexpected sorrow of this 
barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a 
short time before my departure from England, a 
noble and most intimate associate had excused him- 
self from taking leave of me because he had to attend 
a relation " to a milliners," I felt no less surprised 
than humiliated by the present occurrence and the 
past recollection. 

That Dervish would leave me with some regret 
was to be expected; when master and man have 
been scrambling over the mountains of a dozen 
provinces together, they are unwilling to separate ; 
but his present feelings, contrasted with his native 
ferocity, improved my opinion of the human heart. 
I believe this almost feudal fidelity is frequent 
among them. One day, on oxrr journey over Par- 
nassus, an Englishman in my service gave him a 
push in some dispute about the baggage, which 
Ke unluckily mistook fcr a blow; he spoke not, 
btit sat down, leaning his head upon his hands. 
Ftreseeing the consequences, we endeavored to ex- 
plain away the affront, which produced the follow- 
mg answer : — I have been a robber ; I am a soldier ; 
no captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I 
have eaten your bread, but by that bread ! (an usual 
oath) had it been otherwise, I would have stabbed 
the aog your servant, and gone to the mountains." 
So the affair ended, but from that day forward he 
never thoroiighly forgave the thoughtless fellcw 
who insulted him. 

Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, con- 
jectured to be a remnant of the ancient Pyrrliic : be 
(hat as it may, it is manly, and requires wonderful 
•gility. It is very distinct from the stupid Ro- 



Put, about Itaa fMiith of a futiiiDf. 



maika, the diill round-about of the Greeks, of "wnich 

our Athenian party had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cul- 
tivators of the earth in the provinces, who have 
also that appellation, but the mountaineers), have 
a fine cast of countenance ; and the most beautiful 
women I ever beheld, in stature and in features, we 
saw levelling the road broken down by the torrents 
between Delvinachi and Libochabo. _heir manner 
of walking is truly theatrical ; but this strut is 
probably the effect of the capote, or cioak, depend- 
ing from one shoulder. Their long hair itminds 
you of the Spartans, and their courage in desultory 
warfare is imquestionable. Though they have some 
cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw a good 
Arnaout horseman ; my own prefeiTed the English 
saddles, which, however, they coiild never keep 
But on foot they are not to be' subdued by fatigue. 

12. 



-and pass'd the barren spoty 



Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave. 

Stanza xxxix. lines 1 and 2. 
Ithica. 

13. 
Actinm, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar. 

Stanza xl. line 5. 
Actmm and Trafalgar need no further mention. 
The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and consid- 
erable, but less known, was fought in the Gulf of 
Fatras. Here the author of Don Quixote lost his 
left hand. 

14. 
And haiVd the last resort of fruitless love. 

Stanza xli- line j. 
Leucadia, nov; Santa Maura. From the promon.' 
tory (the Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to hav3 
thrown herself. 

15. 

many a Roman chief and Asian king. 

Stanza xlv, line 4. 
It is said, that on the day previous to the battle 
of Actium, Anthony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

16. 

Look where the second Ccesar*s trophies rose ! 
Stanza xlv. line 8. 

Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at 
some distance from Actium, where the wall of the 
Hippodrome survives in a few fragments. 



17. 
-Ai'cherusia's lake. 

Stanza xlvii, line 1. 



According to Pouqueville the lake of Yanina; 
but Pouqueville is always out. 

18. 

To greet Albania's chief. 

Stanza xlvii. line 4. 

The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary 
man there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville'* 
Travels. 

19. 
Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his poice)-, and from their rocky hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold. 
Stanza xlvii. lines 7, 8 and 9. 
Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in 
the castle of Suli. withstood thirty thousand Alba- 
nians for eighteen years; the castle at last was 
taken by bribery. In this contest there were several 
acts performed not unworthy of the better days tA 
Greece. • 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



6d 



20. 
Monastic Zitza, 8gc. 

Stanza xlviii. line 1. 

The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' 
journey from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of 
the Pachalick. In the valley of the river Kalamas 
fonce the Acheron) flows, and not far from Zitza 
forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the 
finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi 
and parts of Acarnania and iEtolia may contest the 
palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even 
Cape Colouna and Port Raphti, are very inferior ; 
as also every scene in Ionia, or tlie Troad ; I am 
almost inclined to add the approach to Constanti- 
nople ; but from the different features of the last, 
R -omparison can hardly be made. 



21. 



Here dwells the caloyer. 

Stanza xlix. line 6. 



The Greek monks are so called. 



22. 



Natuie's volcanic amphitheatre. 

Stanza li. line 2. 

The Chimariot mountains appear to have been 
•olcanic. 

23. 



•behold black Acheron ! 

Stanza li. line 6. 



Nc T called Kalamas. 



> Ibanese cloak. 



24. 
•in his white capote. 

Stanza lii. line 7. 

25. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit. 

Stanza Iv. line 1. 
Aiiciently Tomarus. 

26. 
And Lao$ mde and fierce came roaring by. 

Stanza Iv. line 2. 
The river Laos was full at the time the author 
passed it ; and immediately above Tepalen, was to 
the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at 
least in the opinion of the author and his fellow- 
traveller, Mr. Hobhouse. In the suninior it must 
be much narrower. It certainly is the finest .river 
in the Levant; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron,, 
Bchaii lander, nor Cayster, approached it in breadth 
or beauty. 

27. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof. 

Stanza Ixvi line 8. 
Alluding to the wreck f>rs of Cornwall 



28. 



'the red wine circling fast. 

Slanza Ixxi. line 2. 
rhc Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from 
»rini». and indeed very few of the others. 

20. 
Each Palikar his sabre from him cast. 

"Stanza Ixxi. lino 7- 
Palikar, •shortened when addressed to a single 
porKon from n"XiKnin, a general n;ime for a soldier 
imongst the Greeks and AUnmese who speak 
Romaic — It means properly "a lad." 

30. 

While thut tn concert, Ac 

Stauzu Ixxii. line last. 



As a specimen of the Albanian or Amaout di iled 
of the IlhTic, I here insert, two of their most pop 
ular choral songs, which are generally chanted in * 
dancing by men or women indisciiminately. The 
first words are merely a kind of chorus without 
meaning, like some in our own and all other 
languages. 

1. 1. 

Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Naciarura, popuso. 



Lo, Lo, I come, I come; 
be thou silent. 



2. 
Naciarura na civin 
Ha penderini ti hin 



I come, I run ; open lh« 
door that I may eLler. 



Ha pe uderi escrotini 
Ti vin ti mar servetini. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. 



Bud, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 
Gi egem spirta esimiro. 



Caliriote vu le funde 
Ede vete tunde tunde. 



Caliriote me surme 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. 



Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



Va la ni il che cadale 
Celo more, more celo. 

10. 

Plu hari ti tirete 

Plu huron cia pra seti. 



Open the dooi y halveg 
that I may take my tur 
ban. 

4. 

Caliriotes* with the darV 
eyes, open the gate thai 
I may enter. 

b. 

Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my 
soul. 

6. 

An Amaout girl, in costly 
garb, walks with grace- 
ful pride. 

Caliriot maid of the dark 
eyes, give me a kiss. 

8. 
If I have kissed thee, what 
hast thou gained ! My 
soul is consumed with 
fire. 

9. 
Dance lightly, more gent- 
ly, and gently still. 

10. 
Make not so much diibt 
to destrov your em- 
broidered hose. 

The last stanza would puzzle a comment«tor; the 
men have certainlv buskins of the most beautiful 
texture, but the ladies (to whom the above is sup- 
posed to be addressed) have nothing under their 
tittle yellow boots and slippers but a well-turned 
and sometimes very wliite ankle. The Amaout girls 
are much handsomer than the Greeks, and theii 
dress is far more picturescpie. They preserve their 
shape much longer also, from being always in ihe 
open air. It is to be observed, that the Arnainit is 
not a written language ; the words of this sorg. 
therefore, as well as the one whii'h follows, are 
spelt according to their pronunciation. They are 
copied by one who speaks and understands th« 
dialect perfectly, and who is a native of Athena 

1. 1. 

Ndi sefda tinde ulavossa I am wounded by thy love 
Vcttimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but tc 

sciu'ch myself. 

2. 2. 

Ah vaisisRo mi privi lofse Thou hast eonsumod nu' 

Si mi rini mi la vosae. Ah, maid I thou hasi 

struck me to the heart 



• Thi' Allnn'"M«, (xuticiilikrly th* women, itn* frmv'"" '' i<mi'»J " L'aJr 
oiu*:" tur what rtrjK>u I iiiauimt In *uu. 



fO 



Uti tapa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 



Roba stinori ssidua 
(4u mi sini vetti dua. 



Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. 

6. 

CJltara pisa vaisisso me 

'jiini rin ti hapti 
Bti mi biie a piste si gui 

df-ndroi tiltati. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



3. 

I have said 1 wish no 
dowi-y, but thine eyes 
and eye-lashes. 

4. 

The accursed dovvTy I 
want not, but thee 
only. 

5. 
Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 
flames. 

6. 

I have loved thee, maid, 
with a sincere soul, but 
thou hast left me like 
a withered tree. 



37. 



7. 7. 

Udi vura udorini udiri ci- If I have placed my hand 

cova cilti mora on thy bosom, what 

Udorini talti hollna u ede have I gained ? my 

caimoni mora. hand is withdrawn, but 

, ' retains the flame. 

_ I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a 
different measure, ought to belong to another bal- 
lad An idea something similar to the thought in 
•■he last lines was expressed by Socrates, whose arm 
having come in contact with one of his " vitokuXxioi," 
Crilobulus or Cleobodus, the philosopher com- 
plained of a shooting pain as far as the shoulder for 
some days after, and therefore very properly resolved 
to teach his disciples in futiire without touching 
them. 

31. • 

Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy larum afar, &;c. 
Song, Stanza i. line 1. 
These Stanzas are partly taken from different 
Albanese songs, as far as I was able to make them 
out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic 
and Italian. 

32. 

Remember the moment when Previsafell. 

Song, Stanza viii. line 1. 
It was taken by storm from the French. 

33. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed looHh, S^e. 
Stanza Ixxiii. line 1. 

Some thoughts on this subject will be found in the 
Bubjoined papers. 

34. 

Spirit of freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 
Thou sat st with Thrasyhuhis and his train. 
Stanza Ixxiv. lines 1 and 2. 
Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of 
A.thens, has still considerable remains ; it was 
»*ix4kd by Thrasybulus previous to the expulsion of 
•:iie Thirty. 

35. 

Receive thejiery Frank, her former guest. 

Stanza Ixxvii. line 4. 

"When taken by the Latins, and retained for 
(Qveral years. — See Gibbon. 



The prophet's tomb of all its piotis spoil. 

Stanza Ixxvii. line 6. 

Mecca and Medira were taken some time ago by 
the Wahabeea, a sect yearly increasing. 



Thy vales of ever-green, th'. Mils of snow-— 

Sta.za Ixxxv. line 8, 

On many of the mountains, paiticularly Liakura 

the snow never is entirely melted notwithstanding 

the intense heat of the summer ; but I never saw U 

lie on the plains, even in winter. 

38. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave. 

Stanza Ixxxvi, lines 1 and 2. 
Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marbli 
was dug that constructed the public edifices ol 
Athens. The modern name is Mount Men deli 
An immense cave formed by the quaiTiea still 
remains, and will till the end of time. 

39. 
When Marathon became a magic word. 

Stanza Ixxxix. line 7. 
** Siste Viator — heroa calcas ! " was the epitaph 
on the famous count Merci ; — what then must be 
our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the 
two hundred ('Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The 
principal barrow has recently been opened by Fan.- 
vel; few or no relics, as vases^ &c., were found by 
the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered 
to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand 
piastres, about nine hundred pounds ! Alas !— 
" Expende, — quot libras in duce summo — inve- 
nies ! " — was the dust of Miltiades worth no more ? 
It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 



PAPERS REFERRED TO BY NOTE 3«>. 
I. 

Before I say any thing about a city of which every 
body, traveller or not, has thought it necessary tf 
say something, I will request Miss Owenson, whea 
she next borrows an Athenian heroine for her four 
volumes, to have the goodness to marry her to 
somebody more of a gentleman than a " Disdar 
Aga," (who by the by is not an Aga,) the most im- 
polite of petty officers, the greatest patron of lar- 
ceny Athens ever saw, (except Lord E.) and the 
unworthy occupant of the Acropolis, on a handsome 
annual stipend of 150 piastres, (eight pounds sterl- 
ing,) out of which he has only to pay his garrison, 
the most ill-regulated corps in the ill-regiJated 
Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I 
was once the cause of the husband of " Ida of 
Athens " nearly suffering the bastinado ; and be- 
cause the said " Disdar" is a turbulent husband and 
beats his veife ; so that I exhort and beseech Miss 
Owenson to sue for a separate maintenance in behali 
of " Ida." Having promised thus much, on a 
matter of such import to the readers of romance*, 
I may now leave Ida, to mention her birth] lare. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all 
those associations which it would be pedantic aud 
superfluous to recapitulate, the very situation o{ 
Athens would render it the favorite of all who htve 
eyes for art or nature. The climate, to me at least, 
appeared a perpetual spring ; during eight months 
I never passed a day without being as many hours 
on horseback ; rain is extiemely rare, snoAv nevei 
lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable 
rarity. In Spain, Portugal, and every part of the 
East which I visited, except Ionia and Attica, I 
perceived no such superiority of climate to our own ; 
and at Constantinople, where I passed May, June, 
and part of July, (1810,) you might " damn the 
climate, and complain of spleen," five days o Jt ol 
seven. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HaROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



71 



The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome 
Dut thtf moment you pass the Isthmus in the direc- 
tion of Megara the change is strikingly percepti- 



ble. But I tear Hesiod will still be found correct in 
his description of a Bueotian winter. 

We found at Livadja an " esprit fort " in a Greek 
bishop, of all free thinkers ! This worthy hypocrite 
rallied his own religion with great intrepidity, (but 
not before his flock,) and talked of a mass as a 
" coglioneria." It was impossible to think better of 
him for this ; but, for a Boeotian, lit was brisk with 
all his absurdity. This phenomenon (with the ex- 
ception indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chaeronea, 
the plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its 
nonuual cave of Trophonius) was the only remarka- 
ble thing we saw before we passed Mount Cithajron. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my 
companion (who resolving to be at once cleanly and 
classical, bathed in it) pronounced it to be the foun- 
tain of Dnce, and any body who thinks it worth 
while may contradict him. At Castri we di-ank of 
half a dt zen streamlets, some not of the purest, be- 
fore we decided to our satisfaction which was the 
true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, 
probably from he snow, though it did not throw us 
into an epic fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle of which large remains still ex- 
ist, the Plain of Athens, Pentelieus, Hymettus, the 
-^gean, and the Acropolis, burst upon-the eye at 
once ; in my opinion, a more glorious prospect than 
even Cintra or Istambol. Not the view from the 
Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the more dis- 
tant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior 
in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arca'dia, but ex- 
cepting the view from tne monastery of Megaspelion, 
("which is inferior to Zitza in a command of country,) 
and the descent from the mountains on the way from 
Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has little to recom- 
mend it beyond the name. 

"Sternitur, et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none 
dut an Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it 
does not deserve the epithet. And if the Polynices 
of Statius, " In luediis audit duo litora cainpis," 
did actually hear both shores in crossing the isth- 
mus of Corinth, he had better ears than have ever 
been worn in such a journey since. 

" Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is 
still the most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it 
inav be of Greece, but not of the Greeks ; for Joannina 
ill Epirus is universally allowed, among themselves, 
io be superior in the wealth, refinement, learning, 
and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athenians are 
remarkable for their cunning ; and the lower or- 
ders are not improperly characterized in that prov- 
erb, which classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, 
and the Turks of the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, 
French, Italians, Germans, Ilagusans, &c., there 
was never a difference of opinion in their estimate of 
lh3 Greek character, though on all other topics 
they disputed with great acrimony. 

Mr i'auvnl the French (consul, who has passed 
thirty )ears principally at Athens, and to whose 
falents as an artist and manners as a gentleman 
none who have known him can refuse their testimo- 
ny, l;is frequently declared in my hearing, that the 
Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated; reason- 
ing on the grounds of their "national and individual 
depravity;" while he forgot that such depravity is 
to be attril)uted to causes which can only be remov- 
ed Ijy the measure he reprobates. 

Mr. lloqne, a French merchant of respectability 
long settled in Atliens, asserted with the most 
%niuHing gravity, " Sir they are the same cai aille 
'tidX existed in tht ddijs of Thoniatucles .'" an alarm- 
uig remark to the " Laud itor temporis acti." The 
incients banished Themistoclea, the raodeiis cheat 



Monsieur Roque: thus great men have e-ver been 

treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and 
most of the Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c., d 
passage came over by degrees to their opinion, on 
much the same grounds that a Turk in England 
would condemn the nation by wholesale, because he 
was wronged by his lacquey, and overcharged by 
his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the 
Sieurs Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest drma 
gogues of the day, who divide between thera the 
power of Pericles and the popularity of Cleon, and 
puzzle the poor Waywode with perpetual differences, 
agreed in the utter condemnation, " nulla virtutc 
redemptum," of the Greeks in general, and of the 
Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to haz- 
ard it, knowing, as I do, that there be now in MS. 
no less than five tours of the first magnitude and of 
the most threatening aspect, all in typographical 
array, by persons of wit, and honor, and regular 
common-place books ; but, if I may say this without 
offence, it seems to me rather hard to declare so posi- 
tively and pertinaciously, as almost every body has 
declared, that the jreeks, because they are very 
bad, wiU never be better. 

Eaton and Sonnini have led us astray by .their 
panegyrics and projects ; but, on the other hand, De 
Pauw: and Thoraiton have debased the Greeks be 
yond theii' demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will 
never be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid 
they ever should ! but they may be subjects with- 
out being slaves. Our colonies are not independent, 
but they are free and industrious, and such may 
Greece be hereafter. 

At present like the Catholics of Ireland and the 
Jews throughout the world, and such other cudgelled 
and heterodox people, they suffer all the moral and 
physical ills that can afllict humanity. Their life is 
a struggle against truth ; they are vicious in their 
own defence. They are so unused to kindness, that 
when they occasionally meet with it they look upon 
it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at 
your fingers if you attempt to caress him. " They 
are ungrateful, notoriously, abominably ungrate- 
ful !" — this is a general cry. Now, in the name ol 
Nemesis ! for what are they to be grateful ? Where 
is the human being that ever conferred a benefit on 
Greek or Greeks ? They are to be grateful to the 
Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for their 
broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be 
grateful to the artist who engraves their ruins, and 
to the antiquary who carries them away ; to the 
traveller whose janissary flogs them, and to the 
cribbler whose journal abuses them! This is the 
amount of their obligations to foreigners^ 

II. 

Fratwiscan Convent, Athens, January '23, 1811. 

Among the remnants of the barbarous policy of 
the earlier ages, are the traces of bondage ^vliich yet 
exist in different countries ; whose nhabitants 
however divided in religion and maunei almost all 
agree in oppression. 

The English have at last compassionated vhoir 
Negroes, and under a less bigoted governmert, uiav 
probably one day release their Catholic broth' eu : 
but the interposition of foreigners alone can eman- 
cipate the Greeks, who otherwise, appciu- to have as 
small a chance of redemption from the Turks, as 
the Jews have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; 
at least the younger men of Kurope devoted much 
of their time to the study of the (jreek writers and 
history, which would l)e more usefully spei\t in mus- 
tering their own. Of the moderns, we are perhapa 
mo:e neglectful than they deserve; and while every 
man of any pretensions to leainiug is tiiiu^j out his 



72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



youth, and often his age, in the study of the lan- 
g*iage and )f the harangues of the Athenian dem- 
agogues in favor of freedom, the real or supposed 
descendants of these sturdy republicans are left to 
the actual tyranny of theii- masters, although a very 
slight effort is required to strike off their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their- 
rising again to their pristine superiority, would be 
ridiculous ; as the rest of the world must resume its 
barbarism, after reasserting the sovereignty of 
Greece : but there seems to be no very great obsta- 
cle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their 
becoming an useiul dependency, or even a free state 
with a proper guarantee ; — under correction, howev- 
er, be it spoken, for many and well-informed men 
doubt the practicability evefl of this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though 
they are now more divided in opinion on the subject 
of their probable deliverers. Religion recommends 
the Russians ; but they have twice been deceived 
and abandoned by that power, and the dreadful les- 
Eon they received after the Muscovite desertion in 
the Morea has never been forgotten. The French 
they dislike ; although the subjugation of the rest 
of Europe Avill, probably, be attended by the deliv- 
erance of continental Greece. The islanders look 
to the English for succor, as they have very late- 
ly poFsessed themselves of the Ionian republic, 
Corfu excepted But whoever appear with arms in 
their hands wall be welcome ; and when that day ar- 
rives, Heaven have mercy on the Ottomans, they 
cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, 
and speculating on what they may be, let us look 
at them as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the con- 
trariety of opinions : some, particularly the mer- 
chants, decrying the Greeks in the stroHgest lan- 
guage ; others, generally travellers, turning periods 
in their eulogy, and publishing very curious specula- 
tions grafted on their former state, which can have 
no more effect on their present lot, than the exist- 
ence of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the "nat- 
ural allies of Englishmen;" another, no less ingen- 
ious, will not allow them to be the allies of anybody, 
and denies their very descent from the ancients ; a 
third, more ingenious than either, builds a Greek 
empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes (on 
paper) all the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the 
question of their descent, what can it import whe- 
ther the Mamotes are the linenl Laconians or not .-" 
or the present Athenians as indigenous as the bees 
Df Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, to which they 
once likened themselves ? What Englishman cares 
if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan 
blood ? or who, except a Welshman, isafilicted with 
a desiic of being descended from Caractacus ? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the 
good things of this world, as to render even their 
claims to antiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, 
tiieii, in Mr. Thornton to disturb them in the 
possession of all that time has left them : viz. their 
pe^iigree, of vviuch they are the more tsnacious, as 
it is ctll they can call their own. It would be worth 
T^ti) J to publish together, and compare, the works 
of Messrs. Thornton and I)e Fauw, Eton and Son- 
nini; paradox on one side, and prejudice on the 
other Mr. Thornton conceives hhnself to have 
claims to the piulic confidence from a fourteen years' 
residence at Fera ; perhap-, he may onth*^ subject of 
the Turks, but this can give hiui no more insight 
into the real state of .Greece and her inhabitants, 
inan as many years spent in Wapping into that of 
the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks oi Constantinople live in Fanal ; and 

Mr. Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn 
•nan his brother merchants are accustomed to do. I 
should place no great reliance on his information. 
I uctvally heard one of these gentlemen boast of 
theii little geceril intercourse with the city, and as- 



sert of himself, with an air of triumph, thaj he ha< 
been but four times at Constantinople in as manj 
years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyage in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Groeot' 
as a cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would o\ 
Johnny Grot's house. Upon what grounds, then, does 
he arrogate the right of condemning b) wholesale a 
body of men, of whom he can know little ? It ia 
rather a curious cuxumstance that Mr. Thorn' nn, 
who so lavishly dispraises FouquevJlle, on ever^ ">c 
casion of mentioning the Turks, has yet resouxc* 
to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an 
impartial observer. Now Dr. Fouqueville is as 'itllc 
entitled to that appellation, as Mr. Thornton to con- 
fer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of informa- 
tion on the subject of the Greeks, and in particulai 
their Hterature, nor is there any probability of oai 
being better acquainted, till our intercourse becoma'' 
more intimate, or their independence confirmed ; the 
relations of passing travellers are as little to be de- 
pended on as the invectives of angry factors ; but 
till something more can be attained, we must be 
content with the little to be acquired from similar 
sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are prefeta 
ble to the paradoxes of men who have read super- 
ficially of*the ancients, and seen nothing of the 
moderns, such as De Fauw ; who when he asserts 
the British breed of horses is ruined by Newmarket, 
and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, be 
trays an equal knowledge of English horses and 
Spartan msn. His "philosophical observations" 
have a much better claim to the title of " poeti- 
cal." It could not be expected that he who liber- 
ally condemns some of the most celebrated institu- 
tions of the ancient, should have mercy on the 
modern Greeks : and it fortunately happens, that 
the absurdity of his hypothesis on their forefathers 
refutes his sentence on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that in spite of the prophec-.9S 
of De Fa,uw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there 
is a reasonable hope of the redemption of a race oi 
men, who, whatever may be the errors of their re- 
ligion and policy, have been amply punished by three 
centuries and a half of captivity. 

* 

III. 
AtJiens, Fra?iciscan Cotivetit, Mar. 17, 1811. 

" 1 must have some talk with this learned Theban." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to 
this city, I received the thirty-first number of th« 
Edinburgh Review as a great favor, and certairly 
at this distance an acceptable one, from the captain 
of an English frigate off Salamis. In that number, 



* A word, en passant, with Mr. Tlioriitou and Dr. PoiKiw-^vi;!,;, wh» 
iiave been g'uilty kHweeii them of sadly dipping the Sviluii's i'urkish. 

Dr. Pouqiieville t..-lls a long story of u Mosltiu whu swallow."! corruaiv9 
siibliniale in such qu.mtities that he acquired t)ie n.'iue of " Siilty.iian 
Yei/»n," i. e. quoth the Doctor " Suteyiiian, the eater of (xyrronire »*'♦* 
mcUe." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thorulou, (mgry witl the Doctor fi.r IM 
fiftieth time,) " have 1 cauglu you ? "— Th' n, in a note twiow tjie ihickneta o. 
the Doctor's anecdote, he questions the Doctor's proficency in :Jie 'l'iuH»k 
tongue, and liis veracity iu hi» own. — " For," oUssrves Mr. Thornton, {>(<,t, 
i.iflictin'^ on us the tough participle of a 'I'urkisii verb,) '■ It im-ins noihir.^ 
more than Suleyman the eater," and quite cjishiors the bu{ plenienlarj 
" suUitnate." Now both ar- light, and krth are wron/ . !f Mr. Tlj^r-f.^n, 
when he next resides "fourteen years in the. factory," wiJ. ocusuli hU 
Turkish ilictionary, or ask any of his Stamlxiline acqu:unti>..ce, he will 
disc'iver that " Suleyman yeyeti," put tog»'U>er .liscn^etly, n:ean the " Stall- 
lower of sublimate," wilhowl Any " StUeyiiian" ir th- case: '' Sul,y7na" 
signifying "corrosive suUi.'iate," and not lioing a proper ni'i.ie on tliii 
o<x;uiion,'^,dihoujrii it U- an orthodox name enough with die aildition of n. 
.A.fter Mr. Thornton's fnquent hints of prufound Orienudisiri, he might havf 
found tliis out before h<! sang such paiaiis over Dr. Ponqueville. 

Afti-r tl)i8, 1 think " Travellers oersua Factors " shaU be our motto, thougl 
the above Mr. Thornton has condemned " hoc g-'nus oinne," for uiiBti>*e and 
misrepresentation. " Ne Sutor ultra crepidam," " No merchant beyond hk 
bales.' N. B. For the benefit of Mr. Thornton, 



'Suor" ia not a i«up(» 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



73 



,\rt. 3. containing the review of a French transla- 
'ation of Strabo, thore are introduced some remarks 
on the modern Greeks and their literature, with a 
ghort account of Coray, a co-t4-anslator in the French 
version. On those remarks I mean to ground a few 
observations, and the spot where I now write will I 
hop be sufficient excuse for introducing them in a 
work in some degree connected with the subject. 
Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least 
among the Franks, was born at Scio, (in the Review 
Smyrna is stated, I have reason to think, incoi-rect- 
ly,) and. besides the translation of Beccariaand oth- 
er works mentioned by the Reviewer, has published 
a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust the 
assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived 
from Paris ; but the latest we have seen here in 
French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolihogloou.* 
Ccray has recently been involved in an unpleasant 
controTf-rsy with M. Gail,t a Parisian commentator 
and editor of some translations from the Greek 
poets, in consequence of the Institute having 
awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates 
*< TLf./A uc'iTcov^" &c., to the disparagement, and con- 
sequently displeasure of the said Gail. To his ex- 
ertions literary and patriotic great praise is un- 
doubtedly due, but a part of that praise ought not 
to be withheld from the two brothers Zosimado, 
(merchants settled m Leghorn,) who sent him to 
Paris, and maintained him' for the express purpose 
of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the mod- 
ern, researches of his countrymen. Coray, how- 
ever, is not considered by his countrymen equal to 
tome who lived in the two last centuries ; more par- 
ticularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hellenic 
.^^ritings are s-o much esteemed by the Greeks that 
Meletius terms him, ♦' Mc-u rdi/ e^u'.uJtJfjj' /c.u E^i-o- 
(Pwira api.7Tos 'EAAjjvwi/." (P. 224 Ecclesiastical His- 
tory, vol. 4.) 

Panagiotes, Kodrikas, the translator of Fonte- 
nelle, and Kamarases, who translated Ocelhis Lu- 
canus on the Universe into French, Christodoulus, 
and more particularly Psalida, whom I have con- 
versed with in .Toannina, are also in high repute 
among their literati. The last-mentioned has pub- 
lished in Romaic and Latin a work on " True Hap- 
piness," dedicated to Catherine II. But Polyzois, 
who is stated by the Reviewer to be the only m->d- 
ern except Coray who has distinguished himself h) 
a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lam- 
panitziotes of Yanina, who has published a number 
of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less 
than an itinerant vender of books ; with the con- 
tents of which he had no concern beyond his name 
on the title-page, placed there to secure his prop- 
erty in the publication ; and he was, moreover, a 
man utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. 
As the name, however, is not uncommon, some 
other Polyzois may ha^•p edited the Epistles of Aris- 
taeuetus. 

It is be regretted that the system of continental 
blockade has closed the low chauuels through which 
the Greeks received tlieir publications, particularly 
Venice and Trieste. Even the common gramuiars 
for children are become too dear for the lower orders. 
Amongst their original works the Geography of 
Mi.'lclius, Archbishop of Athens, and a miiltitude 
•of theological (piartos and poetical pani])hlets, are 
to oe met with; their grammars and lexicons of 
two, three, and four languages, are numerous and 
excelkr. ,. Tlieir poetry is in rhyme. The most 
lingular piece I have lately seen is a satire in dia- 



I ha»'- lii'my poMiwiuii au escellom liHxicoit ' Toly X(0tr70i' ' wliicli I 
R'cmv.5.1 in i-xchiinffr from S. (i—— , I0*|., for !i miiiijl ^in : my nnllqiiitriiui 
Wi'inln liRvr iifver forp''.«iiii il, jr I'org'ivcii rnn. 

1 III (i.iil'ii |).ii^|ihl< t .i);iuiia* Cdniy, Ic* talku of " thmwiiig tlin IiikiIpiiI 
nnlienimu ou'. of the winiluwi." On Ihii ii Freiinli critic cxcliiimii, " Ah, my 
Bixl I Ihruw an Hellenists out of Ihi" wlnilnw I wli.il Hiicrileire I " It ci'rtuiiily 
Ifonlii lie II •<!rii>u» liunliieiis for l)i<we mitlioM wlio .Iwoll in tlii> iitticn : Iml 1 
M.»e qiKHeil ttie piu*ii)|ri< mnrely to pmTt- the »iiiiil.<jily of ntyle miiDiitr ilie 
lomruvcrj<>''><U of nil polU'- nt cuunlriea; Lu<iiluii or Kiliiibuii/h umlii h.irtUy 
•«railH thlH t'lirlsluu elxillltiuti. 

;o 



logue between a Russian, English, and French 
traveller, and the Waywode of Wallachia, (or 
Blackbey, as they term him,) an archbishop, a mer- 
chant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in succes- 
sion ; to all of whom under the Turks, the \ATitei 
attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs 
are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes 
generally unpleasing to the ear of a Frank : the 
best is the famous " Aevre nalSti -oji' 'EiXXiii'Mr," by 
the unfortunate Riga, But from a catalogue ol 
more than sixty authors, now before me, only fif- 
teen can be found who have touched on any theme 
except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek oJ 
Athens, named Marmarotouri, to make arrange 
ments, if possible, for printing in London a trans- 
lation of Barthelemi's Anacharsis in Romaic, as he 
has no other opportunity, unless he despatches the 
MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at 
Hecatonesi; and suppressed at the instigation ol 
Sebastian! : he means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, 
Haivali ; a town on the continent, where that insti- 
tution for a hundred students and three professors 
still exists. It is true that this establishment was 
disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext 
that the Greeks were constructing a fortress instead 
of a college ; but, on investigation, and the pay- 
m.ent of some purses to the Divan, it has been per- 
mitted to continue. The principal professor, named 
Ueniamin, (i. e. Benjamin,) is stated to be a man 
of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in Les- 
bos, stufiied in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, 
Latin, and some Frank languages ; besides a smat 
tering of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter farther or 
this topic than may allude to the article in question, 
I cannot but observe that the Reviewer's lamenta 
tion over the fall of the Greeks appears singular, 
when he closes it with these words : " The cha/u/e is 
to be attributed to their piisfortwnes rather than tc 
any ^physical depredation.'" It may be trixe that 
the Greeks are not physically degenerated, and tha. 
Constantinople contained, on the day it changed 
masters, as many men of six feet and upwards as in 
the hour of prosperity ; but ancient history and 
modern politics instruct us that something more 
than physical perfection is necessary to preserve a 
state in vigor and independence ; and the Greeks, 
in particular, are a melancholy example of the neat 
connection between moral dogredatiou and nationa 
decay. ^ 

The Re^newer mentions a plan *' tee bc/ieve by 
Potemkin for the purification of the Romaic, anH 1 
have endeavored in vain to prooure any tidings or 
traces of its existence. ' There was an academy in 
St. Petersburgh for the Greeks ; but it was sup- 
pressed by Paul, and has not been revived by hia 
successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a 
slip of the pen, in p. -58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh 
Review, where these words occur: — ""Wc are toUl 
that when the capital of the East yielded to So/y- 
man'" — it may be presumed that this last word wii», 
in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet IL*— • 



• 111 II former niimhfr of tlie Ktiinlnirg-h Ueview, IHOS, it i« ol»»pr»«xii 
" Ijonl Uyi-oii piisseil »omo of his early yi-.ir» in Scotlimil, wlii-re Iw iiil^hl 
hiive learii'-il thiit ^ihrocA (looH not meim a bagpipe, any nior< ihiin dwjt 
means nJkMlK." tiiiery, — Was il In .'<cotliin>l lliut ihi» ydunB- )n*>.ll<"'*'n oJ 
{.\v KiliiiliMfgh Rovlew lenrmd tha; iSWyinan means Mahonttt II. uty mtit 
tliun eriticinn means in/alUbility '—lull thus It is, 

" Cvilimus inqiie vicein prelieiuiis crum • ifrittis.*' 
'Pile inistike seemed so ctuiiplelrly a laji&e o( the (x-n (frnm the fcrrwi Hmi- 
Uirity of ihe two vvor.ls, ami the loM altttnc* q.f error from (he for.net 
piijrns ol llie lilemry leviathan) that I should have piissetl il over as in iIm 
ti'Xt. had I not pereeiv.tl in the Kdiulinrjrh Kevlow much liicelinii c«u lalioo 
on all »uch ilutt^lions, particularly a rrcoiit one, where words ami syiluUBi 
an* siitijecu of rtiM|uiiiitioii ami tmnsi>ogltlon ; and llm aUiV'-m.-iuioiHi^ 
panilU I jiiismijre in my own cane Irreslstilily propelled me to liiiil how itiviet 
easier >'. Is to In- ciillcid iJian correct. 1'he gmUtnun, h.iviiiK ciijovsl ritaay 
a. IritH ipli on sik'h vicumet, will li.inll\ U.>, -ii li>r iii<- a * Ivtii .xsiAiin H» (•« 



74 



BYRON'S »\^ORKS. 



the "ladies of Constantinople," it seems, at that 
Deriod spoke a dialect, " which would not have dis- 
graced the lips of an Athenian " I do not know 
Kow that might be, but am son-y to say the ladies 
in general, and the Athenians in particular, are 
much altered ; being far from choice either in their 
dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race are 
Oarbarous to a proverb : 

*• SL AOr)va nporri %a>pa 
Ti yaiSapuvs rpe^eig Tojpa." 

In Gibbon, vol, x. page 161, is the following sen- 
tence : — " The vulgar dialect of the city was gross 
and barbarous, though the compositions of the 
church and palace sometimes affected to copy the 
purity of the Attic models." Whatever may be as- 
serted on the subject, it is difficult to conceive that 
the " ladies of Constantinople," in the reign of the 
last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Com- 
nena wrote three centuries before : and those royal 
pages are not esteemed the best models of composi- 
tion, although the princess yXiOTraf eixs" AKPIBSIS 
ArTiKi^ovaap. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the 
best Greek is spoken : in the latter there is a flour- 
ishing school under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who 
is making a tour of observation through Greece : he 
is intelligent, and better educated than a fellow- 
commoner of most colleges. I mention this as a 
proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dormant 
among the Greeks. 

The Re^aewer mentions IVIr. Wright, the author 
of the beautiful poem " Horae lonicai," as qualified 
9(t give details of these nominal Romans and de- 
generate Greeks, and also of their language; but 
Mr Wright, though a good poet and an able man, 
has made a mistake where he states the Albanian 
dialect of the Romaic to approximate nearest to the 
Hellenic : for the Albanians speak a Romaic as no- 
toriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or 
the Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, next to 
the Fanal, the Greek is purest,) although the capi- 
tal of Ali Pacha's dominions, is not in Albania but 
Eph'us ; and beyond Delvinachi in Albania proper, 
up to Argyrocastro and Te])aleen, (beyond which I 
did not advance,) they speak worse Greek than even 
the Athenians, I was attended for a year and a 
half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose 
mother tongue is lUyric, and I never heard them or 
their countrymen (whom I have seen not only at 
home, but to the amount of twentj' thousand in the 
army^f Vely Pacha), praised f>r their Greek, but 
often laughed at for their provincial bai'barisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, 
among which some from the Bey of Corinth, writ- 
ten to me by Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others 
by the di-agoman of the Caimacam of the Morea, 
(which last governs in Vely Pacha's absence,) are 
Baid to be favorable specimens of their epistolary 
style. I also received some at Constantinople from 
private persons, written in a most hyperbolical 
Ityle, but in the true antique character. 

The Re^•iewer proceeds, after some remarks on 
the tongue in 'ts past and present state, to a para- 
dox (page 59) on the great mischief of the knowl- 
edge cf his own language has done to Coray, who. 
It apems, is less likely to understand the ancient 
Greak, because he is perfect master of the modern ! 
This observation follows a paragraph, recommend- 
ing, in explicit tern\s, the study of the Romaic, as 
♦* a powerful auxiliary," not only to the traveller 
and foreign merchant, but also to the classical 
scholar ; in short, to every body except the only 
person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its 
uses ; and by a parity of reasoning, our old language 
is conjectured to 1 e probably more attainable by 
"foreigners," than by ourselves! Now I 'am in- 
jlined to think, that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue 
'albeit himself < f Saxon blood) would be sadly 
^rplexed with •' Sir Tristrem," or any other given 



" Auchinleck MS. ' with or without a gijamiax oi 

glossary ; and to most apprehensions it seeiua 
evident that none but a native can acquire a com 
petent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete 
idioms. We may give the critic credit for his 
ingenuity, but no more believe him than we do 
Smollet's Lismahago, who maintains that the 
purest EngLsh is spoken in Edinburgh. That 
Coray may err is very possible ; but if he does, the 
fault is in the man rather than in his mother 
tongue, which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest 
aid to the native student. — Here the Reviewer pro- 
ceeds to business on Strabo's translators, and heic 
I close my remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aber- 
deen, Dr. Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr Gell, Mr. 
Walpole, and many others now in England, have 
all the requisites to furnish details of this fallen 
people. The few observations 1 have ofiered I 
should have left where I made them, had not the 
article in question, and above all the spot where I 
read it, induced me to advert to those pages, which 
the advantage of my present situation enabled me 
to clear, or at least to make the attempt. 

I have eiideavored to waive the personal feelings, 
which rise in despite of me in touching upon any 
part of the Edinbmgh Review ; not from a \nsh 
to conciliate the favor of its wiiters, or to cancel 
the remembrance of a syllable I have formerly pub- 
lished, but simply from a sense of the impropriety 
of mixing up private resentments with a disqusition 
of the present kind, and more particularly at this 
distance of time and place. 



1 



ADDITIONAL NOTE, ON THE TUKKS. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been 
much exaggerated, or rather have considerably 
diminished of late years. The Mussulmans have 
been beaten into a kind of sullen civility, very 
comfortable to voyagers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of 
Turks and Turkey ; since it is possible to live 
among them twenty years without acquiring infor- 
mation, at least from themselves. As far as my 
own slight experience carried me I have no com- 
plaint to make ; but am indebted for niany civilities, 
(I might almost say for friendship,) and mucn 
hospitality, to Ali Pacha, his son Yeli Pacha of the 
Morea, and several others of high rank in the 
provinces. Suleyman Aga, late Governor of Athens, 
and now of Thebes, was a bo?i vivant, and as social 
a being as ever sat cross-logged at a tray or a table. 
During the carnival, when our English party were 
masquerading, both himself and his successor were 
more happy to "receive masks" than an) dowager 
in Grosvenor square. 

On one occasion of his suj^piBg at the convent, 
his friend and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, wa« 
carried from table perfectly qualified for any olub in 
Christendom ; while the worthy Waywode himseli 
triumphed in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, 1 
ever found the strictest honor, the highest disinter- 
estedness. In transacting business with them, 
there are none of those dirty pecuhitions, under 
the name of interest, difference of exchange, com- 
mission, &c., t^c, uniformly found in applying to a 
Greek consul to cash bills, even of the first houses 
in Pera. 

With regard to presents, an established custom 
in the East, you will rarely find yourself a loser; 
as one worth acceptance is generally returned by 
another of similar value — a horse, or a shawl. 

In thr oapital and at court the citizens and 
courtiers are formed in the same scliool with th ose 
of Christianity ; but there does not exist a n ore 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGl!.. 



7c 



nouorable, friendly, and high spiiited character i mans, and worse Christians ; at present we unite th 
than the true Turkish provmcial Aga, or Moslem | best of both— jesiiitical faith, and something aot 



country geutleuian. it is not meant here to desig- 
nate tne governors of towns, but those Agas who, 
oy a kind of feud.M tenui-e, possess lands and houses, 
of more or less extent in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as 
the rabole 'u countries with greater pretensijns to 
civilization, A Moslem, in walking the streets of 
our couutiy-towns, would be more incommoded in 
England than a Frank in a similar situation in 
TurKey. Regimentals are the best travelling di-ess. 

The best accounts of the religion, and different 
Beets of Islamism, may be found in D'OUison's 
French; of their manners, 6:c., perhaps in Thorn- 
ton's English. The Ottomans, with all their 
defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, at 
least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the 
Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what 
they are, we can at least say what they are rtot : 
they are not treacherous, they are rwi cowardly, 
they do not burn heretics, they are 9iot assassins, 
nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They 
are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to 
govern, and devout to their God without an inquisi- 
tion. Were they driven from St. Sophia to-morrow, 
and the French or Russians enthroned in their 
stead, it would become a question, whether Europe 
would gain by the exchange ? England would cer- 
tainly be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are 
so generally, and sometimes justly accused, it may 
be doubted, always excepting France and England*, 
in what useful points of knowledge they are 
excelled by othei nations. Is it ui the common 
arts of life ? in their manufactures ? Is a Turkish 
sabre inferior to a Toledo ? or is a Turk worse 
clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, than a Span- 
iaid i Are their Pachas worse educated than a 
Grandee ? or an Etfendi than a Knight of St. Jago. 
L think not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, 
asking whether my fellow-traveller and myself were 
m the upper or lower House of Parliament. Now 
this question froi* a boy of ten years old proved that 
his education had not been neglected. It may be 
doubted if an English boy at tliat age knows the 
ditference of the Divan from a College of Dcrvises ; 
out I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little 
Mahiaout, surrounded, as he had been entirely by 
his Turkish tutors, has learned that there was such 
a thing as a Parlianuent it were useless to conjecture, 
unless we suppose that his instructors did not con- 
line his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, 
which are very regularly attended ; and the poor are 
taught without the chui'ch of i'urkey being put into 
peril. I believe the system is not yet printed ; 
(though there is such a thing as a Turkish press, 
and books printed on the late military institution of 
the Xiiiam Gedidd ;) nor h;ive 1 heard wliether the 
Mufti and the Mollas have subscribed, or the Caima- 
cam, and the Telterdar taken the alarm, for fear the 
Ingenious youth of the turban should be tauglit not 
to " pray to God their way." 'I'lie Greeks also — a 
kind of Eastern Irish papists — have a college of 
their own at Maynooth — no, at Haivali ; where the 
heterodox receive much the same kind of counte- 
nance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college trom 
the linglish legislature. Who shall then affirm that 
the Turks are ignorant bigots, when they thus 
evince the exact proportion of Christian charity 
which is tolerated in the most prosperous and ortho- 
dox of all possible kingdoms ? But, though they 
jillow all this, they will not suiFer the Greeks to 
participate in their privileges; no, let the. n fight 
their battles, and pav thcu hariitch, (ta:icsj be 
drubbed in this world, and damned in the next. 
And shall we then emancipate our Irish Helots? 
Mah.om»t forbid ! Wo should then be bad Mussul- 



much inferior to Turkish toleration. 



APPENDIX. 

Among an enslaved people, obliged to have re- 
course to foreign presses even for their books of re- 
ligion, it is less to be Avondered at that we find so 
few publications on general subjects than that we 
find any at all. The whole number of the Greeks, 
'-•cattered up and down the Turkish empire and 
elsewhere, may ainount,^ at most, to three millions ; 
and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible to dis- 
cover any nation with so great a proportion of books 
and their authors, as the Greeks of the present 
century. ** Ay," but say the generous advocates of 
oppression, who, while they assert the i'gnurance of 
the Greeks, wish to prevent them fi-om dispeiling it, 
"ay, but these are mostly, if not all, eclesiastical 
tracts, and consequently good for nothing." Well, 
and pray what else can they •vA'rite abo tit ? It ia 
pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an 
Englishman, who may abuse the government of his 
own country ; or a Frenchman, who may abuse ev 
ery government except his own, and who may rr.uge 
at Will over every philosophical, religious, scieniL'io, 
skeptical, or moral subject, sneering at the Greek 
legends. A Greek must not write on politics, and 
cannot touch on science for want of instruction ; if 
he doubts, he is excommunicated «ind damned : 
therefore his countrymen are not poisoned with 
modern philosophy ; and as to morals, thanks to 
the Turks ! there are no such things. What then 
is left him, if he has a turn for scribbling ? Reli^ 
ion, and holy biography ; and it is natural enough 
that those who have so little in this life should look 
to the next. It is no great wonder then that in a 
catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, 
many of whom were lately living, not above fifteen 
should have touched on any thing but religion. 
The catalogue alluded to is contained in the twen- 
t\'-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Meletius'a 
Ecclesiastical History. From this I subjoin an ex 
tract of those who have written on general sub- 
jects ; which will be followed by some specimens of 
the Romaic. 



LIST OP KOMAIC AUTHOllS." 

Neophitus Diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, 
has published an extensive grammer, and also some 
political regulations, which' last were left unfinished 
at his death. 

Prokopius of Moscopolis, (a town in Epirus,)ha8 
written and published a catalogue of the learned 
Greeks. 

Soraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many 
works in the Turkish language, but Greek ch;u-ac« 
ter ; for the Christians of Caramania, who do not 
speak Romaic, but read the character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Buch;u-est, a physiciait, 
made the tour of England for the ptir])ose of study 
Xiip**' /io'^'iffiws) : but though his name is enumer 
ated, it is not stated that he has written any tiling 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of t\)nstantino 
pie : many i)oems of his ;uv extant, and also prost 
tracts, and a catalogue of patriai-chs since the last 
taking of Constantinople. 

Auastasius Maccdon. of Naxos, member of th« 
royal academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 



h li to b)> olwirvwl, ihiil the niuT>o« given ore not In aiiruimlnpt'il i'M«» 
Init oniaiit uf innie wIi-cIimI iU n Tt-iit'irvt Iruin luniiny; thoaO «'Uu S^oiWlrt 
ban tiw Uikinf uf C'oii»luutinu|>le k> llie unia I.4 Mel(<tiii». 



f6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written 
many works, particularly " A Commentary on He- 
siod's Shield of Hercules," and two hundred tales, 
(of what is not specified,) and has published his 
correspondence -v^dth the celebrated George of Trebi- 
Bond, his contemporary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author of 
the book from whence tliese notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an A-ristoteiian philoso- 
pher : his Hellenic works are in great repute, and, 
he is esteemed by the moderns (I quote the Avords 

of Meletius) /^cra tov QovKVcinnv kuI 'E.svoipdura apis-oi 

*EXXfiv;i. I add further, on the authority of a well- 
mformed Greek, that he was so famous among his 
countrymen, that they were accustomed to say, if 
Xhucydides and Xenophon were wanting, he was 
capable of repairing the loss. 

Marinus Count Thurboures, of Cephalonia, pro- 
fessor of chemistry in the academy of Padua, and 
member of that academy, and those of Stockholm 
and Upsal.. He has published, ut Venice an ac- 
count of some mai'ine animal, and a treatise on the 
properties of iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechan- 
ics. He has removed to St. Petersburg the immense 
rock on which the statue of Peter the Great was 
fixed in 1769. See the dissertation which he pub- 
lished in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantine has published a four-tongued 
lexicon. 

George Ventote; a lexicon in French, Italian, 
and Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin 
and Romaic, French, &c., besides grammars in 
every modern language, except English. 
. Among the living authors the following are most 
celebrated : — * 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhet- 
oric in Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in 
Vienna, some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodi'ikas, an Athenian, the Romaic 
translator of Fontenelle's "Plurality of Worlds," 
(a favorite work amongst the Greeks,) is stated to 
be a teacher of the Hellenic and Arabic laivguages 
in Paris ; in both of which he is an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on 
rhetoric. 

Vicenj50 Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written 
««£iV -<J ixEuoSipSaoov," on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated 
into French Ocellus on the Universe. He is said 
to be an excellent Hellenist, and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a 

feographical work : he has also translated several 
talian authors, and printed his versions at Venice. 
Of Coray and Psalida some account has been 
already given. 



GREEK WAR SONG.f 

1. 

AEY TE, traiSis ruiu 'EXXfivoVf 
b Kaipos rfis S'o^rii riXdev, 

Aj (pavoJixei> a^ioi cxeivoiv 
nov lias Scoffiiv rfiv dpxfiv 

As TarfiaciJiJiev duSpeiois 
Tov ^vyov rns Tvpavt'idof. 

Kiide dviiSoi aiaxp6v. 

Ta onXa as Xa6u)pev 

iralScs 'EXAi7i'a)J/, ayuiiitv. 

TlorapLiiov Ix^P^^ tu alfia 
as Tpe^T) vno rro^wj/. 



^ Ttcae namei are not Uken from aiiy put 'cation. 
t A tnuulation of thia lonf will be fouua unouj; the 
NP539. 



•mailer Poema in 



2. 

OOev tiade rcji' 'EAXncofO 

KOKKaXa dv6pEt(jL)pEva ; 
Uvcinara iaKopiriapivay 

TOJpa XdSere npofiv ; 
X Tiii> (pcjvijv rrjs (raX-riyyis MOO 

avvaxdnTE oXa ofioii, 
V),v iirruXo<j}ov ^rireTre, 
Kal viKare irpo iravrov 
Tut oTcXa as XaSuipev, eta. 



XK&pra Hirdpra, ri K'n(ia(rat 

^vov Xfjdapyuvy Padvv; 
^VTTvriauvy Kpa^t ASfivas, 

avppa\ov iravTOTtiufiv, 
^EvBvpfi'a-oi} Ji.£(tjvi6ov 

ripcoos rov ^UKavrov, 
TOV dvSpiis iiraivSfxipoVf 

(puSenov Kai rpopepov, 
Ta onXa is XagcjueVf etc 



"O irov fit J Tas Qep^oirvXae 

jrSXefiov avrds Kporel, 
Kai Tovs Ilepaas d'pavH^ei 

Kal aVTMV KuraKpareT 
M£ rpuiKoaiovs av6pas, 

eis ro Kevrpov »rpoxw/j£r, 
Ka\, wf Atwi/ ^viKOjthus, 

eis TO a7pd rwi/ (iovTEi. 
Ta birXa as Xd6oiii&v, etc 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS 

Pc<5(Tfl-(»f, 'AyyXos, Ka\ TdXX'iS KapivovTCS ffiP ncpi^y.i«K 
rfjs 'EXXaS'St '^'"'' PXtnovres rriv ddXiav rriv K'trdsT'iaiv 
eipojTTiaav KaTapx<is '^va FpaiKOv (pi^'cXXriva Siiivd fiafiovt 
rlif airiav, per airov Iva prirpo-troXirriu, elra epa /SXay- 
uTTinv, £TT£iTa ivi itpuypaT£VTt]v Kai 'iva -npoearMTa. 

EiVf pas, ox (ftiXeXXriva, rrcos (pipeis rfiv (TKXaSiav 
Kai Tiif diraprtyopriTOV roiv TovpXcov rvpavviuVf 
ncos rats ^vXais Kai vSpiapovs Kai aiSnpjSEffjjiav 
rraiiov, TrapOtvotv^ yvvaiKayv avfiKOvcrroi' (jjQopeXav 
6.iv elXO' itrets drrSyovoi ekeivuv ruv 'EXXfivtov 
Tcov £}'evO'-pu)v Kai Tixpoyv Kai Taif (piXunarptSoiv 
Kai TTuJs £K£Tvoi diriBvrtaKov y\d rriv eXevtiEpiav. 
Kai To'}pa iff EIS vnoKEiade eis TEToiav TvpapviaVj 
Kill TToTnn yivos wj iffETs Eorddri <l)(j)Tiap£vov 
eis r))v a-ycpiitv, dvvaixiv, eis k' iiXa ^a/coixr^iSj/ov 
irws ''V'' EKuraarnffaTE rnv (p(jiTivr)v EAAdJa. 
(jafya! ix)s Ei-'a oKEXtOp'tv, ojj ffKoreiviiv Xapinditw 
OpiXei, (biXraTe VpaiKi, eini pas rfiv airrav 

111] KpVTtTTIS TITTOTES ^//WJ/, Xv£ TTIV OLITopia^ 



•O <t>IAE'AAHNO? 

TMiTa-<iyyXo-ydXXot, 'EAAnif, Kai Sxi iXAtif 

t^Tov, MS Xire, -noaov peydXri. 
vvv f)E d'dXia, Kai di/a^ia 
bi<p ov iipxif^Ev T] dpadia. 
Jo-' rinnopoHirai' vd rijv Jvirvijo-jj 
TovT^ ciri ro x^^pov rriv bSriyovo'i. 
avri] ffTEvd^ei, rd TEKva Kpa^eif 
crd vd npoKdiTTuvv oXa Trpoard^cif 
Kai rdr* EArrt^ti flirt KE^J^it^et 
svpeTv ekeTvo mv rfif 0Ao>'i^£i. 
Ma otTTis ToXiinaei vd ri]v i\tnnr\af 
viyfii arov aditv xoipii riva «p(<r(« 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGiS. 



77 



The above 16 ehe commenoement of a long dra- 
matic satire on the Greek priesthood, princes, and 
gentry : it is crntemptible as a composition, but 
perhaps cr.rious as a specimen of their rhyme ; I 
have the whole in MS. but this extract will be found 
sufficient. The Romaic in this composition is so 
easy as to render a version an insult to a scholar ; 
but' those who do not imderstand the original will 
excuse the following bad translation of what is in 
itself indifferent. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman making 
the tour cf Greece, and observing the miserable 
state of the country, interrogate, in turn, a Greek 
Pati-iot, to learn the cause ; afterwards an Arch 
hisho]), then a Ylackbey 
Ba hi or Primate. 



a Merchant, and Cogia 



Thou friend of thy country ! to strangers record 

'A'hy b«'ar ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord ? 

Why bear ye these fetters thus tamely display'd. 

The wi-ongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid? 

The descndants of Hellas's race are not ye ! 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung from the blood of the noble and brave, 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave ! 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boaaj| 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost ! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour, 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase. 

Oh shameful dishonor ! the dar.kness of Greece ? 

Then tell us, beloved Achaean ! reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not trans- 
lated, as it is no better than the question of the 
travelling triumvirate ; and the above will stilfi- 
ciently show with what kind of composition the 
Greeks are now satisfied. I trust I have not much 
iniured the original in the few lines given as faith- 
fully, and as near the 

" Oh, Miss Biiiley 1 unfortunate Miss Bailey I '' 

measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. 
Almost all their pieces, above a song, which aspire 
to the name of poeti-y, contain exactly the quantity 
of feet of 

" A captain bold of Hulifiuc, who lircd in country quaitbn," 

which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the 
Romaic. 



SCENE FROM 'O KA.fENE'S 

T&ANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI, 
BY 8PE)ar>I0N VLANTI. 

XKHNH Kr 

nA.AT2|TAA €(j rfjv irSpTav rotJ x"*""''* ^al ol avcjdev, 

IlAA ''O, 6ce.' dnn rd TrapnOvpi pov ifavri va aKovaio 
riiv ipwkfiv Tuv dvSpdi pov av avrds elvai iSoi, [(pOaaa at 
uaipdv vi Tdv levrpontdaui. [Evyaivet Ivai (JoCAwj and 
rd cpyiiiTTfjfii.l YlnXiKiiptf nii pov, at irapaKaXd), iroioi 
tlvMi Ixst £('$ iKcivovf mvf dvrdSes } 

AOYA TpeTf xpr><Ti^fli avipcf. Efoj h icip F^vylvtoi 
i iXXoi b xip MiipTtioi Ncan-MXiracof, xai b rpirot b Kvp 
Kd^re \i^v6poi ApSlvrrji. 

IIAA. Avapeaa eif avrnif Hv elva, b <t\ap(vios, a 
Ifico; fiiv aXXa^ey Svopa. 

ARA. Nd ^g j KoXf) tUxi toU xHp Evycvlov, [Illvwy- 



'OAOI. Na ^TJ, va ^0. 

IIAA. Avroi clvai b av^pai pO\ X.^pli aAAo. K.aAi 
avBoojiTE, K'ipi pov r^v x^oiv va pi avvrpofrvaiis tifravd 
fit's avrovi Tovs dipei/TuSeif brov ^tXu) va tovs irai^o} pia» 
[lip OS Tov 6i>vXov.'] , 

AOY. 'Opiapos <raj* (avvridiapivov dcfxpiKiov rdv Jo* 
XevT(^v.) [T^i/ ipird!^£i and to epyaarfipi tov KOiyviSioi,^ 

PiA. Kap^iii, Kap6ta, Kapers KaXiiv Kap^iav, 6iv etva\ 
TiTrnres. [Hpog ttjv BtrT(5pi»ii/.] 

BIT. ''Eyui aiadavupai ttcSj aTrsdaivo}. 'JEviipxtrai ti' 
TOV lavrdv rijj.] 

f A-d rh napddvpa roiv dvTaSoiv ({>aivovTat oXoi, S-roi 
ariKdvoivrai 'dizo to TpaTrtZ.i jvj' x '"'/'' ^>""> (5'a riv 
\a(pviafidv tov AedvSpov ^XirrMVTas nfjv TlXaTOitt 
Kai Siarl airos Seixvsi tws SiXei va ~i;v ioi'svati ] 

EYr. "Oxh <TTadfJT£. 

MAP. Mt}v KapvcTC 

AEA XfiK('), (puye drr' iSoi. 

IIAA. BofiOsta, 0ofideia. [^svyti dirfi ttjv aKJiAav, i 
AiavSpoi ^IXei va Tfjv UKoXovdriarj pi to airaoOl, xai b E6 
TOV SaaTa."] 

TPA. [Me eva irinTO pi <pnyi eig piav ners^eTa rr/ca dir» 
TO TrapaOvpi, Kal cpevysi eis tov KUipevi.] 

[IIAA. 'Evyaivei and to epyarrrfipi tov naiyviSiov rpi- 
X('>'>T(ii, Kul fEvyEt Eti TO xai^'O 

[EYr. Mt 'dptiaTa eis to x^pt itp^s 6iaij>EVTEvaiv t^j 
nXiiTl^tSas, EvavTiov tov AsavSpov, dnov Tr\v KaTaTptxa-) 

[MAP. KvyaivEi Ka\ airos (Tiyii aiya diro rd tpyaiTT^pt 
Kol ipEvyEi XeyojvTas' Rumores fupe.] [Povp6pEs (pevyE.]* 

[Oi AovXoi dnd to ipyaaTnpi duEpvovv eis i"" X<i'"j **i 
kXekivv Tfjv irdpTav.] 

[BIT. MivEi Eis t6v Kac^Evi fioridripEvri dnd tov FiSdX- 

(1)0V.] 

AEA. ^6a£T£ T^TTOV ^eX'ji) va XIjScJ vol EpScO EIS EKE'lVt 

rd xdvi. [Me to aTradl sis to x£p( evuvtiov tov Evyiviov.\ 
EYr. "Ox(, pfi ytvoiTO vote' Elaai has aKXripoKapSof 

Evavriov Trjs yvvaiK^s aov, KOi iyui ^eXel Tr]v Sia<p£VTsiaa 

cos Ets rd varEpov a7pa. 

AEA. yii)V KOLnvu) SpKov irfjs ^eXei to pETavoicoariSt 

[Kvvriya Tdv Evyivinv pi to aTraOi,] 
EYr. Alv ai (poSovpai. [Kararpex ' '''^^ AiavSpou^ 

Kal nov /Sia^Et va avpdr, oniaoi T6rov, Sttov EvpiaKcovrai 

dvoiKTOv TO (TTTJjrt Tfjs X''Pfi''"i<''as> ^P^' '>*£' ^'c avTOf xal 

acovETat.] 

TRANSLATION. 
Platzida from the Door of the Hotel and the Others. 

Pla. Oh God ! from the window \ seemed that I 
heard my husband's voice. If he ia here, I have 
arrived in time to make him ashamed. [A Sercani 
enters from the Shop.] Boy, tell me, pray, who are 
in those chambers. 

Serv. Three gentlemen : one, Signer Eugenio ; 
the other, Signor Martio, the Neapolitan; and the 
third, my Lord, the Count Leander Ardenti. 

P/n. Flaminio is not among these, unless he has 
changed his name. 

Leander. [Within, drinking.} Long live t^ e good 
fortune of Signor Eugenio. 

[The whole Company, Long live, Ike.'] (Liteially, 
Nu Cp/, vd C^, May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my husband. [To 
the Scrv.] My good man, do me the favor to ao 
comi)any me above to those gentlemen ; I hare 
some business. 

Ser^o. At your commands. [Aside.] The old 
office of us waiters. {lie goes out of the Gaming- 
Honse.] 

Ridofjiho. [To Victoria o»» another part of 'k« 
stage] Courage, courage, be of good chcerj it \$ 
nothing. 

Victoria. I feel as if about to die. [Leaning en 
him as if fainting.] 

[From the windows above all wifhtn are aetm 
rising from table in confusion : Leander atarH 



78 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



at the sight of Platzida, and appears by his 
gestures to threaten her life.] 

Bugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don't attempt 

*Leander. Away, fly froTi hence ! 

Pla. Help ! Help ! [flies down the stairs, Lean- 
der attempting to follow xcith his sioord, Eugenio 
hinders him.] 

[Tiappola with a plate of meat leaps over the bal- 
tony from the window, and runs into the Coffee- 
Bouse.] 

[Platzida runs out of the Gaming-House, and 
takes sJielter in the Hotel.] 

[Martio steals softly oiit of the Gaming-House, 
and goes oW, exclaiming " Rum ores fuge." The 
Servants from the Gaming- Hou^e enter the Hotel, 
and shut the door.] 

[Victoria remains in the Coffee-House assisted by 
Riclolpho.J 

[Leander swo^'d in hand opposite Eugenio, ex- 
claims, Give way — I will enter that hotel.] 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a 
scoundrel to your wife, and I will defend her to the 
last drop of my blood. 

Leander. I will give you caiise to repent this. 
[Menacing with his sword.] 

Eugenio. I fear you not. [He attacks Leander, 
and makes him give back so much, that finding the 
door of the dancing girl's house open, Leander es- 
eapes through, and so Jinishes.] * 



AIA'AOroi oi'KIAKOr. Familiar Dialogues. 



Ata va ^rjT^tTTjs sva npdyiia. 

Eaj napaKaXoi, Soacri (is 3v 
bpi^erL 

^ipCTE HE. 

^aveiaeri jie. 

Tlr)yaiv£T£ va i^Jirficsrs. 

Tiopa Evdvs. 

0, dKoiSe, fxov KvpUy kolixets. 

//£ avrfjv TTjv x^P^v. 
Ej/o) aas irapaKuXw, 
Eyo) (ids £iopKiC,(ji. 
Eyo) CT«s TO i,riTO} 6id xapiV' 
X-noxpfcjasTE fxE Eig roaov. 



To ask for any thing. 

1 pray you, give me if you 

please. 
Bring me. 
Lend me. 
Go to seek. 
Now directly. 
My dear Sir, do me this 

favor. 
I entreat you. 
I conjure you. 
I ask it of you as a favor. 
Oblige me so much. 



Aoj/(a EpuiTLKo., )^ dydnris. Affectionate expressions. 



Zwr/ HOV. 

A.Kpi6f} HOV tf/vxV' 
Aya-rrriTE fiov, aKpiSs ftov. 
Kap(^iT(,a HOV. 
Aydnri fxav. 



My life. 
My dear soul. 
My dear. 
My heart. 
My love. 



pay compli- 
id testify re- 



Aidvd£vxapiaTfisr)SyVaKdnvS To thank, 
vipiTToiria-Es, Kal <j>iXiKals ments, ant 
SE^twffEs. gard. 

B}-fa> adi EvxiipidTM. I thank you. 

Eaj yv(aoiX,oi xdpji;. I return you thanks. 

£as fi^ut \)ir6x9Eos Kara noX- I am much obliged to you. 
>a. 



* HuyVETai — "finishes" — awkwardly enoug'h, but it is tiie literal trans- 
lation of tlie Romaic. The original of this conietiy of Goldoni's I never read, 
biit t does not appear one of his best. " II Bngiario " is one of the moat 
lively ; but 1 do not tiiink it hiis been translated into Romaic : it is much 
more amusing than our own " Liar," by Foote. The character ol Lelio is 
tetter drawn than Young Wilding. Goldoni's comedies amount to fifty ; 
(onie perliaps the hest in Europe, and others the worst. His life is also one 
tt the best specimens of antobiography, and, as Gibbon has observed, " more 
dramal i than any of his plays." The above scene was selected as contain- 
Kig some of the most familiar Romaic idioms, not for any wit which it displays, 
(nee there is more done than said, the greater part consisting of stage 
liteutk/sa. Tbe original is one of the few comedies by Goldoui which is 
wtthoirt t^e S Toonery ot the speakinflr Harlequin. 



Eyw HXo) rd Kdfiei li^ra xa- I will do it wi'.h pleastve 

pas 
Me oXrjv /iou rfiv KapSiav. 
Mi i:a\y]v fx<>v KapSiav. 
Hag E^itai vTrSxpEog. 
E?/(a( HXoi iSiKdi aag. 
E?|/a£ SovXoi aai. 
TaiTEivdraroi 6ovX"i. 



ElaTEKard izoXXd evy£VLK6i. 

IIoXAd TTEipd^EffdE. 

To £xoj Sid x^tpi" y^ov vd ads 

SuvXevcroj. 
EicTTE EvyEviKOS Kal evnpoa-- 

fiyop'S. 
AvTO slvai irpEirov. 
Ti ^eXete ; 
Tibpii;£T£; 
Saj napaKaXo) vd ^£ h^tu- 

X^'ipi^EadE eXevBepu. 
Xojpls iTEpiTT'iiriaEs. 
2us dj^affco £^ bXris uov Kup- 

Siag. 
K'dl syco hpniojs. 
TifxriacTE /x£ rais irpoarayaTs 



'M^ 



"B)g^ TLirOTES va /he npoara- 

^ste;^ 
Jlp^'ard^ETE Tov SodX6}i aas. 
WpoaiiEvM Ttts itpoaayds eras. 
Me K'ipt/Ert pEydXrjv Tififiv. 
^ddv'ivvri irEpiKOiricTes ords, 

irapa<aXc3. 
IIpoffKVvfiaEre ek ft^povs pov 

TOV dpXOVra, IJ TOV Kvpiov. 

BsSaiWCTETE TOV JT&JJ TOV EV 

dvpovHai. 
B£6aid)(T£TE TOV TTcJs Tdv dya- 

TTM. 

Aev ^iXoi XEirpei va tdv to 

ElTTcT). 

TUpoaKVvfitiard pov sis tijv 

d/:<X(5j'rtffo-a»/. 
Hriyai'.'£T£ Efiirpojdd Kal cds 

aKoXov^o). 
H^Evpoi KaXdro XP^os pov. 
Hfeiipw TO Elvai pov. 
Me Kd/ivETE vd evrpEiruypai pt 

rais roaaif <piXo<ppu<Tvvais 

QeXete Xotrdv vd Kapoi piav 

dxpEidrrira. 

Yirdyo) Eprrpocrdd Sid vd ads 

VTtaK'vaw. 
Aid vdKdpo) TTjv npoaTayfiv 

aas. 
Aei» dyaTTcJ Tdaais nEpinoi- 

ncxEs. 

Aev Elliai' TEK£l(i>S nEptlTQiriTl- 
KOS. __ 

AvTO slvat rd KaXfirEpov. 

TquoV TO KuXriTEp'JV. 

"E^'^re X6y iv^ ex^'te Sikuiov. 

Aid vd /SE^aiwarjSj vd dpvr}- 
d^S, vd av} KUTav£var]s, ktX. 

"Elvai dXridivdv, slvat dXfi- 

Qiararov. 
Aia vd ads ei-T'o rrjv dXij- 

Oeiov. 
OvTUiS, i'r(,r} uvat. 
Iloios dp(pi6dXXEi ; 
Asv EU'ai TToaios dft^tSoXia. 
To TrtaTevb), Slv rd iriarfvft* 



"With all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Your most humble serv 

ant. 
You are too obliging. 
You take too muck 

trouble. 
I have a pleasure in serv 

ing you. 
You are obliging andkiiid 

That is right. 
What is your pleasure ? 
Wliat are your commands^ 
I beg you will treat mc 

freely. 
Without ceremony . 
I love you with all my 

heart. 
And I the same. 
Honor me with your com 

mands. 
Have you any command •; 

for me ? 
Command your servant. 
I wait your commands. * 
You do me great honor. 
Not so much ceremony 1 

beg. 
Present my respects to 

the gentleman, or his 

lordship. 
Assure him of my reniem 

brance. 
Assiue him of my friend 

ship. 
I vnW not fail to tell hinr 

of it. 
Mv compliments to hei 

ladyship. 
Go before, and I will fol 

low you. 
I well know my duty. 
I know my situation. 
You confound me with b< 

much civility. 

Would you have me then 
be guilty of an incivil- 
ity ? 

I go before to obey you. 

To comply with your com 

mand. 
I do not like so much cer* 

emony. 
I am not at all ceremoni 

Otis, 
This is better. 
So much the better. 
You are in the right. 

To affirm, deny, consent 

It is true, it is very tru^ 
To tell you the truth. 

Really it is so. 
Who doubts it ? 
There is no doubt. 
I believe it, I dc not h« 
lif ve it. 



NOTES TO CHIT.de HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



79 



M)it TO fat • I say yes. 

A£}'w rd dxt- I say no. 

BaXXo) arixri(xa 01 ; elvai. I wager it IS. 

BdAXo) arixrina on Sep elvai. I wager it is not SO. 

Nai, fih rriv nioriv ftov. Yes, by my faith. 

El's rhv avvtiSnoiv jjlov. In conscience. 

Ma T1V scjfiv iiov. By my life. 



Nfiii, afii Ofit 



Yes, I swear it to yon. 



2df duvixo wcTOLv TifATintvos I swear to you as an hon- 

a.vQp<„n:s. est man. 

i»ai dfivi'-y tnavoi} eij ttiv ti- I swear to you on ray 

ufiv fiov. honor. 

IIi(rref#£r£ ,xe. Believe me. 

H.wTwpfj va o-rtj rd ^sSaiditTCj. I can assure you of it. 
H9e\a iSdXri arixr>na 6, ti I would lay what bet you 

3f>rr£ 6ia ruvru. please on this. 

M'.' rvxii Kai dtTTsi^iorde (xo- You jest by chance ? 

fnrevere) ; 
O^tAf t rc fil ra oXa aag ; Do you speak seriously ? 

Eyo) faj 'ojxiXm jxi to. 5\a I speak seriously to you, 

nov, Kai aas Xtyoi Tr\v dXfi- and tell you the truth. 

6eiav. 



Byo) n-(?j TO PeSvtioivci). 

To i-Kjjii<prir£vaeT£. 

Td tKiTcixsTS 

Xaj ■KiarevM. 

Tipiirti va crag nKXTevmo. 

AvTd 6tv eivai divvuTov. 



I assure you of it. 
You have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you. 
I must believe you. 
This is not impossible. 



To Xoindv hi elvai iii KaXfiv Then it is very well. 

Sipav. 
KaAa, kiiXo. 
i^lv tlvai dXiidi 6v. 
Etluai xpsvcci. . 

Ail' eivai rt'ironf dtrd avrd. 
Eij«ai Iva iJjevSos, (xia dirdrr/, 

posture. 
Ey(lid(Trei^oiJLovv(ixopdTCva) I was in joke 
E) cb rd sWaSiix va y£\dtToj. I said it to laugh. 
TjJ dXr}deia. 
Mi. dpcaei Karri noXXd. 
yiuyKaravcvoj lif tovtu. 
Aidio rfjv xi/ijipof fxov. 
\iv di/TiariiKoixat £tj rovro. 



Well, well. 

It is not true 

It is false. 

There is nothing of this. 

It is a falsehood, an im- 



Indeed. 

It pleases me much. 
I agree with you. 
I give my assent. 
I do not oppose this. 



Ei//ot aiijip oji/os, SK (ivfx(^oi- I agree. 

VUV. 

Byw 6lv OiXc). I will not. 

E>d) ivavridjvon i, itg rovro. I object to this. 

^ A«d vd avjxSovXr.iiBiji, va <rro- To consult, consider, or 

Xacdi'ii, >'i va drcii^aaiarii. resolve, 

Tt TTptnci va KOLfiMnEv ) What ought we to do ? 

•Jt 5g xdiiojfAtv ; What shall we do ? 

Ti jjte ffvu^ouXevere va Kdjiw ; What do you advise me 

to do? 
'OnoTov rp6wov ^tXonev nera- What part shall we take ? 

XeifJtfrOf) fi/ieTi f 
"Af K^-iu)i>ev ir^T}. Let US do this. 

tivai Ka>firepov iyo} vd It is better that I 

iriPt^rc dXiyov. Wait a little. 

mv ^,ij:Xcv that KaXfinpov Would it not be better 

vd ; that 

tyiii d}ujr>vaa KaXfirepa. I wish it were better. 

BiX,T£ Kdnei KnXrjTtpa dv — You will do better if 

'A<pf)ncre r)t. Let me go. 

Xv f.fijvi' eit tov t6it'iv o-aj, If I were in your place 

iyCi "— I 

Kviii rd iSinv. It is the same. 

I'he reader by the specimens below will be enabled to 
compare t/ie tnodern with the ancietit tonyne. 

rA.RA.LLEL PASSA-OES FHOM ST. JOHN'S GOSPEL. 
Hf.Dv. AvOevriKdv. 

Ke(f)dX. d, KKipdX. d. 

KVy. riiv dpxfiv Tjrov b 1. 'EN dpxij JJ" h Arfjoj, 
«6) Of » u ft Miyo; ^rov nerd Kai b X6yof ^v nnnf rdv Qsdv, 
9of Ka * I 4( f,r^v b Xdyof, vat Bed( fjv b Xiyof. 



2. 'Erovros fjrov eig t»)j/ t. O^rof rji Iv dpxj -rpa. 
doxhv pcrd Qeov. tov (izo , 

3. "OXa [rd Trpdyjuaraj Jtd 3. Havra Si avrov tyivtnr 
[AEaov TOV [Xoyov'] eyivr]aav, Kai %wp'.; avroii iytvero ovH 
Kai X'^'P'^i avrov olv lyive ev, 5' y^yovev. 

Kaviva tin sytve. 

4. El's avTOv fjTOv ^wfj Kai 4. 'Ev avTU> ^ojfi rjv, itii i 
f] ^ojri rjTov TO 06jg rwv dv- ^w^ riv rd <pcJs raiv dvbpw 

dpMITCOV. TtWV. 

5. Kai t6 0d5ff etj rfiv otko- 5. Kai to <po)S tv ry aKorlt 
TEiav <l>£yy£it xal ^t aKoreia (paivei, Kai f) aKoria avTO oi 
Stv rd KurdXaSe. KartXaSsv. 

6. "Eyivev 'ivag avdpoi-rros 6. ''Eyivero avOpunrog dit' 
dirr.araXpsiog dno rdv Qedv, caraXpivog -^npd Qiov, Si tftv 
TO dvopd TOV \(t}dt'vrtg. avrcj ^IcodvvrjS' 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT 0RCH0MENU8. 
FROM MELETIUS. 

'OPXOMENO'S, Koivois S^rptTToiJ, ir6Xis norl nXovaioi 
rdrr) Kai iaxvpdiraTr), irpSrepov KaXovftevrj BticoriKal 'A9iJ- 
fUt, Eli rf]v OTToiav rirov b Naof raiv Xapirojv, Eis rdv brroint 
inXfipMvov TF.Xri 01 Qri6aToi, ovnvog rd £(5c((/»os dvEaKd<f>i)% 
nort VTcd rojv AanaXdyKMV. ''EtTTuvrfyipi^ov Eti adrriv tt)* 
irnXiv rd Xapirfiaia, rav b-JToiov dyMvog Evpof Eiriypmpds a 
arfjXaig evSov tov Kricrdevrng vauv in^ 6v6paTi Tfji S£Ot6kov 
vno rov TtpcoroanaOapiov Afovrng, iirl twv (SaaiXtbiV Bavf- 
XEioVy AfovTog, Koi Kcjvaravrivov, EX'ivaag ovroig- iv tiit 
drj pia Koivwg. 

"O'iJe EviKoyi rdv dywva rdv Xapirriaitci 

HaXnicrfig. 
Mijvig 'A-rroXXoJviov 'Avriox^vg d-rrd MatdvSoo* 

Kfipv^. 
Zco'i'Xog Zcj'i'Xov n.i<pioi 

VaiP'.nlog. 
^ovpfjvtDg 'N JVfJiriviov ^AdrivaTo^ 

Tloirirfjg ettuv. 
'Apnviag AripoKXiovg QrjBaTog, 

AiXnrftg. 
'A-noXX6SuTog 'AnoXXoSdrov Kpjjc 

FoSiKKog PoSimiuv 'Apyfjog. 

KiOapiaTfjg. 
<l>avi(ig 'An iXXoS6rov rov <i>ai>iGV AioXeif tni BftiiCK 

Kidupo)S6g. 
Ariftfirptog TlappeviaKOV KaXxfl^^t'tog, 

Tpu) toSSg. 
iTnroHpdrrig ^Apiaropivovg V6Siof, 

K.Mp(<)S6g, 
KaAXtOToaros 'EfavEorou QtiSaXoi 

Ui>ir)riig Sariipoji'. 
'Apr/ving AnitoKXeovg ^rj^aiog 

'XrroKpirfig. 
AoipdOsog Acjpoticov TapavrivSg 

Iloirirtig Tpay(oSiU}V. 
E'xpoKXilg Jli(poKXEtivg 'AOrivaiog. 

'TT'i>fp<r»jj. 
KaSiptX<>i QsoSiopov QtiSaTog, 

Il'urjrrjf Kcop'^^Sinv. 
'AXi^avSpog ' \piTri»v(ig 'AdtivaTo^ 

'XTTOKpirfig. 
'ArraXog 'ArrdXov 'Adr]vaTos 
O'lSe IviKwv rdv vfifiTirov dyciva tAv imoiiiuK 

riaTSag aiXn<Trds. 
AioKXfjg KiiXXtpi'iS'iv OnStiiug. 

TlaiSag iiy epdvag. 
Jlrparivog Evvikhv QriSaTof. 

"AvSpng avXrfarag, 
A(o«fAr}f Ka^XtpfiSov QriSaTuf. 

"AvSpag fiy£p6vas» 
fSSiinrng PuStirnov 'ApyeTof. 

To xyi.ySdf. 
'\mroKpdrrif 'Apttrropivovf PtMfy 



80 



BYKON'S WORKS 



KaXXicrparos 'E^aKitTrov er,6a7of, 
Ta tmvLKia, 
^ Ka)ju;;jr5i(j»' YloiTtrfis. 
AXilav6f.os 'Api<Tri(ovus 'AdrivaTog. 

'Ev (5£ rj krepa ScopiKtog. 

MvaaLVO) apxovros (ij/wi'O^eTtoiroy rd 

Xapireinov, evapidvrcD TrivTCOV oS rvt 6e htKCJcrav ra 

^.apiTcina. 

"EaXiriyKTas. 
<PiXivoi ^PiXivoj 'A6av£ios- 

Kapovl, 
EintiSag E ■>Kparios QeiSeios. 

MfjCTTCOp y/lfl(TT()p<>S <l>MKat£l5f 

Fa'pEvSng. 
Koartov KXt'.ij'Oj f)ti6eios. 

AuAstrdj. 
^epiyEvdi llpaKXziSao Kov^iKriv6i, 

AvXaEi'^og. • 

MpfivETOS TXavKCL)"Apyios 

KtOapi(TTa<;. 
TaixnTpos 'AixaXaxii AioXsvs dnd Movpivas 

TpayaevSds. 
'AffKXanioSoipiJi U'lvOedo TapavTiv6s- 

KuiixasvSos. 
"SiK^Grparoi <t>£Ao(rrpdrw QsiSsios 

Ta eirivLKCia Kio/iasvdos 
Evapx'JS UpoSoT'j) Kopwi/fivj." 

'El/ olXXm XiOco 

' Mvpixos TloXvKpoLTovs 'lapcovvfios 6ioyiT(i}vos avdpEoai 
XopayEicavTEi viKaaavTEi Siovvaov dvi.driKav Ti/icovos «p- 
^ovToi avMuvTOi kXeos adovros aXKurdEviMS." 

'Ei> irtpoi XW(o. 

* ^vvapxcj apxovTos, neivoi ^EtXovBioi, dpxi wj Ev- 

SojXi dpxESdfi'o (pMKEia Sg diriScjica diro rag (70vy-. 

ypa<f>w TrL^a rwv noXEpapx^'^v, kt] rcjv (caroTrTdaii/, dveXd- 
uEi'og Tiig aovyypCKpcog rag KipEvag na i EV(j)p6i'a, Kfj ipiSiav 

KT, TtaaixXEiv Kt} TtpdpEicov <pu)K£iag, ktj fsanojEXEXv 

\vai6ap(o, Kn 6iovv(rov KafiaoScjoj xrypoij/fra kUt to ipitpia- 
fiO rw 6ipoj, 

^vvapxM apxovTog, fir.ivdg dXaXKopEvicj F dpvoiv, troXv- 
K\Eioi Tnn'iag diri(]a}K£ ev6o>Xv dpx^^i^P<'> (P^^xcii diro T'"'? 
anvyypihpo) TO KaraXvT^ov Kar to ipd'piofia rcj f5ij^'.', dfE 
Xopii/iig rag aovyypa'Pojg rog KipEvag nap o-aj0<A"J/, /c)) 
tv<PfOva (pMKEag. Kfj Trap 6iwvvaiov KU(pi(To6dipui x^lP^^vta 
gt] XvTtSapov 6aixoT£\iog ke6h twv noXefiapX'"^^ f'J '"''•'' 
KiXTOnrauv. 

" 'Apx'ivrng h ipxoptvd ^vvapx''^^ fievdg ' AXaXKOptviu 
4v <5t F iXaTiti "SlevoiTao ' ApxEXdui fieivog irpdro). 'Opo 
Xoya Ei'6'u)Ai) F EXurir,, o Kt] T\j ir6\i ^pX'''M«:i''wv. 'Et£jJi> 
kekoh'kt-t] Ei'^wAoff Trap r/Jj n6Xioi to Savciov anav kiit 
rag bpo\oyiag rag reOiaag ^vvdpx^^ Oipx"V''>Si l^Etvdg 
^EiXt>v6i'-j Ki] ovt AipEiXtTt] aVTOi iVt ovOev nap rav rr6Xif 
dAA' dntxi navra nspl navrog, Kr) dno6E66avdt rrj noXt ti 
exovTsg rag bpoXoyiagy ei piv noTi SsSipipov XP'^"''' 
KrS'oXv inl vopiag F Iti dntTrapa PnvEaai aovp Innvg Sta 
KUTirig F( Kan npuSdrvg aovv fiyvi X^'^''?? «PX' ^w XpiJi'c 
6 IviaiiTog b fxETO dvvapxov apxovTa ipxopEviog dnuypa 
j>i»')l 6e Ev/3(x)Xnv Kar' iviavTOv iKaarTov nap tUv Tapia; 
KT> t6v v6p(ov Si> Tare KatpaTa ruiv Trpw^drwi/, Kt) Tojv 
^yojv, <f> Toiv ffuvuiv, kt) tojv iVn-wv, Kfi KaTiva daapaiwv 
&tAc>? TO nXE'iQng ft£i dnoypacpEco t5^£ nXiuva rwv y£ypap 

UvuiV iv TI, <rovyx(^p£i(ri 5 Sixarig^ rj t6 EPvnptov 

1B"j(?(jxXo» dfEiXEi Aif rdv ipxonEviwv dpyovpd 

.. .MM. 'irrapaicovra EvSuXv xad' Ixaarov jvtavroi/, xfi 



t6kov it)Ep£T(a 6paxp(ii"——" •?'•'? ^var iKiffTag Kdrdt [uZtt. 

Tov Kii IpnpaKTog earu tov epx^'A'^"'"*' 

Kal ra £?>?$." 

'Er aXXoig XWotg. 

'*' AvoScopa o-vvfnpov %arp£ " NOKYES. " KaXXirtrot 
dpcpdptx»S, xai liSXai." 'Ej/ obSEpia Eniypa'^rj llSov tSvov 
fi nvEvpu, a 61 fjpEig vnoypicp^jpiv, 01 TzaXaiol nooa£ypa(pov 
K,ii TO ilfjg. 



The folio -^'ing is the prospectus of a translation 
of Anacharsiv^ into Romaic, by my Romaic master. 
Marmarotouri, who wished to publish it in Engfend. 

EIAHSIS TYnorPAiMKH. 

Updg Tovg ev (piXoyEiEig Kal ipiX£X,\rjvag. 

"0201 Eig 0iSXia navTo6ana EVTpv<pCy(nv, ri^Evpovp n6aov 
clvai TO xp»';(7(juoi/ Tfjg 'IcxTopiag, 61' avTfjg yap t^EvpiaKETai 
ft nXtov pepiiKpva-pEpri naXaidrrjS, xal ^Eupovvrai wg iv Ha- 
Tdnrpco )idn, npd^Eig Kal SioiKfiaEig noXXCiP Kal Siacpdptat 
e6v6)v Kal yEvcov wv Tfiv pvfipriv SiEccoaruTo Kal Siaircoaei fj 
'laTopixfi Aifiyrjaig eig aiaiva tov anavTa. 

Mia TETOia tniaTfipr) rival EvanSKTrirog, Kal tv rairm 
bcpEXipri, ^ KpEiTTOv EinElv dvayKaia' iiarl Xoindv fipietS 
p6voi va rfjv vfrrEpovpEda, pr) iq^Evpovrsg ovt£ rag dpxoif rwi 
npoySvov pag, uSOev n6r£ Kal ttwj EvpiOriaav Eig rag narpi 
Sag pag, ovte to. rjdri, ra KUTopdupara Kal rfjv SioiKriaiy 
T(jiv ; Av ipuirfiMpEv ruvg dXXoyEvstg, ri^Evpovv vd ftdg Sd- 
(TOW o'x' p6vov iaropiKiog rfiv dpx^iv Kal rriv np6oSov roJv 
npoy6vo)v pag, dXXa xal rvnoypdcptKcog pag SeIxvovv rhi 
^EffEig Tcov narpiSayv pag, khI olovel x^'P^Y^^yol yivopsvot 
pi rovg y£(.oypa(piKovg rwv nivaKag, pag Xiyovv, iSo) i2v*i ml 
'AOrjvat, EoCo fi Undprri, ekeT al QrjSai, T6ara*aTd6ta ri piXia 
dnExEi ft pii Enapxia and rfiv aXXr/v. Tovrog ojKoSdiniffc rtit 
piav ir6Xiv,EK£Tv'ig rhv liXXrtv, kuI tX. Ylpncxf.ri av EpoyTfiaui- 
pcv avTuvg rovg pfjEXXrivagxEtpayf^yovg pag,n68£v Enaoaxi' 
vfi6ri<yav vd i^Epivvftcrovv dpxo-i rdanv naXmag, dvvnoaT6Xo)i 
ixdg dnoKpivovrai p£ avTDvg rovg X6yovg. " Ka^cjf b Ik J^kv- 
oias'AvdxaocTig, nu Stv InEpupxETo ra navEVippStrwa ekeu-iJ 
KXipara rfjg 'EXXdSog, av Sev EpcpopiTro rd dlitopara, to 
ndr, Kal rovg v6p-ivi rojv 'EAA/jfWj/, fJ9£A£ pEivti JlKvOiig kui 
TO ovopa Kal rd nndypa' ovT(ii Kal b fipirEpog iarpog. Sv Stv 
ipdvdave tol rov'lnnoKOaT'ivg, Sev iSvvaro vd npoxMOvaii 
eig rrtv texvtiv tov. Av b tv fipTv vofi-iQErrig Sev E^Era^e to 
TOV HdXcjvog, AvKovpyov, Kal YlirraKOV, Sev tSvvaro vd ^v- 
dufttrr) Kal vd KaXiEpyftaT) rd rjQ,ri rcov biioyEviov tov Av h 
Pfjroyp Sev dnrti>0i(^£TO rag EixppaSeiag Kal rovg X'^P^^vtkt- 
povg Toii ArtpoaSivovg, Siv ivEpyovaev eig Tug t/AJX,(i5 rai* 
UKpoardiv tov Av b Niog Aj/dxapais, b Kvpiog 'ASoSi 
BapdoXopaTog Slv dveyivcoaKE pi psydXrjv tnipovhv kixI oke- 
r^iV Tovg nXiov tyKpirovi (TVyypadETg rcov 'EAAr^fWi', l^e-* 
pEvvdv aVTovg Kara BdQog tnl rpiaKovra Svw ire, Stv /"iOeXep 
£^T)0di/7/ Tovrrtv Triv ntol 'EAAoi'wi' laropiav tov, t^rig Tlepi 
fiytarig rov Nfou 'Ai/rt%up(T£ws nap' ovTovnpo(Tu)vopdcrOri,Ka\ 
eig oXag rag Evpwna'iKag SiaXtKrovg perEyXayrTirrOr}.^^ Kai 
EV Ivl Awyoi, 01 vEcoTEpot, dv Sev InEovav Sid bSriynvg rods, 
npoy6vi>Vi pag, i'l^EXav tacog nepiQipoivrai iiaraioig f.uxpi 
TOV vvi: Avrd Sev Eivai X6yia tvQovcriaapivov Sid to <i)i\<Hi 
yevtg FpatKov, eIvui Si (piXaXfidov>i Teppavov, ogrig enera- 
(ppacre tov Nt'ov 'Ai/dxapati/ and rov FuXXikov eig rd Fcp- 
paviKdvt 

Av Xumdv Kol fipctg.^EXwpev vd peOilapev rng yvosaeaf 
Twv Xapnpwv Karopdojpnrwv 'ottov ekuvuv 01 Sau/iajTOt 
EKE^voi nnopnrnpEg fipwi, &v IniQvpwvev vd p.iOcjpev rifp 
npdoSov Kal avlrt(^iv rcov eig rag TEXvag kuI eniaTftpag koX 
Eig K<i9e dXXo ElSog paQfiaeoii, dv ex<*>p£v ntjjitpyEuiv va 
yviopiaoypEv nddev KarayditEda, kqI bnoiovg Savpaurois /ro' 
peydXovg avSpag, ei Kal npoydvovg I't/JKov, (pev, ftpEig Sl» 
yvojpi^iipEv, eig Katpdv hnov ol dXXoyeveig ^avpdl^ova 9 
avTovg, Kal wj naripag nnvrotaaovv padftaeayg vi^ovrai^ dt 
crvvSpdpwpev anavreg npuQipoyg eig rrtv ekSooiv tov ^avfta 
aiov Tovrov avyypd/iixaTog rov fiiov 'Avaxdoaerttg, 

Hpcig nvv ol iiroysypappivoi ^eXopev eKTEXeasi irpo%fttn 
rfiv uerd^paaiv to9 Bt6Xiov fie rqy /card rd Swardv ^nu 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



81 



'mAflf <ppdaii rJji vvv Ka9' fjnag S/xtAiaf, /cat IkSOvte^ toUto 
JK rvirov, ^eXo/xev to KaXXconiaei fit Tovg yeoypatpiKovs 
nivaKus III aurXds Pw/zaixas Xe^eis eyKCxapaytJ^^yovs £ts 
iSiKa nai ypdniiaTa, npoaridivTes 3, rt aXXo xpTJct/iOj/ Kal 
ipfxCSiov eis "''fji' Icrropiav. 

'OXop TO crvyypajina ^iXei y'evci £tf tSixovs 6c38£Ka Kara 
fiifiTjaiv rfji 'IraXiKpji tK66(TEU}s. H Tifxri bXov tov avyypAfx- 
varoi elvai (piupivia ScKai^ri rrjs Biivves Sia r^j/ irpoaBfjKriv 
To^- ysbiypaipiKoiv irivaKOiv. 'O (piXoyf.vfn ovv avvSponrirrn 
tepiTei va nXvpwat] di Kade tS/xov (pLopivi iva Kal Kap.avTa- 
via e'Uocn ttjs Bievvrjs, kuI tovto x^P'-i Kafxiiiav wp66oaiv, 
d\X' evdvs bnov OeXsi noi napaSod^ b rdfios rvnaifiii/os kuI 

^Eppcj/iivoi Kal £v6ainoves 6ia6id)oiTe, ''EX\^vo)v iraiSes. 
T^S VfxeTEpas dydnris i^riprrjijievai, 

'Iwavvtjs Jl/lappapoTovpris» 
Arj/ifirpios Bcfiipris. 
'ZKvpiScjv npsSeroS' 
»E" TptcffTiw, TT) TTpcoTTj 'OktcjSp'iov, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

''SL IIATE'PA fias bnov tiaai eigTOVs ovpavovi, as ayiaa. 
flj TO ^voixd (701/. Af eXBri 17 0a(xi.X€ia trov. Aj yivr] to ^eXrjfxd 
voVf Kadwi eis tov ovpavov, KTZ,ri Kal eis tjiv yf\v. To ipufxl 
lias TO KaOrjixepivdv, 66s fias rd afiixEpov. Kal avyx^P^f^^ 
^ac TO. XP^I /'"f) kuOms Kal t/isTj (Tvy)(0}povti£v tovs Kpeo- 
(piiXiras i^aS' Kal jxhv fids (pipe eis TTSipaa-iidv^ dXXu eXev- 
dipwae fjias diro tov irovripSv. "Oti eSikt) crov^lvai fj /?a(j«_ 
"Xeia 8ii f) Svvaniri, Kal fj Jdfa, eis tovs aidtvaq. 'Aftfiv. 

IN GREEK. 

IIA'TEF fiiAwv, b Ev ToTs ovpavoTs, iyiaadfiTco rd Hvo fid 
aov. 'EXdera fj jSaaiXeia aov yevrjBf^Tia Td deXrujid crov, us 
h ovpavo), Kal Im rfjs yns- Tdv aprov ^//cjj/ rov ettlovchov 
iis fll^^v (rfiixEpov. Kal a<f>ts fifxTv rd bcpeiX^ixara fiiiojv, wj 
Kal fjueis dfieixev tois ofEiXirais fiftdiv. Kal /<») eiaEviyKris 
finds eis neipaa/jidv, dXXa /5vo-a£ ^/jids and tov novripov. 
•<)rt aoH eotIv fi BaQiXda, Kal fi dwajiis, xal f) Sd^a, eis 
Tciis aiwvas. 



CANTO III. 



/« **prid9 of place ' 



1. 

here last the eagle flew. • 
Stanza xviii. line 5. 



Pkide of place" is a term of falconry, and 
means the highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, &c. 

" An Eagle towering in hia pride of place 
Was by a mouvuf Owl bawked at and killed. 



Sue as Ilarmodim drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 
Stanza xx. line 9. 

See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogi- 
ton.— The best English translation is in Bland's 
Anthology, by Mr. Denman. 

" Willi myrtle my •word will I wreathe," 4c. 



And all went merry as a marriage-bell. 

Stanza "xxi. line 8. 
On the night previous to the action, it is said 
Wat a ball was given at Brussels. 

4,6. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clans- 
man's ears. Stanza xxvi. line 9. 
Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, 
the " gentle Lochiol " of the •• forty-five." 
11 



6. 



And Ardennes waves above them, her green Jieaves. 
Stanza xxvii. line 1. 

The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a rem- 
nant of the " forest of Ardennes," famous i» 
Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in Shakspeare'i 
"As You Like It." It is also celebrated in Tacitua 
as being the spot of successful defence by .the Ger- 
mans against the Roman encroachments. — I have 
ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler 
associations j;han those of mere slaughter. 

7. 
/ turn'd from all she brought to those she could 
not bring. Stanza xxx. line 9. 

My guide from Mont St. 'ean over the field 
seemed intelligent and accurak The place where 
Major Howard fell was not far 'rom two tall and 
solitary trees (there was a third cut down or shivered 
in the battle) which stand a few yards from each 
other at a pathway's side. — Beneath these he died 
and was buried. The body has since been removed 
to England. A small hollcjw for the present marks 
where it lay, but ^vill probably soon be effaced ; the 
plough has been upon it, and the grain is. 

After pointing out the different spots where 
Picton and other gallant men had perished, the 
guide said, " here Major Howard lay ; I was near 
him when wounded." I told him my relationship, 
and he seemed then still more anxious to point out 
the particular spot and circumstances. The place 
is one of the most marked in the field from the 
peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. 

I went on horseback twice over the field, com 
paring it with my recollection of similar scenes. 
As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the 
scene of some great action, though this may be 
mere imagination: I have viewed with attention 
those of Plat'^a, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaero 
nea, and Marfithon ; and the field around Mont St 
Jean and Horgouniont appears to want little but « 
better cause, and that indefinable but impressi-ve 
halo which th*? lapse of ages throws around a cel- 
ebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all oi 
these, except perhaps the last mentioned. 

8. 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore. 

Stanza xxxiv. line 6. 
The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake 
Asphaltes were said to be fair without, and within 
ashes. — Vide Tacitus, Histor. 1, 5, 7. 



For sceptered cynics earth were far too wide a den. 
Stanza xli. line last. 

The great error of Napoleon, '* if we have writ 
our annals true," was a continued obtrusion on 
mankind of his want of all community of feeling foi 
or with them ; perhaps more oflensive to human 
vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling 
and suspicious tyranny. 

Such were his speeches to public assemblies as 
well as individuals ; and the single expression which 
he is said to have used on returning to Pai-is aftox 
the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing 
his hands over a fire, "This is pleasantcr than 
Moscow," would probably alienate more favor from 
his cause than the destruction and reverses which 
led to the remark. 

10. 

What watit these outlaws conquerors should hao0 
Stanza xlviii. line 6. 

" What wnnU that knuTe 
That a king ihouUl luire I " 

wai King James's ouestion oft meeting Johnn) 
Armstrong and his followers in full accoutrementu 
— See the BuUad. 



83 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



11. 

. Tht castled crag of Drachenfeh. 

Page 41, verse 1. 
The castle of Dractenfels stands on the highest 
Bummit of "the seven Mountains," over the Rhine 
banks- it is in ruins, and connected with some 
singular traditions : it is the iirst in view on the 
road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the 
river : on this bank, nearlj' facing it, are the remains 
of another, called the Jew's castle, and a large cross 
commemorative of the murder of a chief by his 
brother : the number of castles and cities along the 
course of the Rhine on both sides is very great, and 
their situations remarkably beautiful. 

12. 

The whiteness of Ms soul, and thus men o'er him wept. 
Stanza Ivii. line last. 

The monument of the young and lamented Gen- 
eral Marceau (killed by a rifle ball at Alterku-chen 
on the last day of the fourth year of the French 
republic) still remains as described. 

The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required : his name was enough ; 
France adored, and her enemies admired ; both 
wept over him. — His funeral was attended by the 
generals and detachments frbm both armies. In 
the same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant 
man also in every sense of the word ; but though 
he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had 
ttot the good fortune to die there : his death was 
attended by suspicions of poison. 

A seperate monument (not over his body, which 
ts buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near 
Andernach, opposite to which one of his most 
memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a 
bridge to an island on the Rhine. The shape and 
Bt^'le are different from that of Marceau's, and the 
•■ascription more simple and pleasing. 

" The Army of the Sambre and Meuse 

to its Commander in Chief 

Hoche." 

This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was 
esteemed among the first of France's earlier gen- 
erals bei. -^e Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. 
He was the de«tined commander of the invading 
army of Irelajxa. 

13. 
Her I, Ehrenbreit°ter\, with her shattered xoall. 
Stanza Iviii. line 1. 

Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. "the broad stone of Honor," 
one of the strongest fortresses, in Europe, was 
dismantled and blown up by the French at the 
truce of Leoben. — It had beer ard could only be 
reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to the 
former, aided by siirprise. After bavin^ seen the 
fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not 
inach strike by comparison, but the situ?tion is 
OWnmanding. General Marceau besieged it ii. vain 
fi>r some time, and I slept in a room where I was 
ihown a window at which he was said to have beer 
Standing observing the progress of the siege by| 
moctiV'ght, when a ball struck immediately below it. 

14. 
Ufuepulchred they roamed, and shriek' d each wander- 
ing ghost. Stanza Ixiii. line last. 
The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of 
bones diminished to a small number by the Bur- 
gundian legion in the service of France, who 
anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors' less 
successful invasions. A few still remain, notwith- 
standing the pains taken by the Burgundians for 
ages, (all who passed that way removing a bone to 
their own country,) and the less justifiable larcenies 
of the Swiss postillions, who carried them off to 
wll fox knife-handles, a ptirpose fox which the 



whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of years haa 
rendered them in great request. Of thest relics I 
ventured to bring away as much as may hove made 
a quarter of a hero, for which the sole ex<-.use la, 
that if I had not, the next passer by might \i\-^*. 
perverted them to worse uses than the careftil 
preservation for which I intend for them. 

lo. 

LevelVd Aventicum hath strew' d her subject lands. 
Stanza Ixv. line last. 
Aventicum (near Morat) was the Roman capita. 
of Helvetia, where Avenches now stands. 

16. 
And held toithin their urn one mind, one heart, em 
dust. Stanza Ixvi. line last. 

Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died 
soon after a vain endeavor to save her father, con- 
demned to death as a traitor by Aulius Caecina. 
Her epitaph was discovered many years ago ;--it ia 
thus — 

Julia Alpiniila 

Hie jaceo 

Infelicis patris, infelix proles 

Deee Aventise Sacerdos ; 

Exorare patris necera non potui 

1*1 ale mori in fatis ille erat. 

Vixi annos xxiii. 

♦ 

I know of no human composition so effecting as 

this, nor aJiistory of deeper interest. These are 

the names Sid actions which ought not to perish, 

and to which .we turn with a true and healthy 

tenderness, from the wTctched and glittering detail 

of a confused mass of conquests and battles, with 

which the mind is roused for a time to a false and 

feverish sympathy, from whence it recm-s at length 

with all the nausea consequent on such intoxication. 

17. 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snore. 

Stanza Ixvii. line 8. 

This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (June 
3, 1816,) which even at this distance dazzles mine. 

(July 20th. ) I this day observed for some time 
the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and Mont 
Argentierre in the calm of the lake, which I wai 
crossing in my boat ; the distance of these moun- 
tains from their mirror is sixty miles. 

18. 

By the blue rushing of the arroxcy Rhone. 

Stanza Ixxi. line 8. 
The color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a 
depth of tint which I have never seen equalled in 
water, salt or fresh, except in the MediteaTanedn ; 
and Aj-chipelago. 

19. 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek pcssest. 
Stanza Ixxix. line lag^ 
This refers to the account in his " Confessioir* ' 
"^f his passion for the Countess d'Houdetot, (th« 
mistress of St. Lambert,) and his long walk every 
morning for the sake of the single kiss which waJi 
the common salutation of French acquaintance- 
Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occa- 
sion may be considered as the most passionate, vet 
not impure description ard expression of love that 
ever kindled into words ; which after all must be 
felt, from their very force, to be inadequate to the 
delineation — a painting can give no suffiritut idea 
of the ocean. 

20. 

Of earth-o'ergazmg mou7itains 

Stanza xci. line 5. 

It is to be recollected, that the moat beautilU). 



I 



1 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Sh 



and :mpressi re doctrines of the divine Founder of 
Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but 
an the Mount. 

To waive the question of devotion, and turn to 
human eloquence, — the most effectual and splendid 
Bpecimens were not pronounced within Avails. 
Demosthenes addressed the public and popular 
assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this 
added to thofr eifect on the mind of both orator 
and hearers, may be conceived from the difference 
between what we read of the emotions then and 
there produced, and those we ourselves experience 
in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing to 
read the Iliad at Sigseum and on the tumuU, or by 
the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain 
and river and Archipelago around you ; and another 
to trim your taper over it in a snug library — this I 
know. 

Were the early and rapid progress of what is 
called Methodism to be attributed to any cause 
beyond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement 
faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I 
presume neither to canvass nor to question) I 
should venture to ascribe it to the practice of 
preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and 
extemporaneous eflusions of its teachers. 

The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at 
least in the lower orders) is most sincere, and 
therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat their 
prescribed orisons and prayers wherever they may 
be at the stated hours — of course frequently in the 
open air, kneeling upon a light mat, (which they 
carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as re- 
quired:) the ceremony lasts some minutes, during 
which they are totally absorbed, and only living in 
their supplication : nothing can disturb them. On 
me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, 
and the spirit which appeared to be within and 
upon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of 
worship, of which I have seen those of almost every 
persuasion under the sun; including most of our 
own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the 
Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Ma- 
hometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there 
are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, 
and have free exercise 6f their belief and its rites : 
some of these I had a distant view of at Patras, 
aud from what I could make out of them, th»^) 
appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and 
not very agreeable to a spectator. 

2L 

The sky is changed! — ajid such a change! Oh night. 
Stanza xcii. line 1. 
The thunder-storm to which these lines refer 
occurred on the loth of June, 1816, at midnight. 
I have seen among the Acroceraunian mountains of 
Chimari several more terrible, but none more 
oeautiful. 

22. 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought. 
' Stanza xcix. line 5. 

Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. 
"Cesmontagnes sont si hautes qu'une demi-houre 
«.pr^8 le solcil couche, leurs sommets sont encore 
eclair's de ses rayons ; dont le rouge forme sur ccs 
cimes blanches une belle rouleur de rose qu'on 
Rp])er9 )it do fori loin." 

This applies more particularly to the heights 
over Moillerie. 

" J'allai :i Vevay loger k la Clef, et pendant deux 
jours que j'y restai sans voir personup, Jo pris pour 
cette villc un amour qui m'a suivi hans tons incs 
voyages, let qui m'v a fait ctaljlir enfin les hiTos do 
mon ronian. Jo dirois volonticrs k ceux qui out 
du gOMt et qui sont sonsibles ; allez h. Vevai — vicitez 
le pays, examinez leg sites, prornenoH-vous sur le lac, 
et dites si la Nature n'a pas fait ce beau pays pour 
one JmIi'^, poui uue Claire et pour un St Proux; 



mais ne les y cherchez pas." Les Confessions, livre 
iv. page 306, Lyons ed. 1796. 

In July, 1816, I made a voyage round the Lake 
of Geneva ; and as far as my own observations have 
led me, in a not uninterested nor inattentive survey 
of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau m 
his "Heloise," I can safely say, that in this there 
is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see 
Clarens, (with the scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon. 
Boveret, St. Gingo, Meillerie, Eivan, and the 
entrances of the Rhone,) without being forcibly 
struck with its peculiar adaptation to the persons 
and events with which it has been peopled. Bat 
this is not all: the feeling with wkich all around 
Clarens, and the opposite rocks of Meillerie, is 
invested, is of a still higher and more comprehen- 
sive order than the mere syiii;)athy with individual 
passion ; it is a sense of the existence of love in its 
most extended and sublime capacity, and of our 
own participation of its good and of its glory : it is 
the great principle . of the universe, which is there 
more condensed, but not less manifested; and of 
■which, though knowing ourselves a part, we lose 
our individuality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
whole. 

If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the 
same associations would not less have belonged to 
such scenes. He has added to the interest of his 
works by their adoption ; he has shown his sense 
of their beauty by the .selection; but they have 
done that for him which no human being could do 
for them. 

I had the fortune (good or evil as it might be) to 
sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some time) 
to St. Gingo during a lake storm, which added tc 
the magnificence of all around, although occasion- 
ally accompanied by danger to the boat, which was 
small and overload.ed. It was over this very part 
of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of 
St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for 
shelter during a tempest. 

On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, I found that 
the wind had been sufficiently strong to blo\\ down 
some fine old chestnut trees on the lower part of 
the mountains. 

On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. 
The hills are covered with vineyards, and inter- 
spersed with some small but beautiful woods ; one 
of these was named the " Bosquet de Julie," and it 
is remarkable that, though long ago cut down by 
the brutal selfishness of the monks of St. Bern u-d, 
(to whom the land appertained,) that the gro md 
might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable 
drones of an exiled superstition, the inhabitants ol 
Clarens still point out the spot where its trees 
stood, calling it by the name which «ionsecrated and 
survived them. 

Rousseau has not been particulaiiV fortunate in 
the preservation of the "local habitations" he hai 
given to " airy nothings." The Prior of Great St. 
Bernard has cut down some of his'woods for the iake 
of a few casks of wine, and Bonaparte has lovolled 
a part of the rocks of Meillerie in im]>roviiig the 
road to Simplon. The road is an excellent one, but 
I cannot quite agree with a remark which I heard 
made, (liat " La route vaut miseux que les sou- | 
venirs." 

23. 
Lausivtme ! and Fernet/ ! ye hat^e been the aJtodn 
Stanza cv. line 1 

Volliiiie and Gibbcm. 

24. 
Had I not fled t)>y mind, irhirh thus itself subduef 
Stanza cxiii. line last 



' irit lip ihiu, 



l^r Biiiiqiio'i laaue Imrt \Jll»d my miiul." 

25. 
O'er others' grieft that some smcrrely gnere. 
S^anzu oxiv. liiir ' 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



It is said by Rocliefoucaiilt that " there is alwavi 
something in the misfortunes of men's best fiiends 
not displeasing to them." 



CANTO IV. 

1. 

1 stood m Venice on the Bridge of Sighs ; 

A palace ami a prison on each hand. 

Stanza i. lines 1 and 2. 
fnE communication between the ducal palace 
ai d the prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or 
cohered gallery, high above the water, and divided 
by a stone wall into a passage and a cell. The 
state dungeons, called "pozzi," or wells, were sunk 
in the thick walls of the palace ; and the prisoner 
when taken out to die was conducted across the 
gallery to the other side, and being then led back 
into the other compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, 
was there strangled. The low portal through which 
the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled 
up ; but the passage is still open, and is still known 
by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi 
are under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of 
the bridge. They were formerly tAvelve, but on the 
first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily 
blocked or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. 
You may still, however, descend by a trap^door, 
and crawl down through holes, half choked by 
rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the first 
range. If you are in want of consolation for the 
extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may 
find it there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into 
the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the 
places of confiement themselves are totally dark. 
A small hole in the wall admitted the damp aii- of 
the passages, and served for the introduction of the 
prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, raised a foot 
from the ground, was the only fm-niture. The 
conductors tell you that a light was not allowed. 
The cells are about five paces in length, two and a 
half in -width, and seven feet in height. They are 
directly beneath one another, and respiration is 
somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one 
prisoner was found when the republicans descended 
into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have 
been confined sixteen years. But the inmates of 
the dungeons beneath had left traces of their 
repentance, or of their despair, which are still 
visible, and may perhaps owe something to recent 
Ingenuity. Some of the detained appear to have 
ofiended against, and others to hare belonged to, 
the sacred body, not only from their signatures, 
but from the churches and belfries which they have 
scratched upon the walls. The reader may not 
)bject to see a specimen of the records prompted by 
JO terrific a solitude. As nearly as they could be 
sopied by more than one pencil, three of them are 
xittp. f jllows : 

1. 

JION TI FIDAR AB ALCUNO PENS A C TACI 
8E FUOIR VUOI DE 8PI0NI INSIDIE e LACCI 
IL PENTIHTI PENTIRTI NULLA GIOVA 
MA BEN DI VALOR TUG LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FULRE. 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA M.\NZAR A UN MORTO 

lACOMO . GRITTI . 8CR188S. 



UN PARLAR POCHO et 

NEOARE PRONTO Bt 

UK PEN8AK AL FINE PUO DABE LA VITA 

i NOI ALXBI MESCHINI 

1605 



EGO lOHN BAPTI8TA AD 

ECCLESIAM CORlELLAKIUb 



DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDaMI DIO 

DE Cni NON MI FIDO Ml GUARD ARO 10 

A 

TA H A NA 

V. LA S . C . K . R. ^ 

The copyist has followed, not corrected thi 
solecisms ; some of which are however -not quite sc 
decided, since the letters were evidently scratched 
in the dark. It only need be observed, bestemTri.s 
and mangiar may be read in the first inscription, 
which was probably written by a prisoner confined 
for some act of impiety committed at a funeral ; 
that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra 
firma, near the sea ; and that the last initials 
CA-idently are put for Viva la santa Chiesa Kattolica 
Romana. 

2. 
She looks a sea Cyhele, fresh from ocean. 
Rising with her tiara of proud toicers. 

Stanza ii. lines 1 and 2. 
An old writer, describing the appearance rA 
Venice, has made use of the above image, which 
would not be poetical were it not true. 

" Quo fit tit qui superne urhem contempletur, tur- 
ritayn telluris itnaginem medio Oceano figuratam S6 
' inspicereJ' * 



In Venice' Tasso' 



echoes are no more. 

Stanza iii. line 1. 



The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alter- 
nate stanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with 
the independence of Venice. Editions of the poem, 
with the original on, one column, and the Venetian 
variations on the other, as sung by the boatmen:, 
were once common, and are still to be found. The 
follomng extract will serve to show the difFeience 
between the Tuscan epic and the " Canta alia 
Barcariola." 

ORIGINAL. 
Canto r arme pietose, e '1 capitano 

Che '1 gran Sepolcro liber6 di Cristo, 
Molto egli oprc") col senno, e con la mano 

Molto sofFri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vane 

S' arm6 d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i Santi 
Segni ridusse i suoi compagTii erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 
E de GofFredo la immortal braura 

Che al In '1 ha libera co strassia, e dogia 
Del nostro buon Gesu la Sepoltura 

De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 
Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura : 

Dio r ha agiuta, e '1 compagni sparpagnai 

Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 

Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, taku 
up and continue a stanza of their once familial 
bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Child* 
Harold, and another Englishman, the writer of this 
notice, rowed to the Lido with two singers, one ol 
whom was a carpenter, and the other a gondolier. 
The former placed himself at the prow, the latter 
at the stern of the boat. A little after leaving the 
quay of the Piazzetta, they began to sing, and 
continued their exercise until we arrived at the 
island. They gave us, amongst other essays, the 
death of Clorinda, and the palace of Armida ; and 



Marci Antona Sabelli d* VeneUs Uitb titu Dairatio, eai' Ta tin. ISB 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



85 



did not smg the Venetian, but the Tuscan verses. 
The carpenter, however, who was the cleverer of 
the two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his 
jompanion, told us that he could translate the 
original. He added, that he could sing almost 
three hundi-ed stanzas, but had not spirits {morbin 
was the word he used) to learn any more, or to sing 
Vhat he already knew : a man must have idle time 
on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and, said the 
poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me; I am 
starving." This speech was more affecting than 
his performance, which habit alone can make 
attractive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, 
and monotonous, and the gondolier behind assisted 
his voice by holding his hand to one side of his 
mouth. The carpenter used a quiet action, which 
he evidently endeavored to restrain ; but was too 
much interested in his subject altogether to repress. 
.From these men we learnt that singing is not con- 
• fined to the gondoliers, and that, although the 
cha if, is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still 
several amongst the lower classes who are acquainted 
"nth a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the per- 
formers to row and sing at the same time. Al- 
though the verses of the Jerusalem are no longer 
casually heard, there is yet much music upon the 
Vcietian canals ; and upon holydays, those strang- 
ers who are not near or informed enough to dis- 
tinguish the words, may fancy that many of the 
gondolas still resound with the strains of Tasso. 
The writer of some remarks which appeared in the 
Curiosities of Literature, must .excuse his being 
twice quoted ; for, \^dth the exception of some 
phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he 
has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable, 
description. 

"In Venice, the gondoliers know by heart long 
passages from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant 
them with a peculiar melody. But this talent 
seems at present on the decline : — at least, after 
taking some pains, I could find no more than two 
persons who delivered to me in this way a passage 
from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Berry 
once chanted to me a passage from Tasso, in the 
manner, as he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

''There are always two concerned, who alternate- 
ly sing the strophes. We know the melody eveiLt- 
ually by Rousseau, to whose songs it is printed ; it 
has properly no melodious movement, and is a sort 
of medium between the canto fermo and the canto 
figurato ; it approaches to the former by recitativical 
declamation, and to the latter by passages and course, 
by which one syllable is detained and embellished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight: one singer 
placed himself forwards and the other aft, and thus 
proceeded to St. Ge'':gio. One began the song; 
when he had ended his strophe;, the oth(!r took up 
the lay, and so continued the song alternately. 
Throughout the whole of it, the same notes invari- 
ably returned, but, according to the subject matter 
of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller 
stress, sometimes on one, and sometimes on another 
Qote, and indeed changed the enunciation of the 
r^hoh; sti-ophe as the object of the poem aUered. • 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse 
and screaming : they seemed, in the mann'jr of all 
rude unciviliised men, to make the excellency of 
their singing in the force of their voice : one seem- 
ed dcsirrtus of -joiuiuering the other by the strength 
of his lungs; a<id so far from receiving deliglit from 
this scene, (slmt uj) as I was in the box of the g( n- 
dola,) [ found myself in a very unpleasant sitmition. 

'* -Sly com])ani()n, to whom 1 communicated this 
circumstance, being very desirotis to keep up the 
credit of his countrymen, assured me that this sing- 
ing wa.s very dcligh'tful wlien heard iit u tlistance. 
Accordingly we got out upon the shore, leaving one 
sf the singers in tlie gondola, while the other went 
to the distance of some hundred pict's. They now 
oegiia to sing a{»ainst one another, and I kept walk- 



ing up and down between them both, so as always 
to leave him who was to begin his part. I frequent- 
ly stood still and hearkened to the one and to th« 
other. 

"Here the scene was properly introduced. The 
strong declamatory, and, as it were, si rieking 
sound, met the ear from far, and called forth the at 
tention ; the quickly succeeding transitions which 
necessarily required to be sung in a lower tone, 
seemed like plaintive strains succeeding the vocif- 
erations of emotion or of pain. The other, who 
listened attentively, immediately began where the 
former left off, answering him in milder or more 
vehement notes, according as the purport of the 
strophe required. The sleepy canals, the loft>' 
buildings, the splendor of the moon, the deep shad 
ows of the few gondolas that moved like spirits 
hither and thither, increased the striking pecu- 
liarity of the scene ; and amidst all these circum- 
stances, it was easy to confess the chai-acter of this 
wonderful harmony. 

" It suits perfectly well with an idle, solitaiy mari- 
ner, lying at length in his vessel at rest on one ol 
these canals, waiting for his company, or for a fare, 
the tiresomeness of which situation is somewhat 
alleviated by the songs and poetical stories he has 
in memory. He often raises his voice as loud as he 
can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the 
tranquil mirror, and as all is still around, he is, as 
it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and 
populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, z.o 
noise of foot passengers ; a silent gondola glides 
now and then by him, of which the splashings ol 
the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

" At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly 
unknown to him. Melody and verse immediately 
attach the two strangers : he becomes the respon- 
sive echo to the former, and exerts himself to be 
heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit con 
vention they alternate verse for verse ; though t)ie 
song should last the whole night through, they en 
tertain themselves without fatigue : the hearers, 
who are passing between the two, take part in the 
amusement. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great 
distance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it 
only fuliils its design in the sentiment of remote- 
ness. It is plaintive but not dismal in its sound, 
and at tijiies it is scarcely possible to refrain from 
tears. !My companion, who otherwise was not a 
very delicately organized person, said quite unex- 
pectedly : * e singolare come quel canto intenerisce, 
e molto pin ([uando lo cantano meglio.' 

" I was told that the women of Libo, .the long 
roAv of islands that divides the Adriatic from the 
Lagouns,* particularly the women of the exti-emo 
districts of Malamocco and Palestrina, sing in like 
manner the works of Tasso to these and siuiilax 
tunes. 

" They have the custom, when their husbands aie 
fishing out at sea, to sit along the shore in the 
evenings, and vociferate these songs, and continue 
to do so with great violence, till each of them car 
distinguish the responses of her own husband at •» 
distance." f 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes al.' 
classes of .Venetians, even amongst the ttuiefui 
sons of Italy. The city itself can occasionally l\;r- 
nish respectable audiences for two and even three 
op(n-a-h(Mises at a time ; and tliere are few events it 
private life that do not call forth a printed and cir- 
culated sonnet. Does a jihysician or a lawyer take 
liis degree, or a elergytnan preach his maiden scr 
mon, has a surgeon performed an o])eiation, would 
a harle(|\iin announce his departure or his heneflt, 
are you to be congratulated on a marriage, or a 



* 'I'he wrlc^r inxiiiit Lido, whi;h> I* not • loo^ row of laliincU, txit ^ laa| 
\*\M\i\ : liftiM, ihi' utiore. 

t C>iri(Miii>i> .It Mt«r«tura, «oi. B p. IM, aiUi IH7; •• • App«»ilt ^A. 
lo Bluck'a UU'e uT Tmm>. 



86 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



birtk, or a lawstrit, the Muses are invoked to fur- 
nist the same number of syllables, and the individ- 
ual triumphs blaze abroad in vu"gin white or party 
sol.-rod placards on half the corners of the capital. 
The last curtesy of a favorite " prima donna " brings 
Aown a shower of these poetical tributes from those 
upper regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing 
but cupids and snow-slforms are accustomed to de- 
scend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, 
which, in its common course, is varied with those 
surprises and changes so recommendable to fiction, 
"iut so ditferent from the sober monotony of north- 
fru existence ; amusements are raised into duties, 
duties are softened into amusements, and every ob- 
ject being considered as equally making a part of 
the business of life, is announced and performed 
with the same earnest inditference and gay assidu- 
ity. The Venetian gazette constantly closes its 
columns with the following triple advertisement. 

Charade. 



Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the 
•hurch of St. 



Theatres. 

St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters. 

St. Luke, repose. 

When it is recollected what the Catholics believe 
their consecrated wafer to be, we may perhaps tliiuk 
it worthy of a more respectable niche than between 
poetry and the play-house. 

4. 

SjJtirta hath many a worthier son than he. 

Stanza x. line 5. 

The answer of the mother of Biasidas to the 
strangers who praised the memory of her son. 

5. 

St. Ma^k yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, Stanza xi. line 5. 

The lion has lost nothing by his jom-ney to the 
Invalides but the gospel which supported the paw 
i that is now on a level Avith the other foot. The 
horses <ilso are returned to the ill-chosen spot 
whence they set ovit, and are, as before, half hidden 
under the porch of St. Mark's church. 

Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been 
satisfactorily explored. The decisions and doubts 
of Erizzo and Zcinetti, and lastly, of the Count Le- 
opold Cicognara, woTild have given them a Roman 
extraction, and a pedigree not more ancient than 
the reign of Nero, ^nt M. de Schlegel stepped in 
to teach the Venetia..s the value of their own treas- 
ares, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, 
the pretension of his countrymen to this noble pro- 
iiction.* Mr. Mustoxidi has not been left without 
a replv ; but, as yet, he has received no answer. It 
snould seem that the horses are irrevocably Chian, 
»nd were transferred to Constantinople by Theodo- 
•iiis. Lapidary writing is a favorite play of the 
Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best 
BT>e-imens of Bodoni's typography is a resi)ectablc 
volume of inscriptions, all wTitten by his frieud Pac- 
ciaudi. Several were prepared for the recovered 
horses. It is to be hoped the best was not selected, 
when the following words were ranged in gold let- 
ters above the cathedral porch. 



* Su! qusuro ciivilli hpI nasUica di B. Maico in Veiiezia. L«ttera di 
(udrea Mviatoxkli Corcliew .'adua per Bettoitie compag. . . M6, 



aUATUOR • EaUORrM • SIGNA A * * VENETI8 * Vt 
ZANTIO • CAPTA ' AD TEMP " D ' MAR, * A ' R ' 8 
MCCIV • POSITA • QlVM • HOSTILIS ' CUPIDITA8 ' A 
MDCCIIIC • ABSTULEKAT ' FRAMC ' I * IMP ' PACIS - 
ORBI • DATyE • TROPH.^:UM * A * MDCCCX"V ' VICTOB 
REDT'XIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin, but it may b« 
permitted to observe, that the injustice of the Ven- 
etians in transporting the horses from Constantino' 
pie was at least equal to that of the French in car- 
rying them to Paris, and that it would have been 
more prudent to have avoided all allusions to either 
robbery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have 
objected to affixing over the principal entrance ol 
a metropolitan church an inscription having a refer- 
ence to any other triumphs than those of religica 
Nothing less than the pacification of the world can 

excuse such a solecism. 

• 
6. 

The Suahian sued, and now the Austrian reigns— 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt. 
Stanza xii. lines 1 and 2. 

After many vain attempts on the part of the Ital- 
ians entirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Bar- 
barossa, ar d as fruitless attempts of the emperor to 
make himself absolute master throughout thewholo 
of his Cisalpine dominions, the bloody struggles oi 
four and twenty years were happily brought to 
a close in the city of Venice. The articles of a 
treaty had been previously agreed upon between 
Pope Alexander III. and Barbarossa, and the for- 
mer having received a safe conduct, had ah-eady ar- 
rived at Venice from Ferrara, in company with the 
ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the consuls 
of the Lombard league. There still remained, how- 
ever, many points to adjust, and for several days 
the peace 'was believed to be impracticable. At this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor 
had arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the 
capital. The Venetians rose tumuituously, and in- 
sisted upon immediately conducting him to the city. 
The Lombards took the alarm, and departed towards 
Treviso. The Pope himself was apprehensive oi 
some disaster if Frederic shtyild suddenly advance 
upon him, but was reassured by the pr\idence and 
address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Several em- 
bassies passed between Chioza and the capital, until, 
at last, the Emperor relaxing somewhat of his pre- 
tensions, "laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put 
on ihe mildness of the lamb."* 

On Saturday, the 23d of July, in the year 1177, 
six Venetian galleys transferred Frederic, in great 
pomp, from Chioza to the island of Lido, a mile 
from Venice. Early the next morning the Pope, 
accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors, and by 
the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled 
from the main land, " together with a great 
concourse of people, repaired from the patii 
archal palace to St. Mark's church, and solemnly 
absolved the Emperor and his partisans trom the 
excommunication pronounced against him. The 
Chancellor of the Empire, on the part of his mas- 
ter, renounced the anti-popes and their schismatic 
adherents. Immediately the Doge, with a great 
suite both of the clergy and laity, got on board the 
galleys, and waitir.g "on Frederic, rowed hin in 
j mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The 
Emperor descended from the galley at th6 quay ol 
the Piazetta. The Doge, the "patriarch, his bish- 
lops and clergy, and the people of Venice with theii 
'crosses and their standards, marched in solemn pro- 
cession before him to the churcli of Snint Mark. 
Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the 
basilica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, by 

I • " Q,iiibu8 a-jditis, imperator, opcninle co, qui cortla principum ucut va> 
«t quando yult numiliter iuclimu, leoniiiii firiute deposita, oTiuam mas 
•uetudinein induil." Roinualdi Saleruitani Chronicon. apud Scr^iA. Bar 

.lUd.Tom. VU.|..33». 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Ihe patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and 
oibhops of Lombardy, all of them in state, and 
clothad in ttieir church robes. Frederic ap- 
proa hed — 'moved by the Holy Spirit, venerating 
the Aln.-.g^'ly in the person of Alexander, laying 
aside hln imperial dignity, and throwing off his 
mantle, Ae pi^'strated himself at full length at the 
feet ot Jie P )pe. Alexander, with tears in his 
eyes, raised l.iui benignantly from the ground, 
kissed htm, blessed him ; and immediately the 
Germans of the train sang, with a loud voice, * We 
praise tJtiee, O Lord.' The Emperor then taking 
the Pope by th.e right hand, led him to the church, 
and having re<^ eived his benediction, returned to the 
ducal palace." * The ceremony of humiliation was 
repeated the aext day. The Pope himself, at the 
request of Frtderic, said mass at St. Mark's. The 
Emperor agaia laid aside his imperial mantle, and, 
taking a wand in his hand, officiated as verger, driv- 
mg the laity from the choir, and preceding the pon- 
tiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting the gos- 
pel, preached to the people. The Emperor put 
himself close to the pulpit in the attitude of listen- 
ing ; and the pontiff, touched by this mark of his 
attention, for he knew that Frederic did not under- 
stand a word he said, commanded the patriarch of 
Aquileja to translate the Latin discourse into the 
German tongue. The creed was then chanted. 
Frederic made his oblation and kissed the Pope's 
feet, and, mass being over, led him by the hand to 
his white horse. He held the stirrup, and would 
have led the horse's" rein to the water side, had not 
the Pope accepted of the inclination for the per- 
formance and affectionately dismissed him with his 
benediction. Such is the substance of the account 
left by the archbishop of Salerno, wh.'> was present 
at the ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by 
every subsequent narration. It would be not worth 
60 minute a record, were it not the triumph of lib- 
erty as well as of superstition. The states of Lom- 
bardy owed to it the confirmation of their privi- 
leges ; and Alexander had reason to thank the 
Almighty, who had enabled an infirm, unarmed old 
man, to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign.f 

7. 

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
Stanza xii. lines 8 and 9. 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the 
Highlander, Oh, for one hour of Dundee ! Henry 
Dandolo, when elected Doge, in 1192, was eighty- 
five years of age. When he commanded the Vene- 
tians at the taking of Constantinople, he was con- 
sequently ninety-seven yeai's old. At this age he 
annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire 
of Romania,;): for so the Roman empire was then 
calli'd, to the title and to the territories of the Ven- 
etian Doge. The three-eighths of this empu-e were 
preserved in the diplomas until the dukedom of Gi- 
ovanni Dolfino, who made use of the above desig- 
li<i.ti()u in the year 13'57.^ 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in per- 
icn ; two ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were 



• lhy.p.23l. 

t See ll« aUve ited Romuald of Snleruo. In a Bocoiid sennoii wliich 
Alexmv'iT prei'died on Ite first day of August, lx;fore thi; Kmix-ror, ht» 
»>mpiirpd F rfderi: tt the pja'.lgnl son, and hlin«>?lf to tlin forgiving' frtlher. 

t Ml. (iibbnn has oinitttK! tlie (iiiportaiit <■, and hiw written Ronuuii 
lufeiid oT Ruiimni'e. Ducline and Full, cup. Ixl. note 9. But the title 
ioqiilnil by Diindoio innii tliui in the chronicle of liiv niimi lake, the Dog* 
Anilri'w Dandolo. Duoati titulo a^duiil, " Q,uarU» jiarti* et dimiilia totiut 
kriperii Jiomanine." And. DanJ Chronicon. ftip. iii. pun xxxvii. ap. 
Bcript. Iter. ItaJ. loin. xii. pajfe 331 And the Roinmiiie i» Pacrvi'd In the 
Hibwqueut iicu of llie Dojfi-g. Indeed the continiMituI poiwi««iona of the 
Orw'lt empire in Knrope were then generally known hy the n.vnie of Roinnniii, 
Wid that appollatjon in Hii'. nuen In th" nmpi) of Turkey ui applird to Thrice. 

% Sec die ...inthuiatioti ol Dniidolo'ii Chronicle, Ibid, pige 49b. Mr. 
Slbbon appeapi not to Include Doinno, following Bunuiln, who »'\y;"U 
fual tUolo ti uto Jin at Doge CHovantii Doljhto. Soe V'.tje do' Ducht dl 
t'aiu.'itt. o(>. ficiiiji. Uo«. Ibil. Una sxil. 530. 64t. 



tied together, and a drawbridge or ladder let down 
from their higher yards to the walls TheDugewas 
one of the first to rush hito the city. Then was 
completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy of the 
Erythraean sibyl. " A gathering t.)gether of the 
powerful shall be made amidst the waves of tne 
Adiiatic, under a blind leader ; they shall beset the 
goat — they shall profane Byzantium — they shall 
blacken her buildings — her spoils shall be dispersed ; 
a new goat shall bleat, until they have measured 
out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, and a 
half."* 

Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, nav 
ing reigned thirteen years, six months, and five 
days, and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, 
at Constantinople. Strangely enough it must sound, 
that the name of the rebel apothecaxy who received 
the Doge's sword, and annihilated the ancient gov 
ernment, in 1796-7, was Dandolo. 

8. 

But is not Doria's menace come to pass f 

Are tney not bridled? 

Stanza xiii. lines 3 and 4. 
After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the 
taking of Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by 
the united armament of the Genoese and Francesco 
da Carrara, Signer of Padua, the Venetians were 
reduced to the utmost despair. An embassy was 
sent to the conquerors with a blank sheet of paper, 
praying them to prescribe what terms they pleased, 
and leave to Venice only her independence. The 
Prince of Padua was inclined to listen to these pro- 
posals, but the Genoese, who after the victory at 
Pola, had shouted " to Venice, to Venice, and long 
live St. George," determined to annihilate their 
rival, and Peter Doria, their commander in chief, 
returned this answer to the suppliants : " On God's 
faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no peace 
from the Signor of Padua, nor from our commune 
of Genoa, until we have first put a rein upon those 
unbridled horses of yours, that are upon the porch oi 
your evangelist St. Mark. When we l>ave bridled 
them, we shall keep you quiet. And this is the pleas • 
ure of us and of yoin- commune. As for these my broth 
ers of Genoa, that you have brought with you to give 
up to us, I will not'have them : take them back ; for, 
in a few days hence, I sliall come and let them out 
of prison myself, both these and all the others." f 
In fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Mala- 
mocco, within five miles of the capital ; but their 
own danger and the pride of theii- enemies gavo 
coiirage to the Venetians, who made prodigious ef 
forts, and many individual sacrifices, all of them 
carefully recorded by their historiuns. Vettor Pi- 
sani was put at the head of thirty-four galleys. Th«> 
Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retiied to 
Chioza in October ; but they again threatened Ven- 
ice, which was reduced to extremities. At thia 
time, the 1st of January, 1380, arrived Carlo Zent), 
who had been cruising on the Genoese const with 
fourteen galleys. The Venetians were now stroup 
enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria was killed 
on the 22d of January by a stone bullet one hur. 
dred and ninety-five pt)ands weight, dischiu'ged 
from a bombard called the Trevisan. Cliio/a wiu 
then closely invested: five tho\isand auxiliaries, 
among whom were some Knglisli Condottieri, cuiu- 
manded by one Captain Ceccho, joined the Veue- 



" F\et pottnUiim in aquit Adriaiicia congrtgatio, eaco ptttituc*, Hir 
cum ambigent, Byssritiu/n prophannhunt, aiUficia lUitigraoitnt ; tftoUa 
rliajiergentur, Hircu* ttoain txitiUut ugque dum 1 .1 V j>ele» »t I X ftoJIUtt, 
tt lemit jn-ametmurali ilUcurrant." lCh»)nicon, llii.l. jvn» xxxiv.) 

t " Alla/e 'fi f>io, Sigiiori Venezimii, tion haiv>ttf inai /tuv <I<U Slf 
nore lU Pailoua, ne ilal nottro commiiut tit lieiioni, st />rimi*rn«if;il» ni"^ 
melttmo le t»-igli<i a queUi vogtri caoalli n/itttali, rhr aoiui «m la Ii*ra d4 
Vontro Evnni{elUla 6'. Marco. Intbreiuiii rhe gA l.avirnM, or fiirmm 
stare in biiona jmce, E lucula e la iulmriiine t>oiitrn,r ilel nuh o rotMtfMMU 
Quttti nutl fmtflli Qenevoti cht tiavete mettnti oon voi per iloinarci, nam I 
ooglio ; rimaitetegli in rlitlro /irrche io inltnilo ila i/ui o poi-hi gioim ttmr 
gli a rUcuottr, datlt lottrt yrigioni, § loro * gh aUri." 



88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



fciaus. The Genoese in their turn, prayed for con- 
ditions, but none were granted, until, at last, they 
Burrenuered at discretion; and, on the 24th of June, 
i380, the Doge Oontarini made his triumphal entry 
into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen 
galleys, many smaller vessels and barks, with all 
the ammunition and arms, and outfit of the expedi- 
tion, fell into the hands of the conquerors, who, 
had it not been for the inexorable answer of Doria, 
would have gladly reduced their dominion to the 
city of Venice. An account of these transactions 
is found in a work called the War of Chioza, ^vl•itten 
by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time.* 



The " Planter of the Lion.^^ 

Stanza xiv. line 3. 

Poani the Lion — that is, the Lion of St. Mark, 
the standard of the republic, which is the origin of 
the word Pantaloon — Piantelone, Pantaleon, Pan- 
taloon. 

10. 

Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as rmist 
Too oft remind her who and lohat enthralls. 

Stanza xv. lines 7 and 8. 

The population of Venice at the end of the seven- 
teenth century amounted to nearly two hundred 
thousand souls. At the last census, taken two years 
ago, it was no more than about one hundred and 
three thousand, and it diminishes daily. The com- 
merce and the official employments, which were to 
be the unexhausted source of Venetian grandeur, 
have both expired. f Most of the patrician man- 
sions are deserted, and would gradually disappear, 
had not the government, alarmed by the demolition 
of seventy-two, during the last two years, expressly 
forbidden this sad resource of poverty. Many rem- 
nants of the Venetian nobility are now scattered 
and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the 
banks of the Brenta, whose palladian palaces have 
sunk, or are sinking in the general decay. Of the 
" gentiluomo Veneto," the name is still known, 
and that is all. He is but the shadow of his former 
self, but he is polite and kind. It surely may be 

Eardoned to him if he is querulous. Whatever may 
ave been the vices of the republic, and although 
the natural term of its existence may be thought by 
foreigners to have arrived in the due course of mor- 
tality, only one sentiment can be expected from the 
Venetians themselves. At no time were the sub- 
jects of the republic so unanimous in their resolu- 
tion t( rally round the standard of St. Mark, as when 
it was for the last time unfurled ; and the cowardice 
and the treachery of the few patricians who recom- 
mended the fatal neutrality were confined to the per- 
sons of the traitors themselves. The present race can- 
not be thought to regret tlie loss of their aristocrat- 
ical forms, and too despotic government ; they think 
only on their vanished independence. They pine 
away at the remembrance, and on this subject sus- 
pend for a moment their gay good humor. Venice 
may be said in the words of the Scripture, " to die 
daily ; " and so general and so apparent is the de- 
cline, as to become painful to a stranger, not recbn- 
ciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring as it 
»rere before his eyes. So artificial a creation, having 
lost that principre which called it into life and sup- 
ported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
sink more rapidly t- ;.i it rose. The abhorrence of 
glavery which drove the Venetians to the sea, has, 
since their disaster, forced them to the land, where 
they may be at least overlooked amongst the crowd 
of dependants, and not present the humiliating 



• "Chronaca d«lia guerra di Chozac," &c. Script. Rer. Italic, torn, xv 
yp. 699 to 804. 

f " NonmiUnnim e noliilitJite imiDPriST sunt oppb, adpo ut vix (B8tiin;iri 
MMint: id ii'iod trilius e rebus oritur, "^arsimoiiia, coinmercio, aiqiie riz 
nnoiuinciitis, qun; e Rppiili. pcrtipiiuitt qur hanc oh cuisarn diuturna fore 
i^i««r."— »3e de Pruicipatibu^j Italia, 'I'raOatus edit. 1631. 



spectacle of a whole nation loaded witli recent 

chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that 
happy indifference which constitution alone can 
give, for philosophy aspires to it in vain, have not 
sunk under circumstances ; but many peculiarities 
of costume and manner have by degrees been lost, 
and the nobles, with a pride common to all Italiana 
who have been masters, have not been persuaded to 
parade their insignificance. Thctt splendor which 
was a proof and a portion of their power, they 
would not degrade into the trappings of theii sub- 
jection. They retired from the space which they 
had occupied in the eyes of their fellow-citizer:S ; 
their continuance of which would have been a f ymp* 
tom of acquiescence, and an insult to those who 
suffered by the common misfortune. Those who 
remained in the degraded capital might be said 
rather to haunt the scenes of their departed power, 
than to live in them. The reflection, " who and 
what enthralls," will hardly bear a comment from 
one who is, nationally, the friend and the ally of the 
conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to say thua 
much, that to those who wish to recover their inde- 
pendence, any masters must be an object of de- 
testation ; and it may be safely foretold that this 
unprofitable aversion will not have been corrected 
before Venice shall have sunk into the slime of he» 
choked canals. 

11. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Mttse ! 

Stanxa xvi. line '6. 
The story is told in Plutarch's life of Niciaa- 

12. 

And Otioay, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art 
Stanza xviii. line 5. 
Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the 
Ghostseer, or Armenian"; the Merchant of Venice; 
Othello. 

13. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter' d rocks. 

Stanza xx. lines 1 and 2. 

Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir pe 
culiar to the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky 
parts, where scarcely soil sufficient for its nourish- 
ment can be found. On these spots it grows to a 
greater height than any other mountain tree. 

14. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'ei' half the lovely heaven. 

Stanza xxviii. lines 1 and 2. 

The above description may seem fantastical oi 
exaggerated to those who have never seen an Orien- 
tal or an Italian sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly 
sufficient delineation of an August evening (the 
eighteenth) as contemplated in one of many rides 
along the banks of the Brenta near La Mira. 

15. 

Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 
With his melodioics tears, he gave himsef to fams. 
Stanza xxx. lines 8 and 9. 

Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, 
we now know as little of Laura as ever.* The dis- 
coveries of the Abbe de Sade, his triumphs, his 
sneers can no longer insti'uct or amuse. t We mast 
not, however, think that these memoirs are as 
much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although 



• See an Ilislnrical and Critical Essay on the Life and Character «* 
Petrarch ; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the Abbe de 
Sade : tlie first .ippcared about the year 1784 ; the oHier is inserted in thi 
fourth volume of the Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, ana 
both have Iwen incorporated into a work, published under the Bnt title hi 
Ballantyne i 1810. 

t Menioires ponr la Vie di P^.'raraue. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



89 



we are. told so by Dr. Beattie, a great name; but a 
little authority.* His "labor ' has not been in 
vain, notwithstanding his "love" has, like most 
other passions, made him ridiculous.f The hypoth- 
esis which overpowered the struggling Italians, and 
carried along less interested critics in its cui-reut, is 
*uii out. We have another proof that we can be 
n^'er sure that the paradox, the most singular, and 
therefore having the most agreeable and authentic 
air, will not give place to the reestablished ancient 
prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, 
died, and Avas buried, not in Avignon, but in the 
country. The fountains of the Sorga, the thickets 
of Cabritres, may resume their pretensions, and the 
exploded de la Bastie again be heard with compla- 
cency. The hypothesis of the Abbe had no stronger 
props than the parchment sonnet and medal found 
on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, and 
the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petiarch, now 
in the Ambrosial library. If these proofs were both 
incontestable, the poetry was written, the medal 
composed, cast, and deposited within the space of 
twelve hours : and these deliberate duties were per- 
formed round the carcass of one who died of the 
plague, and was hurried to the grave on the day of 
aer death. These documents, therefore, are too 
decisive : they prove not the fact, but the forgery. 
Either the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a 
falsification. The Abbe cites both as incontestably 
true ; the consequent deduction is inevitable — they 
are both evidently false.J 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a 
haughty vngin rather than that tender and prudent 
wife, who honored Avignon by making that town 
the theatre of an honest French passion, and played 
off for one and twenty years her little machinery of 
alternate favors and refusals \ upon the first poet 
of the age. It was, indeed, rather too unfair that a 
female should be made responsible for eleven chil- 
dren upon the faith of a misinterpreted abbreviation, 
and the decision of a librarian. || It is, however, 
satisfactory to think that the love of Petrarch was 
not platonic. The happiness which he prayed to 
possess but once and for a moment was surely not 
of the mind, II and something so very real as a 
marriage project, with one who has been i'^^y 
called a shadowy nymph, may be, perliaps, deteoteo 
in at least six places of his own sonnets.** The 
love of Petrarch was neither platonic nor poetical ; 
and if in one passage of his works he calls it 
" amore veementeissimo ma unico ed onesto," he 
confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was guilty 



• liilfi ot r-altie, hy Sir VV. Forbes, t. ii. p. 108. 

\ Mr. (JiWidi. called his memoirs "a labor of Iwe," 'See Decline aiifl 
Pall, cap. Ixx. note 1,) luid followed him with cotifidi-nce and delight. The 
lompil'T of a very voluiniuous work must take much criticism upon trust; 
Mr. Giljlwn has done so, tlux-^rh not as readily as dome other authors. 

J 'I'he sonnet I ad Ijefore awax>"Pd the suspicions of Mr. Horace Walpole. 
Bee hie letter j iVharton iu 1763. 

S " Par c») ^ it inanAp!, cette ulternativetde faveurs et de rijneurs bien 
TiduairA", ur.« "tTime tendro et »nge amuse, pendant vingt et un uiis, le plus 
jwaJ joflte de son siecle, sans faire la tni/indre brtche k son honour." 
Mrf-n. ituiirla Vie de Pctrirrju", Preface aux FransaU. The Italian e<litor 
•f uie LoudoM edition of Petrarch, who has translated Lord Woodhouselce, 
wooers the " femme lendre et sage," "raffinata at>».'.ta." Riflessioni- 
tatornu a madonna liiura, p. 23'1, vol. iii. eit. 1811. 

n 111 a dialogue with St. Augustin, Petnirch has descrilied Lnuri as having 
» licdy (■xhiuistt'd with rep<'at'-<l ptitht. 'I'he olil editors -read an.) printed 
pertur irii;ntf;i« ; but Mr. Cappenmier, librarian to the French kin? ii: 176^, 
Who saw J w MS. in th- Paris lllirary, made an alteuiation Uiat ' on lit et 
mt'on doit lire, pnrtubiia exhaastum." De Sade Joined the names ol 
Wessr*. Huuilot, and Bejot with Mr. CupiierouiiT, ai I In the whole diKC-usMiou 
(T lliis ptahf, rIiowccI hiin».'lfa downright lilerary xjgue. Seo K ill •ssioni , 
le., p. 267. Thouias Aquinas Is called in to »(5ttle whether Pitrareli's niU- 
!«■ wiu a ■?\iute m.iiil or a oontineiit wife. 

Tf " Piguialion, quiinto lodar tl del 
Dt;!!' Imagine tua, »>• mill'- volte 
N' aveatl ((uel ch' I' sol una vorrel." 
Sonneitn 5S i/uarulo giiitiM a Simon V nlut eonreOo. 
Li Rlnw, itc. par i. pig Ibb, uUlt. Von. I7S8. 

•• Bm RifleatioiAi, ftc, p *«. 

12 



and perverse, that it absorbed him v^jite and 

mastered his heart.* 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed 
for the culpability of his mshes ; for the Abbe de 
Sade himself, who certainly would not have been 
scrupulously delicate if he' could have proved his 
descent from Petrarch as well as Laura, is forced 
into a stout defence of his virtuous grandmother. 
As far as relates to the poet, we have no security 
for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy 
of his pursuit. He assures us in his epistle to pos- 
terity, that, when arrived at his fortieth year, he 
not only had in horror, but had lost all recollection 
and image of any " irregularity. "f But the birth 
of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earliei 
than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the mpfacry 
or the morality of the poet must have failed him, 
when he forgot or was guilty of this slip. | The 
weakest argument for the purity z' this love has 
been drawn from the permanence of effects, which 
survived the object of his passion. The reilection 
of Mr. de la Bastie, that vu'tue alone is capable oi 
making impressions which death cannot efface, i* 
one of those which everybody applai'ids, and every 
body finds not to be true, the moment he examines 
his own breast or the record of human feeling. § 
Such apothegms can do nothing for Petrarch or for 
the caixse. of morality, except with the very weak 
and the very young. He that has made even a 
little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage can • 
not be edified wdth anything but truth. What ia 
called vindicating the honor of an indiA-idual or a 
nation, is the most futile, tedious, aud uninstructive 
of all writing ; although it will always meet with 
more applause than that sober criticism, which ia 
attributed to the malicious desire of reducing a 
great man to the common standard of humanity 
It is, after all, not unlikely, that our historian was 
right in retaining his favorite hypothetic salvo, 
which secures the author, although it scarcely saves 
the honor of the still unkno\vn mistress of Petrarch 

16. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died. 

Stanza xxxi. line L 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his re- 
turn fiom the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban 
V. at Rome, in the year 1370. and, with the ex(;ep- 
tion of his celebrated visit to Venice, in company 
with Francesco Novello da Carrara, he appears to 
have passed the four last years of his life between 
that charming solitude and Padua. P'or four montha 
previous to his death he was in a state >f continual 
languor, and in the morning of July the 19th, in 
the year 1374, was found dead in his library chair, 
witli his head resting upon a book. The chair is 
still shown among the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneratitm that has 
been attached to every thing relative to this great 
man from the moment of his death to the pres-cnt 
hour have, it may be hoped, a better chance of au- 
thenticity than the Shaksperian memorials of Strat- 
ford upon Avon. 

Ar(|ua (for the last syllable is accented in nro- 
nunciation, although th'e analogy of the Eugli^h 
language has bi^en observed in the verse), is twelve 
miles from Padua, aud aliout three miles on the 
right of the high road to Kovigo, in the bosom -| 



• " duella roa e pervern poasione che tolo tutto inioccui>avae mi n>gnaTa 
nrl cuorn." 

t AzioH dithotitula are his words. 

t " A ipiesui conlesslone cosi sincvra dlodo forw occaslono uno nuova c«rt 
ntu ch' «i fec<i." TIralHischI, Sioria, § c. Uiin. v. lib. Iv. |>iv.-. II. pag. 4W. 

§ " // n'y a que la o*rtu ttule qui toU cnjnble de foir* iie» imnrtuiotm 
qua la inort n'effnce ;««." M. do Blmanl, lUivn d«> la lJ.*tie, In Hit- Men* 
oir •• d« I'Aradeniie des Inscriptions el Bella* I*lti«« for 17a' aiul 1751. Wm 
also Killesslorti, &o., p. -^95. 

n " Ai\d If the virtue or prn<|er.ce of I jh urn was Im-xoniMe, h^ enJo)r«4 
and nilfht IxKut of rnjoyinji tlie nyniphof f*««try." I'>"<'line tml Kali. c*» 
Uk. i>. in, vol. sU. oa. Perhaps the (/ U Iters meuit fur •UyimKk. 



90 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ihe Eu(?anean hills. After i walk f twenty min- society, and was only snatched from his intemled 
ates across a flat, well -wooded meadow, you cojne to sepultui-e in their church by a. foreign death. Anoth- 
a little blue lake, clear, but fathomless, and to the er tablet with a bust has been erected to him at 
foot of a succession of accli\-ities and hills, clothed Pavia, on account of his having passed the aut\imn 
with -idneyards and orchards, rich with fir and pome- 1 of 1368 in that Sity, with his son-in-law Brossaro, 
granate trees, and every simny fruit shrub. From j The political condition which has for ages pre- 
the banks of the lake the road winds into the hills, ! eluded the Italians from the criticism, of the living, 
and the church of Arqua is soon seen between a \ has concentrated their attention to tLc illustration 



'cleft where two ridges slope towards each other, 
and nearly enclose the village. The houses are 
scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these 
summits ; and that of the poet is on the edge of a 
little knoll overlooking two descents, and com- 
manding a view not only of the glowing gardens in 
the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide 
plains, above whose low woods of mulberry and 
willow, thickened into a dark mass by festoons of 
vines, tall single c^-presses, and the spires of towns 
are seen in the distance, which stretches to the 
mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adi'iatic. 
The climate of these volcanic hills is warmer, and 
the vintage begins a week sooner than in the plains 
of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said 
to be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised 
on four pilasters on an elevated base, and presei-ved 
from an association with meaner tombs. It stands 
conspicuously alone, but will be soon overshadowed 
by four lately plaiited laurels. Petrarch's fountain, 
for here every thing is Petrarch's, springs and ex- 
pands itself benexth an artificial arch, a little below 
the church, and abounds plentifully, in the driest 
season, with that soft water which was the ancient 
wealth of the Euganean iiills. It would be more 
attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with 
hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could 
assimilate the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. 
The revolutions of centuries huve spared these se- 
questered valleys, and the only violence which has 
been offered to the ashes of Petrarch was prompted 
not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was made 
to rob the sarcophagus of its ti-easure, and one of 
the arms was stolen by a Forentine through a rent 
which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, 
but has served to identify the poet with the country 
where he was born, but where he would not live. A 
peasant boy of Arqua being asked who Petrarch 
was, replied, " that the people of the parsonage 
knew all about him, but that he only knew that he 
was a Florentine." • 

Mr. Forsyth* was not quite correct in saying that 
Petrarch never retui'ned to Tuscany after he had 
once quitted it when a boy. It appears he did pass 
through Florence on his way from Parma to Rome, 
and on his return in the year 1350, and remained 
there long enough to form some acquaintance -with 
its most distinguished inhabitants. A Florentine 
gentleman, ashamed of the aversion of the poet for 
his native country, was eager to point out this trivial 
error in our accomplished traveller, whom he knew 
and respected for an extraordinary capacity, exten- 
sive erudition, and refined taste, joined to that en- 
gaging simplicity of manners which has been so 
frequently recognized as the surest, though it is 
certainly not an indispensable trait of superior ge- 
nius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxious- 
ly traced and recorded. The house in which he 
lodged is shown in Venice. The inhabitants of 
Arezzo, in order to decide the ancient controver«iy 
between their city and the neighboring Ancisa, 
where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, 
and remained until his seventh year, have designat- 
ed by a long inscription the spot where their great 
fellow citizen was born. A tablet has been raised to 
him in Parma, in the chapel of St. Agatha 



of the dead. 



17. 
Or, it may be, with demons. 

Stanza xxxiv. 



linfc> 



The struggle is to the full as likely to \e with 
demons as with oui- better thoughts. Satan vhose 
the wilderness for 'the temptation of our Sa\dour 
And om- imsnllied John Locke preferred the pres- 
ence of a child to complete solitude. 

18. 
In face of all hi^foes, the Cruscan quire; 
And Boileau, whose rash envy, Sro. 

Stanza rxxviii. lines 6 and 7. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates 
Tasso, may serve as well as any other specimen to 
justify the opinion given of the harmony of French 
verse. 

A Malerbe a Racan, prefere Theophile, 

Et le cliuquant du Tasse a tout I'or de Virile. 

Sat ix. vers. ITS. 

The biographer Serassi,* out of tenderness to the 
reputation either of the Italian or the French poet, 
is eager to observe that the satirist recanted or ex- 
plained away this censure, and subsequently allowed 
the author of the Jerusalem to be a " genius, sub- 
lime, vast, and happily born from the higher flights 
of poetry." To this we will add, that the recanta- 
tion is far from satisfactory, when we examine the 
whole anecdote as reported by Olivet. f The sen- 
tence pronounced against him by Bohours;}: is re- 
corded only to the confusion of the critic, whose 
palinodia the Italian makes no efibrt to discover, 
and would not perhaps accept. As to the opposi- 
tion which the Jerusalem encountered from the 
Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all 
competition with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, 
the disgrace of such opposition must also in some 
measure be laid to the charge of Alfonso, and th^ 
court of Ferrara. For Leonard Salviati, the princi 
pal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was 



* PureiiUbus prasclaris genera peruitiquo 

Ethices Christianse scriptori eixmio 

RoiTiaiise lingxiEe restitutori 

Etrtiscs priucipi 

Afric« ob tarnien liac in urbe peractum regibus uctta 

S. P. Q. R. laurea donata 

TarU: Viri. 

Juveni^um juviMiis senilium senei 

Studiossissimug. 

Conies Nicolaus Canonicus Cicoguarm 

Marmorea proxiina ara excitaia. 

Ibiqiie conditu 

Divs Janiiariae cruento corpore 

H. M. P. 

Siift'ectum 

Sed infn nieritum Francisci sepiilchio 

Summa hac in sede eflerri maudantis 

Si Panns occumberet 



Extera morte heu nobis crept). 

• U) Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. p. 2W, torn. ii. eilil. Bergtimo, \1V . 

t Hife'.oirs de i'Acaddriiie Frangaiae, depuu>1652 jusqu' a 1700, parTAla 

d'OliTet. p. 181, edit. Am»terd£im, 1730. "Mau, eiisiiiie, veiiaiital'us.io;equ' 

a fiiit de »ei talent, j'aurois niontre que le bon sens n'esi pas toujoure ce q« 

it the dominechezhii," p. 182. Boiloau said he had not chansreil his opinion: 

cathedral, t because he was an archdeacon of that "J'enaiaipeu change 'tii-ii," &c., p. isi. 

I I LaManiere de bien Pensi>r dans les ouvrages de I'espril, sec. dial. p. 89. 

- I edit. 1692. Philanthes is for Tasso, and says, in the r'ts-t, " de loiis .ei 

• Hemaits, tc an Italy, p. 95, not«, 2(1 edit. j beaux esprits que I'ltalie a poites, le Tasse est peut-Sir*, icliii qui pense M 

t D. 0. M. I pliiB nobleinem." But Bohoiirs seems to speak in Ejdcxns, who closes wiu 

Frandaca Petararcha the absurd comparison: " Faites valoire If Tixase taut qu'il vous p -lir*, || 

m'en tiens pour moi a Virgile," #c. J' " ■ p. ^02. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



there can be dO doubt,* influenced by a hope to ac- 
quire the favor of the House of Este; an object 
which he thought attainable by exalting the reputa- 
tion of a native poet at the expense of a rival, then 
Kjjrisoner of state. The hopes and efforts of Sal- 
viati must serve to show the cotqmporary opinion 
as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and 
will till up the measure of oui- indignation at the 
tyrant jailer.f In fact, the antagonist of Tas.^o 
was not dissappointed in the reception given to his 
criticism ; he was called to the court of Ferrara, 
where having endeavored to heighten his claims to 
favor by panegyrics on the lamily of his sovereign,! 
he was in tm-n abandoned, and expired m neglected 
poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was 
brought to a close in six years after the commence- 
ment of the controversy ; and if the acad,emy owed 
its first renown to having almost opened with such 
a parodox,^ it is probable that, on the other hand, 
the care of his reputation alleviated rather than ag- 
jrravated the imprisonment of the injured poet. 
The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found em- 
ployment for many of his solitary hours, and the 
captive could have been but little embarassed to 
reply to accusations, where, axnongst other delin- 
quences, he was charged with invidiously omitting, 
in his comparison between France and Italy, to 
make any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del 
Fiore at Florence. || The late biographer of Ariosto 
seems as if willing to renew the controversy by 
doubting the interpretation of Tasso's self-estima- 
tionll related in Serassi's life of the poet. But 
Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry at rest,** by 
showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
question of comparison, but of preference. 

19. 
The lightning rent from Ariosto" s bust 
The iron crown oflaareVs mimic' d leaves. 

Stanza xli, lines 1 and 2. . 
Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from 
the Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, 
his bust, which surmounted the tomb, was struck by 
lightning, and a crown of iron laurels melted away. 
The event has been recorded by a writer of the last 
century. ft The transfer of these sacred ashes on 
the 6th of June, 1801, was one of the most brilliant 
spectacles of the short-lived Italian Republic ; and 
to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the 
once famous fallen liitrepidi were revived and re- 
formed into the Ariostean academy. The large 
public place through which the procession paraded 
Was then for the tirst time called Ariosto Square. 
The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as the 
Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara.]:^' The mother of 
Ariosto was of Reggio, and the liouse in whigh he 
was born vi cjavat'n.l i y .^.i'*V.r'.3"!.i«hed by a tablet with 



* La Vtui tc., lib. iii. p. 90, loin. ii. The English n'a<^.&t rrvay tee in 
Mciaiit uf (he opfx»>itiaii ot° ihe Crnueu tu 'Piisso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c., 
•.tp, xvii. vut. ii. 

t For t'urthor, and, il is hoped, di-ciitive proof, ihiit 'I'asHO wii« iieithei moro 
kor leas than a prisoner of alaU, the mndci' in rt'trrrcd to " Hiatoncal Illut- 
Watiojvi of ihe fVtli Cantu of OhiliU Harold," piiff. 5 ind lullowhig. 

X Orazioiii fund ri . . . di^ll.! lo.li Don l-ul;,''! Ciinlinal il'Eate . . . delle lodi 
Ii Donno ATonuo 'K»t<^. See \m Vita, lib. ili. p. 117. 

t It wiiB foniidt.. ill 1582, und the Cnucan iii.»*"ir to Pellogrino'i Caraffa 
me tjnca poe§ia wa* publiiihmi in 1584, 

I "CotanUJ poti aenipre in hii il veleno dcllii gua peiwinia volonli conlro 
kite na/.lui I'lon-tilinu." lia Vita, lih. iii. p. 96, 98, toin. ii. 

^ \m ViUdi M. !>. ArioHU), iicritiu ditl'.' Abiiif Uiorlamo niirotlhldl (rliin- 
toni, &c., f'urmra, I8U7, lib. ili. p. 'Mi S<-e liliiUiricui llUiitniUoiui, &c., 

** Stiiria della I,iHt. &c., lib. 111. torn. r,,. ,iiir. iii. p. ItX, soct. 4. 

tt "Mi nccoiiMrono que' nioniioi, ch' •■tufiidu cinliitu un luliniiie nnllii 
fitn chirta HChinnib cimo dalle tempi)' In coroniin di liiiiro k qupH' iiiiiiKirtide 
pnitii." Opdi BUncuni, vol. iii. p. 17«, ••d. Miluiio, IWi; li-Ueru ■! 8i^ior 
BuidoBuvIni Arcifi>iiocrlilco,auir indole di un riiliniiie ciiUuto in Dretdii I'ul'jo 
17S9. 

\X " Appiiminiiatn uniinlniVirt u<i inviiui iipologlaui dell' OlMTD FVrra- 
tMt." 'I'hi' lillr VHii lint Kivi'ii by 'I'xmKi, tnd ia ({iioicd tu the cunluiioit of 
«tt Vnuua, lib. IL. pp. 'J»i, 'Mi La Vita tU M. L. AjrluMo, *o. 



these words: "Qui nacqice Lzidor::o Arioito n 

giorno 8 di Settembre deW anno 1474." But the 
Ferrarese make light of the accident by which theil 
poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusivel} fci 
their own. They possess his bones, they show Ida 
arm-chair, and Ms inkstand, and his autographs. 

" Hie iTius arnia 

Hie ciirrus fuit " 

The house where he lived, the room where he 
died, are designated by his own replaced memorial,* 
and by a recent inscription. The Ferrarese are 
more jealous of their claims since the animosity ol 
Denina,- arising from a cause which their apologists 
mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, ventured 
to degrade their soil and climate to a BcBotian inca- 
pacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto vol 
uine has been called forth by the detraction, and 
this supplement to Barotti's Memoirs of the illus- 
trious Ferrarese has been considered a triumphant 
reply to the " Quado Storico Statistico delT Alta 
Italia." 

20. 

For the true laurel-tor eath which Glory weaves 

Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves. 

Stanza xli. lines 4 and 5. 

The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel,t and the 
white vine,;J: were among the most approved pre- 
servatives against lightning ; Jupiter chose the first, 
Augustus Cajsar the second,^ and Tiberius never 
failed to wear a wreath of the third when the skj 
threatened a thunder-storm. 1| These superstitions 
niay be received without a sneer in a country where 
the magical properties of the hazel twig have not 
lost all their credit; and perhaps the reader may 
not be mucli surprised to find that a commentator 
on Suetonius has taken upon himself gravely to 
disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of Tibe- 
rius, by mentioning that a few years before he wrote 
a laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome % 

21. 

Knoio that the lightning sanctifes below. 

Stanza xli. Line 8. 

The Curtian lake and the E tminal fig-tree in the 
Forum, having been touched by lightning, were 
held sacred, and the memory of the accident was 
preserved by a ^«^6'«/ or altar, resembling the mouth 
of a well, with a little ch.ipel covering the cavity 
supposed to be made by tlie thunderbolt. Bodies 
scathed and persons struck dead were thoi^iiht to 
1)0 incorruptible ;** and a stroke not fatal conferred 
perpetual dignity upon the man so distinguished by 
heaven. ft 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped in a 
white garment, and buried \vhcre they fell. The 
superstition was not confined to the worshippers ol 
Jupiter; the Lombards believed in the omens fur- 
uishtid by lightning, and a Christian priest confcsseii 
that, by a diabolical skill in interpreting tlumdcr, a 
seer foretold to Agilulf, Duke of Turin, an event 
which came to pass, and gave him a queen and a 
crown. ++ Thtre was, however, something eciuivo- 
cal in this sign, wliich the ancient inhai)itants ol 
Rome did not always consider propitious : and a« 
the fears are likely to last longer than the cousola- 



* " Parra ind apta inilii, sed milU olmoxin, ■«><{ non 
Sill da, parta nteo Bed lamen mre doinui." 

t Acpiila, vitulut iniirijiu*, ot launu, fulinhie noii fi-n\.iit<-r. Pihi. N« 
Hint. till. ii. cap, Iv. 

} ('iiliiniella, lit), x. 

§ Sii'ton. iii^Vii. AiifTKit. cap. *?. 

II Sui'tun. hi Vlt. 'I'ilnTii, c.\p. Uix. 

IT Notp 'i^ p, 409, .'dll. liUjcl. Bill. 18IT7. 

•• Vid. J. C, Hiillon)r»'r, lu Terra Motu rt Ptilniiiiih, !»», ». oip Bl. 

♦ 1 ()ip(?£ij KiftavvtoOtl<> &Tif„ii tart, ot)sv xal u)j ^£^^ rt 
n'tTUt, Phil. Syiii|t>«. via. J. C Bullriig. m mip. 

n Paxil DIacuiii, de Oatth UugobKnl. m. WL Mp, ilv. lo. 19 «tlMi 
Taufiu. Um. 



92 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



♦ions of superstition; it is not strange that the Ro- 
toans of the age of Leo X. should have been so 
much terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to 
require the exhortations of a scholar, who arrayed 
all the learning on thunder and lightning to prove 
the omen favorable ; beginning with the flash which 
struck the walls of Velitraj, and including that 
which plaj'ed upon a gate at Florence, and foretold 
klie pontificate of one of its citizens.* 

« 

22. 

Italia ! oh Italia ! (Src 

Stanza xlii. line 1 

The awo stanzas, XLII. and XLIIL, are, with 
the exception of a line or two, a translation of the 
fiULCUs sonnet of Fillicaja: 

"Italia, Italia, tu cui feo la sorte." 

23. 
Wande7'ing in youth, I traced the path of hbn, 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind. 
Stanza xliv. lines 1 and. 2. 

The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicus to 
Cicero on the death of his daughter describes it as 
It then was, and now is, a path which I often traced 
In Greece, both by sea and land, in difierent jour- 
neys and voyages. 

*' On my return from Asia, as I was sailing from 
.^gina towards Mcgara, I began to contemplate the 
prospect of the countries around me : yEgina was 
behind, Megara before me ; Piraeus on the right, 
Corinth on the left ; all which towns, once famous 
and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in 
their ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think 
presently within myself, Alas ! how do we poor 
mortals "fret and vex ourselves, if any of om- friends 
happen to die or to be killed, whose life is yet so 
«hort, when the carcasses of so many noble cities lie ' 
here exposed before me in one view." f 

24. 

And we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form 

Stanza xlvi. lines 7 and 8. 
It is Poggio who, looking from the Capitoline 
hill upon ruined Rome, breaks forth into the excla- 
mation, " Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata 
jacet, instar gigantei cadaveris corrupt] atque un- 
dique exesi." j 

25. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone. 

Stanza xlix. line 1. 
The %'iew of the Venus of Medecis instantly sug- 
gests the lines in the Seasons, and the comparison 
of the object with the description proves not only 
the correctness of the portrait, but the peculiar 
turn of thought, \nd, if the term may be used, the 
sexual imagination of the descriptive poet. The same 
conclusion may be deduced from another hint in the 
same episode of Musidora; for Thomson's notion of 
the privileges of favored love must have been either 
very primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when 
ce m ide his grateful nymph inform her discreet 
Damcn that in some happier moment he might, 
perhaj)s, be the companion of her bath : 

" The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the 
Life of Dr. Johnson. "We will not leave the Flor- 
pntine gallery without a word on the Whetter. It 



seems strange that the chars. : ter of that disputeo 
statue should not be entirely decided, at least In th^i 
mmd of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in the 
vestibule of the Basilica of St. Paul without the 
walls, at Rome, where the whole group of the fable 
of Marsyas is seen in tolerable preservation ; and 
the Scythian slave whetting the knife is represented 
exactly m the same position as the celebrated master- 
piece. The slave is not naked ; but it is easier to 
get rid of this difliculty than to suppose the knife 
in the hand of the Florentine statue an instrument 
for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, 
the man is no other than the barber of Julius Cicsar. 
AVinkelmann, illustrating a bas relief of the same 
subject, follows the opinion of Leonard Agostini, 
and his authority might have been thought conclu- 
sive, even if the resemblance did not sti'ike th» 
most careless observer.* 

Among the bronzes of the same princely collec- 
tion is still to be seen the inscribed table't copied 
and commented up.on by Mr. Gibbon.f Our histo- 
rian found some difficulties, but did not desist from 
his illustration : he might be vexed to hear that l:.ia 
criticism has been thrown away on an inscriptioa 
now generally recognized to be a forgery. 

26. 

His eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet che'ik. 

Stanza li. lines 6 and 7. 



• 1. p. Vabriana de fulminum significationibus declamatio, ap. Crsv. 
tntiq. Rom. tonu t. p. 593. The declamation U addresi>t-d tu Julian of 
Medecu. 

t Dr. Middleton— Hiatory of the Life of M. TulUus Cicero, sect. vii. p. 
8T1, vol. ii. 

J Do fortunK Tarietate uibii Rome, et de ruinii ejuadem deicriptio. ap. 
HeOsbtre, Tbewor. tew. i. p. 501. 



*0(p9aXnovs ttTTtav. 

" AUiue oculos paacat uturque surm." 

Ovid. Amor. lib. il. 

27. 
In Santa Grace's holy precincts lie. 

Stanza liv. line 1 
This name will recall the memory, not only of 
those whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into 
the centre of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of 
her whose eloquence was poured over the illustiicms 
ashes, and whose voice is now mute as those she 
sung. CoRiXNA is no more ; and with her should 
expire the fear, the flatterv, and the en-vy, which 
threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud round the 
marcli of genius, and forbade the steady gaze ot 
disinterested criticism. We have her picture em- 
bellished or distorted, as friendship or detraction 
has held the pencil : the impartial portrait was 
hardly to be expected from a contemporary. The 
immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, 
be far from affording a just estimate oi her singular • 
capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and ■ 
the hope of associated fame, which blunted the 
edge of censure, must cease to exist. — The dead 
hav*no sex; they can surprise by no new miracles ; 
they can confer no privilege ; Corinna has ceased 
to be a woman — she is only an author : and it may 
be foreseen that many will repay themselves for 
former complaisance, by a severity to which the ex- 
travagance of previous praises may perhaps give the 
color of truth. The latest posterity, for to liie 
latest posterity they will assuredly "descend, wv^J 
have to pronounce upon her various productions 
and the longer the vista through which they ar« 
seen, the more accurately minute will be the object, 
the more certain the justice, of the decision. She 
will enter into that existence in which the great 
T^Titers of all aj^es and nations are, as it were, asso- 
ciated in a world of theh own, and, from that supe- 
rior sphere, shed their eternal influence for the con- 
trol and consolation of mankind. But the individ- 
ual will gradually disappear as the author is more 
distinctly seen : some one, therefore, of all those 
whom the charms of involuntary \vit, and of easy 



* See Monim. Ant. IneU. par. i. cap. zvfi. n. xlci. pig. SO 
delli Arti, 4itc., lib. zi. cap. I. tcm. li. pa^. 314 noL B. 
t Nomina gcnleique Antiqiue italis p. 20A edit. ori. 



JNOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



93 



ftOS};it ill* tj, attracted Tdlhin the friendly circles of 
Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues 
•v'hich, although they are said to love the shade, 
are, in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by 
the domestic cares of private life. Some one 
should be found to portray the unaffected graces 
with which she adorned those dearer relationships, 
the performance cf whose duties is rather discov- 
ered among the interior secrets, than seen in the 
outward managemert, of family intercourse ; and 
which, indeed, it requires the delicacy of genuine 
affection to qualify lor the eye of an indifferent 
spectator. Some one should be found, not to cele- 
Drate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centre of a society, ever varied, 
and always pleased, ^le creator of which, divested 
of the ambition and the arts of public rivalry, shone 
forth only to give fresh animation to those around 
her. The mother tenderly affectionate and tenderly 
beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, but still 
esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, 
and protected, ancT fed. Her loss will be mourned the 
most where she was known the best ; and, to the 
soiTOws of very many friends and more dependants, 
may be offered"the disinterested regret of a stranger, 
who, amid the sublimer scenes of the Leman lake, 
received his chief satisfaction from contemplating 
the engaging qualities of the incomparable Corinna. 

28. 
Here repose 
Angela's, AlfierVs bones. 

Stanza liv. lines 6 and 7. 
Alflen IS the great name of this age. The Ital- 
WD.s, without waiting for the hundred years, con- 
sider him as " a poet good in law." — His memory 
i« the more dear to them because he is the bard of 
freedom ; and because, as such, his tragedies can 
receive no countenance from any of their sovereigns. 
They are but very seldom, and but very few of 
them, allowed to be acted. It was observed by 
Ticero, that nowhere were the true opinions and 
feelings of the Romans so clearly shown as at the 
-heatre.* In the autumn of 1816, a celebrated im- 
provisatoire exhibited his talents at the opera-house 
of Milan. The reading of the theses handed in for 
the subjects of .his poetry was received by a very 
numerous audience, for the most part in silence, or 
with laughter; but when the assistant, unfolding 
one of the papers, exclaimed, " The Apotheosis of 
Victor Aljieri,'' the whole theatre burst into a 
shout, and the applause was continued for some 
moments. The lot did not fall on Alfieri ; and the 
Signer Sgricci had to pour forth his extemporary 
common-places on the bombardment of Algiers. 
The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite so 
much as might be thought from a first view of the 
ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look 
at the papers beforehand, but in case of any pru- 
dential afterthought, steps in to correct the blind- 
ness of chance. The proposal for deifying Alfieri 
was received Avith immediate enthusiasm, the rather 
ftecause it was conjectured there would be no oppor- 
t'jjiity of carrying it into effect. 

29. 
Her^i UachiavellVs earth returned to whence it rose. 
Stanza liv. line 9. 



The affectation of simplicity in sepc chral in*aip. 
tions, which so often leaves us uncertain whethei 
the structure before us is an actual depository, or a 
cenotaph, or a simple memorial not of death bat 
life, has given to the tomb of Machiavelli no ia- 
formation as to the place or time of the birth OT 
death, the age or parentage, of Jhe historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOOIVM 
NICC0LAV8 MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name shoulil 
not have been put above the sentence which alludo 
to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudicea 
which h^ve passed the name of Machiavelli into an 
epithet proverbial of iniquity, exist no longer at 
Florence. His memory was persecuted as his life 
had been, for an attachment to liberty incompatible 
■with the new system of despotism, which succeeded 
the fall of the free governments of Italy. He was 
put to the torture for being a " libertine," that is, 
for wishing to restore the republic of Florence ; and 
such are the undying efforts of those who are in- 
terested in the perversion not only of the nature of 
actions, but the meaning of words, that what was 
once patriotism, has by degrees come to signify de 
bauch. We have ourselves outlived the old mean 
ing of " liberality," which is now another word for 
treason in one country and for infatuation in all. It 
seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the 
author of the Prince, as being a pander to tjTanny ; 
and to think that the Inquisition would condemn 
his work for such a delinquency. The fact is that 
Machiavelli, as is usual with those against whom 
no crime can be proved, was suspected of, and 
charged with, atheism ; and the first and last most 
violent opposers of the Prince were both Jesuits, 
one of whom persuaded the Inquisition "bench^ 
fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, and the other 
qualified the secretary of the Florentine republic as 
no better than a fool. The father Possevin was 
proved never to have read the book, and the father 
Lucchesini not to have understood it. It is clear, 
however, that such critics must have objected not 
to the slavery of the doctrines, but to the supposed 
tendency of a lesson which shows how distinct are 
the interests of a monarch from the happiness ol 
mankind. The Jesuits are rei^stablished in T' xly, 
and the last chapter of the Prince may again call 
forth a particular refutation, from those who are 
employed once more in moulding the minds of the 
rising generation, so as to receive the impressions 
of despotism. The chapter bears for title, " Esoi 
tazione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari," and con 
eludes with a libertine excitement to the future re 
demption of Italy. " Non si deve adunqiie lasciat 
jiassare qiiesta occasione, acciocche la Italia vegqa 
dopo tanto tempo appaire un suo redentore. \iV«? 
posso espriniei'e con ^ual amore ei fusse ricevtito in 
tutte quelle provincie, che hanno patito per qiieste 
illuvioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, con che 
ostinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte ?J li 
serrerebenof Qu-ali popoli li netjherebbeno la obbedi' 
enzaf Quale Italiano li tm/herebbe Vosscquiot AD 

OQNUNO PUZZA UUE8T0 BAUBARO DOMINIO."* 



30. 



Ungrateful Florence . 



Dante sleeps afar. 
Stanza Ivii! line 1 



• The free exprculon sf their hon<^ lentlnienU iurvlved Oieir libortiei. 
TUim, the friend of Antony, pre«enU>d them wilh pimci in the theatre of 
Poiiipey. They did not iutl'er the brillluricy of the ipoctticle to efluce from I 
Ihelr memory Ihnt the mnn who furnished thum with the entertainment had { 
murdered the ion of Pompey ; they drove him from the tliuutro witit curtea. 
The moral lonae nf a popiiliice, ipontnncouily exprenrd, U never wrung, 
tven the soldien of the triumvln Joined In the execration of the citiieni, by 
thouting roimd the clinrioti of I.<ppitlui iind Piancm, who hnd pnacribed 
ihMr brolhen, rt» OtrmanU non (U Oallu duo triumjihant Contultt ; a 
Mylng worth a reconl, were it notliing btit n gtxxl pun. [C. Veil, PvtereuU 
Ukk lib. U. M^ luix. i«(. 78, oOk. KUevlr, 1639. Did. lib. U. cap. lurtL] 



Dante was bom in Florence in the year 1261. Ha 
fought in two battles, was fourteen times ambassa 
dor, and once prior of the republic. When th« 
party of Charles of Anjou triumphed over the Bi« 
anchi, he was absent on an embassy to Pope Boni- 
face VIII., and was condemned to two years* ban* 



* II Principe dl Nlecol6 MaehinTelll, kc, con la prenuiflne « la noM I 
riche e poUtiche dl Mr. Amelol d« la Houmb/o e I' eaani 
open. .... CaaroopoU, ITMk 



04 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



isi ment and to a fine of eight thousand lite ; on non- 
payment of which he was further punished by the 
sequestration of all his property. The republic, 
however, was not content with this satisfaction, for 
in 1772 was discovered in the archives at Florence a 
sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list of 
fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt alive ; Tails 
pervenietis iyne comburatur sic quod moriatur. The 
pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair 
barter, extortions, and illicit gains. Baracteriai im 
miquarwn, extorsionum, et ilUcitorum lucroniin* 
and %vith such an accusation it is not strange that 
Dante should have always protested his innocence, 
and the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His iippoal 
to Florence was accompanied by another to the 
Emperor Henry ; and the death of that sovereign 
in 1313, was the signal for a sentence of irre-^cable 
banishment. He had before lingered near Tuscany 
with hopes of recall ; then travelled into the north 
of Italy, where Verona had to boast of his longest 
residence ; and he finally settled at Ravenna, which 
was his ordinary but not constant abode until his 
death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant him 
a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da 
Polenta, his protector, is said to have been the 

frincipal cause of this event, which happened in 
321. He was buried (''in sacra minorum sede ") 
at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected 
by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, 
praetor for that republic which had refused to hear 
him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and 
replaced by a more magnificent sepulchre, con- 
structed in 1780, at the expense of the Cardinal 
Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or misfortune 
of Dante was an attachment to a defeated party, 
and, as his least favorable biographers allege against 
him, too great a freedom of speech and haughtiness 
of manner. But the next age paid honors almost 
divine to the exile. The Florentines, having in 
vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
crowned his image in a chiu-ch,t and his picture is 
still one of the idols of their cathedral. They 
struck medals, they raised statues to him. The 
cities of Italy, not being able to dispute about his 
own birth, cuntended for that of his great poem, 
and the Florentines thought it for their honor to 
prove that he had finished the seventh canto before 
they di-ove him from his native city. Fifty-one 
years after his death, they endowed a professorial 
chair for the expounding of his verses, and Boccac- 
cio was appointed to this patriotic emi)Joyment. 
The example was imitatea by Bologna and Pisa, 
j and the commentators, if they performed but little 
I service to literature, augmented the veneration 
which beheld a sacred or moral allegory in all the 
unages of his mystic muse. His birth and his in- 
fancy were discovered to have been distinguished 
■ibove those of ordinary men ; the author of the De- 
cameron, his earliest biographer, relates, that his 
mother was warned in a dream of the importance of 
her pregnancy : and it was found, by others, that at 
ten years of age he had manifested his precocious 
pas.«ion for that ^^dsdom or theology, which, under 
the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a 
•ubotantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy 
had been recognized as a mere mortal production, 
and at the distance of two centuries, when criticism 
and competition had sobered the judgment of Ital- 
ians, Dante was seriously declared superior to 
Homer : % and, though the preference appeared to 
Bome casuists '* an heretical blasphemy worthy of 
the dames," the contest was vigorously maintained 
for nearly fifty years. In later times it was made a 
question which of the Lords of Verona could boast 



• S'oria della Lett. Ital. lorn. v. lib. iii. par. 2, p. 448. Tiraboschi is iiicor- 
•ct : -he dRtes of the three decree* against DaiHe are A. D. lao^, 1314, and 
>16. 

t So relate? Picino, bntipomo tlunl{ his coronation only an allegory. See 
llofte, fte., u: sup. p. 463. 

I By Vsrciu in his Ercolanr, The confrover»y continued from 1570 to 
6)6. ' See Stjria. Ac, to-n. vU Ub. iii. par. iU. d. 1380 



of having patronized him,* and the jealous skepti 

cism of one writer would not allow Ravenna the 
undoubted possession of his bones. Even the crit- 
ical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that the poet 
had foj-eseen and foretold one of the discoveries ol 
Galileo. — Like the great originals of other nations, 
his popularity has not always maintained the same 
level. The last age seemed inclined to xmdervalue 
him as a model and a study ; and Bettinelli one day 
rebviked his pupil Monti, for poring over the hai'sh 
and obsolete extravagances of the Commedia. The 
present generation, having x'ecovered from the Gal- 
lic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the an- 
cient worship, and the Danteggiare of the northern 
Italians is thought even indiscreet by the morci 
moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious •information relativft 
to the life and writings of this great poet wliich has 
not as yet been collected even by the Italians ; but 
the celebrated Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this 
defect, and it is not to be regretted that this national 
work has been reserved for one so devoted to h^'s 
country and the cause of truth. ^ 

31. 

Like Sctpio, buried by the upbraiding share; 

Thy factiotis, iti their worse than civil war^ 

Proscribed^ ^c. 

Stanza Ivii. lines 2, 3, and 4. 
The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was 
not buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to 
voluntary banishment. This tomb was near the 
sea-shore, and the story of an inscription upon it, 
Inqrata Patria, having given a name to a modern 
tower, is, if not true, an agreeable -fiction. If he 
was not buried, he certainly lived there.-f 

In cosi angTista e soiitaria rilla 

Era '1 grand' uonio che d'Africa s'appcUa 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.J 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar 
to republics ; and it seems to be forgotten that for 
one instance of popular inconstancy, we have a 
hundred examples of the fall of courtly favorites. 
Besides, a people have often repented — a monarch 
seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar 
proofs of this fact, a short story may show the dif- 
ference between even an aristocracy and the multi- 
tude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354 at 
Potolongo, and many years afterwards in the morfl 
decisive action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled 
by the Venetian government, and throvni into 
chains. The Avvogadori proposed to behead him, 
but the supreme tribunal was content with the sen- 
tence of imprisonment. "Whilst Pisani was suffer- 
ing this unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity 
of the capital,^ was, by the assistance of the Sigtior 
of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. 
At the intelligence of that disaster the great bell 
of St. Mark's tower tolled to arms, and the people 
and the soldiery of the g alleys were summoned to 
the repulse of the approaching enemy ; but they 
protested they would not move a step, unless Pisani 
were liberated and placed at their head. The great 
council was instantly assembled ; the prisoner wag 
called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Conta- 
rini, informed him of the demands of the people 
and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
safety was reposed on his eff'orts, and who "implored 
him to forget the indignities he had endured in her 
service. " I have submitted," replied the magnan- 
imous republican, "I have submitted to your delib- 



• Gio. Jau»po Dionigi C&ncnico di Verona. Serie dl Anedntto, n. 2. Sea 
Storia, &c., torn. v. lib. i. par. i. p. 24. 

t Vitam Litenii egit sine desideio urbis. See T. IJt. HisU llh. xxxtBI 
Liry reporU that some said he wa< buried tt Utemtim, otheia at R>ine lb 
cap. \r. 

X Tiionfo della Caatita. 

S See note 8, pa^ 03. 



JSrOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



95 



^tic ns without complain^; I have supported pa- 
tently the pains of impr.aoiiment, for they were 
inflicted at your command : this is no time to in- 
quii-e whether I deserved tiiem — the good of the re- 
public may have seemed to require it, andthat 
which the republic resolves is always resolved wisely. 
JBehold me ready to lay down my life for the preser- 
vation of my country." Pisani was appointed gen- 
eralissimo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with 
those of Carlo Zeuo, the Venetians soon recovered 
'the ascend' ancy over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to 
tbjeir citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, 
both with the one and the other, seems to have 
been a national, net an individual object: and, not- 
irithgtanding the boasted equality before the laws, 
which an ancient Greek writer * considered the 
gi-eat distinctive maj-k between his countrymen and 
the barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens 
Beem never to have been the principal scope of the 
old democracies. The world may have not yet seen 
an essay by the author of the Italian Republics, in 
which the distinction between the liberty of former 
states, and the signification attached to that word 
by the iiappler constitution of England, is ingeni- 
ously developed. The Italians, liowevei, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh 
upon those times of turbulence, wheii every citizen 
might rise to a share of sovereign power, and have 
never baen taught fully to a,ppreciate the repose of 
a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when Francis Maria 
n. Duke «f Rovere proposed the question, " which 
was preferable, the republic or the principality — the 
perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not 
BO liable to change," replied, "that our happiness 
is to be measured by its quality, not by its duration ; 
and that ho preferred to Uve for one day like a man, 
than for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, or a 
Btone." This was thought, and called^ a magnijice7it 
answer do-vn to the last days of Italian servitude.f 

32. 

And the crown 
yVhich Petrarch's laureate hroio supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown. 

Stanza Ivii. lines 6, 7, and 8. 
The Florentines did not take the opportunity of 
Petrarch's short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke 
the decree which confiscated the property of his 
father, \sho had been banished shortly after the 
exile of Dante. His crown did not dazzle them ; 
but when in the next year they were in want of his 
assistance in the formation of their university, they 
repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent 
to Padui to entreat the laureate to conclude his 
wanderings in the bosom of his native country, 
where he might finish his imrnortal Africa, ana 
enjoy with his recovered possessions, the esteem of 
all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him 
the option of tiie book and the science he might 
conde.3cend to expound: they called hiin the glory 
of his country, who was dear, and would be dearer 
to thf^m; and they added, that if Ihere was anything 
Dnph asing in their letter, he ought to return among 
then:, weio it only to correct tlieir style. | Petrarch 
•"cmt 1 at first to listen to their fiattery and to the 
entreatietf of his friend, but he did not return to 
Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of 
Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 

33. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust. Stanza Iviii. hnea 1 and 2. 



• Th» Gret'k 'lOHsl-d tlini lie win iff i/J/i'j. 8«e tlie \n*t clmp'.iT of the 
Int look or I)L>>iiyuiiii of IlaliciirnniiNtiH. 

t " K iiiiorii<> nlla magit^Un ntjHutn," ftc. Semari Vita del Tiuno, Ub. 
1L prg. 149, loin. li. cdlc U. Bcrguiiiu. 

t " AMiiigitl innollri:, v e\4 Ifcito nucor r''iiorL'iiti, a cuinpire rininiortal 
lof ilrioi. ... He ti :ivvioi)iie (i'lncoiunn- i:i-l iiiMiru ttil« coait cho ll itlapt- 
■«n, a6 rtel)b' niteti- un altro motlvo ajl rioiifcre 1 (VmUo] (WUu lua fnilria." 
ivm itlla liMt. lai. UNO. V. pu. L Ub. p iff. 70. 



Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Mictae 
and St. James, at Certaldo, a small town in the 
Valdelsa, which was by some supposed tlie place ol 
his birth. There he passed the latter part of hi« 
life in a course of laborious study, which shortened 
his existence ; and there might his ashes have beeu 
secure, if not of honor, at least of repose. But the 
" hyaena bigot^, " of Certaldo tore up the tombstone 
of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincta 
of St. Michael and St. James. The occasion, and, 
it may be hoped, the excuse, of this ejectment was 
the making of a new floor for the church ; but the fu'^t 
is, that the tombstone was taken up and thrown 
aside at the bottom of the building. Ignora^ije 
may share the sin with bigotry. It would be pi^infi.'. 
to relate such an exception to the devotion of the 
Italians for theii" great names, could it not be a<'- 
companied by a trait more honorably conformable to 
the general character of the nation. The principal 
person of the district, the last branch of the house 
of Medicis, aiforded that protection to the memory 
of the insulted dead which her best ancestor? had 
dispensed upon all cotemporaVy merit. The Mar- 
chioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccac 
cio from the neglect in which it had some time lain, 
and found for it an honorable elevation in her own 
mansion. She has done more : the house in which 
the poet lived has been as little respected as his 
tomb, and is falling to ruin over the head of one 
indiiferent to the name of its former tenant. It 
consists of two or three little chambers, and a low 
tower, on which Cosmo II. affixed an inscription 
This house she has taken measiLres to purchase, 
and proposes to devote to it that care and consider- 
ation which are attached to the cradle and to thf 
roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of 
Boccaccio ; but the man w]jo exhausted his little 
patrimony in the acquirement of learning, who vras 
among the first, if not the first, to allure the sci- 
ence and the poetry of Greece to the bosom of 
Italy ; — who not only invented a new style, but 
founded, or certainly fixed, a new language ; wlio, 
besides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, 
was thought worthy of employment by the predom- 
inant republic of his own country, and, what is 
more, of the friendship of Petrarch, who lived the 
life of a philosopher and a freeman, and who died 
in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a man might 
have found more consideration than he has met with 
from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English 
traveller, who strikes off his portrait as an odious, con- 
temptible, licentious writer, whose iiupur# remain? 
should be sufiered to rot without a record.* That 
English traveller, unfortunately for those who have 
to deplore the loss of a very amiable person, is be- 
yond all criticism ; but the mortality which did not 
protect Bocca(!cio from Mr. Eustace, must not de.A 
tend Mr. Eustace from the impartial judgment of 
his successors. — Death may canonize his virtues, not 
his errors ; and it may be modestly pronounced that 
ho transgressed, not only as an author, but as a 
man, when he evoked the shade of Boccacio in com- 
l)any with that of Aretine, amidst the sepulchrea 
of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with mdigciky 
As fiir as respects 

'Ml fliigplloik-' Princtpl, 
II niviii Pictro Arelino," 



• Clwuiiciil Tour, cap. ix. vol. U. p. 355, etlit. 3il. " Of Borcccclo, IN> 
modem IVtruiiiiu, we sny iiotliiiig; the iilitine of gt^iiitu U iimrp (xtioui ao<t 
iiior<< coiiteinptiUo ilinii lis nl«encc; and it inipurts litile wImtc Uw Impact 
iTiimlni of a llceniiuiiii Hiiihor are coniiigi^nad to their l<liidr«l dvist. PVir lh« 
■nine reoaon the tmvellor may pnaa uniiolicitl tlie toinb of the OHdlfaak 
An-tlno." 

Thii dubiniui phrnc li hanlly eiioiiirli to tavf th^ touriit fn>in the iiitritciiv 
of ttiiiitlii'i' liliindiT n-npiciiiijfr Ihf luirial-plncc of Antiim, whose toinh Wo. in 
the churcli of Si. I.ulto at V.iiice, iiiul gave ria<> to tlie r\iiiou» c"iitn>rrr>iy ut 
which ioine notice la tjikrii in Biiylc. Now the wonii of Mr. Kuitmv wmilj 
li'iul iM lo tliink the tomb was at Florence, or at Ifaat win to be «»iii(>whor« 
rccoifiiliiod. Whrthcr ihe Inicrlpdnn to mnch diipiilrtl wn» I'vt-r wrttleu i« 
the uiiiih cannot now be decldixl, fur aV innnioiiuJ ol Uiia uttltwi baa il<Mr 
firoiii iho chiuxh of St. Lute. 



1)6 



B IRON'S WORKS. 



it 18 of little import what censure is passed upon a 
coxcomb who owes his present existence to the 
above burlesque character given to him by the poet 
tt'hose amber has preserved many other grubS' and 
worms ; but to classify Boccaccio with such a per- 
ron, and to exconimunicate his very ashes, must of 
itself make us doubt of the qualification of the 
classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, 
upon any other literature ; for ignorance on one 
point may incapacitate an author merely for that 
partici.lar topic, but subjection to a professional 
prejudice must render him an unsafe director on all 
occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be 
madti what is vulgarly called "a case of con- 
Rciencf," and this poor excuse is all that can be 
offered for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of 
ttie Classical Tour. It would have answered the 
purpose to confine the censure to the novels of Boc- 
caccio, and gratitude to that source which supplied 
the muse of Dryden with her last and most harmo- 
nious nu', ibers might perhaps have restricted that 
censure to the objectionable qualities of the hun- 
di'ed tales. At any rate the repentance of Boccaccio 
might have aiTested his exhumation, and it should 
have been recollected and told, that in his old age 
he wrote a letter to his friend to discourage tiEie 
reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, 
and for the sake of the author, who would not have 
an apologist always at hand to state in his excuse 
that he wrote it when young, and at the command 
of his superiors.* It is neither the licentiousness 
of the WTiter, nor the evil propensities of the reader, 
which have given to the Decameron alone, of all the 
works of Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The 
establishment of a new and delightful dialect con- 
ferred an immortality on the works in which it was 
first fixed. The sonnets of Petrarch were, for the 
same reason, fated to surf ive his self-admired Africa, 
the ^'favorite of kings. ^^ The invariable traits of 
nature and feeling with which the novels, as well as 
the verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief 
source of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but 
Boccaccio, as a man, is no more to oe estimated by 
that work, than Petrarch is to be regarded in no 
other light than as the lover of Laura. Even, how- 
ever, lx«,d the father of the Tuscan prose been known 
only as the author of the Decameron, a considerate 
writer would have been cautious to pronounce a 
sentence irreconcilable with the unerring voice of 
many ages and nations. An irrevocable value has 
never been stamped upon any work solely recom- 
mended b^^impurity. 

The triie source of the outcry against Boccaccio, 
which began at a very early period, was the choice 
of his scandalous personages in the cloisters as well 
as the courts ; but the princes only laughed at the 
gallant adventures so unjustly charged upon queen 
Theodelinda, whilst the priesthood cried shame 
upon the debauchees dra^vn from the convent and 
the hermitage ; and most probably for the opposite 
reason, namely, that the picture was faithful to the 
life. Two of the novels are allowed to be facts use- 
fully turned into tales, to deride the canonization of 
rogues and laymen. Ser Ciappelletto and IMarcelli- 
uus are cited with applatise even by the decent Mu- 
tatori t The great Arnaud, as he is quoted in 
Rjiyle, states, that a new edition of the novels was 
proposed, of which the expurgation consisted in 
omitting the words "monk" and "nun," and 
tacking the immoralities to other names. The lit- 
erary history of Italy particularizes no such edition ; 
but it was not long before the whole of Europe had 
but one opinion of the Decameron: and the absolu- 
tion of the author seems to have been a point set- 
tled at least a hundred years ago. " On se feroit 



[siffler si Ton pretendoit convaincre Boecace d< 
n'avoir pas ete honnete horame, puis qu'il a fait U 
! Decameron." So said one of the best men, and 
perhaps the best critic, that ever lived—the very 
martyr to impartiality.* But as this information, 
that in the beginning of the last century one would 
have been hooted at for pretending that Boccaccio 
was not a good man, may seem to come from one oi 
those enemies who are to be suspected, even when 
they make us a present of truth, a more acceptable 
contrast mth the proscription of the body, soul, and 
muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
from the virtuous, the patriotic cotemporary, who 
thought one of the tales of this impure writer 
worthy a Latin version from his own pen. " / have 
remarked elsewhere," says Petrarch, writing to 
Boccaccio, " that the book itself has been worried by 
certain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff and 
voice. Nor was I astonished, for I have haa proof 
of the vigor of your mind, and I know you have 
fallen on that unaccommodating incapable race of 
mortals who, tohatever they either like jiot, or know 
not, or can?wt do, are sure to reprehend in others , 
and on those occasions only put on a show of learning 
and eloquence, but otherwise are entirely dumb.''' f 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do 
not resemble those of Certaldo, and that one of them 
who did not possess the bones of Boccaccio would 
not lose the opportunity of raising a cenotaph to 
his memory. Bevius, canon of Padua, at the be- 
ginning of the sixteenth century, erected at Arqua, 
opposite to the tomb of the Laui-eate, a tablet, in 
which he associated Boccaccio to the equal honors 
of Dante and of Petrach. 

34. 
What is her pyramid of precicrus stones? 

Stanza Ix. line 1. 
Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo 
and expires with his grandson ; that stream is pure 
only at the source ; and it is in search of some me- 
morial of the virtuous republicans of the family that 
we visit the church of St. Lorenzo at Florence. 
The tawdry, glaring, unfinished chapel in that 
church, designed for the mausoleum of the Dukes 
of Tuscany, set round with crowns and coffins, gives 
birth to no emotions but those of conternpt for the 
lavish vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pave- 
ment slab, simply inscribed to the Father of his 
Country, reconciles us to the name of Medici.J It 
was very natural for Corinna § to suppose that the 
statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella 
de' dejjositi was intended for nis great namesake ; 
but the magnificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a 
coffin half hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The 
decay of Tuscany dates from the sovereignty of tlie 
Medici. Of the sepulchral peace which succeede I 
to the establishment of the reigning families in 
Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing but a 
faithful picture. " Notwithstanding all the sedi- 
tions of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the 
horrid factions of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and 
Biauchi, nobles and commons, they continued popu- 
lous, strong, and exceeding rich ; but in the space 
of less than a hundred and fifty years, the peaceable 
reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed 
nine parts in ten of the people of that pro\-ince. 
Among other things it is remarkable, that when 
Philip the Second of Spain gave Sienna tJ the 
Duke of Florence, his ambassador then at Rome 
sent him word, that he had given away more than 



* " Non enim ubique est, qui in excusaiionem meam consurg^ns dicat, juve- 
ais Miipsit, et majoria coriciua imperio." The letter waa addresxed to Magh- 
Inard of Caralcantl, marshal of the kingdom of Sicily. See Tiraboschl, 
Storia, *«., torn. t. par. ii. lib. Hi. pag. 525, ed. Van. 179S. I 

t DiaieiUjioiii lopta le Antiehiti Italiane, Dia. Iviii. p. 2S6, torn. IS. edit. ' 
tfBM. 1781. ( 



Eclaircitsement, &c., Sic, p. 638, eUiU Bifile, 1741, in the Supplemen 
to Bayle's Dictionary. 

t "Animadveni alicubi librum ipaum canum denUbusIaceasitum, tuotameo 
bacnlo egregii tuiqne voce defensam. Nee miratiu gum : nam et virei In- 
tui nori, et Bcio expnrtus esses hominum genus insoiens et ignarum, 
qui quicquid ipsi rel nolunt vel nesciunt, vel non possunt, ia aliia reprehendtint ) 
ad hoc unum docti et argiiti, sed elingues ad reliqua." . . . Epist. Joaa. Ba» 
catio, 0pp. torn. i. p. 540, edit. Basil. 

X Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater V 

t Corinne, Ut. xriii. cap. UL -j(. Ut. po^a !M8. 



•srOTJilS TC CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



97 



650,000 subjects; and it i? not believed there are 
now 2O,CD0 souls inhabiting that city and territory. 
• Pisa, Pistoia, • Arezzo, Covtona, and other towns 
that were then good and populous, are in the like 
proportion diminished, and Florence more than any. 
When that city had been long troubled with sedi- 
tions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unj ros- 
perous, they still retained such strength, that when 
Charles VIII. of France, being admitted as a friend 
with his whole army, which soon after conquered 
the kingdom of -Naples, thought to master them, 
the people, taking' arms, struck such a terror into 
him, that he was glad to depart upon such condi- 
tions as they thought fit to impose. Machiavel re- 
ports, that in that time Florence alone, with the 
Val d' Anio, a small territory belonging to that 
eity, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell 
bring togctlier, 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas 
now that city, with all the others in that province, 
are brought to such despicable weakness, emptiness, 
poverty, and baseness, that they can neither resist 
the oppressions of their own prince, nor defend him 
or themselves if they were assaulted by a foreign 
enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, and 
the best families sent to seek habitations in Venice, 
Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the 
effect of war or pestilence ; they enjoy a perfect 
peace, and suffer no other plague than the govern- 
ment they are under." * From the usTirper Cosmo 
down to the imbecile Gaston, we look in vain for 
any of those unmixed qualities which should raise 
a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. 
The Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cos- 
mo, had operated so entue a change in the Tuscan 
character, that the candid Florentines, in excuse for 
some impe'rf-^ctions in the philanthropic system of 
Leopold, are obliged to confess that the sovereign 
was the only liberal man in his dominions. Yet 
that excellent prince himself had no other notion of 
a national assembly, than of a body to represent 
♦he wants and wishes, not the will, of the people. 

35. 
4n earthquake reel'd unheededly away. 

Stanza Ixiii. line 5. 
' And such was their mutual animosity, so intent 
were they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which 
overthrew in great part many of the cities of Italy, 
which tu7'ned the course of rapid streams, poured 
back the sea upon the rivers, and tore down the very 
fTiOuyytains, was not felt by one of the combatants.'^ f 
Such is the description of Livy. It may be doubted 
whether modern tactics would admit of such an ab- 
rtraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be 
mistaken. The traveller from the village under 
Cortona to Casa di Piano, the next stage on the 
way to Rome, has for the first two or three miles, 
around him, but more particularly to the right, that 
flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to in- 
duce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. 
On his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills 
bending down towards the lake of Thrasimene, 
called ))y Livy " montes Cortonenses," and now 
named the Gualandra. These hills he approaches 
at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pretend to 
have been so denominated from the bones found 
there ; but there have been no bones found there, 
and the battle was fought on the other side of 
the hill. From Ossaja the road begins to rise a 
little, but does not pass into the roots of the moun- 
tains until the sixtv-seventh milestone from Flo- 
rence. The ascent thence is not steep but per])etual, 
and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is 
•oon seen below on the right, with Borghetto, a 



• On Oovemmeht, chup. li. locv xxvl. pny. 208, edit. 1T51. Sidney li, 
logetber wllli Locko and Hoiullcy, one of Mr. Ilurno'* " cUtpicnbh " wriffr». 

t " Tanliinquo fnit nnlor anlinorum, eado Intnntiii pujfnm aniiiiiik, iit run. 
imtrn mntuin (|iii mn.Uxrum iirblum Italln niagiina pane* pro«lrn»ll, arnrthqiio 
•■•u rapldu ninnea maru fluniiiilbus Inroxil, inoiitei lapau ingeni' oronai, 
■MM ptiipiuuUuin lenKrit." , . ft Ui. Ub. uV. ud. xU. • 

13 



round tower close upon the water ; and tl. e undu- 
lating hills partially covered with wood, among 
which the road mnds, sink by degrees into th^ 
marshes near to this tower. Lower than tne road 
doAvn to the right amidst these woody hillocks, 
Hannibal placed his horse,* in the jaws of or rathet 
above the pass, which was between the lake and 
the present road, and most probably close to Bor- 
ghetto, just under the lowest of the " tumuli." •}• 
On a summit to the left, above the road, is an old 
circular ruin which the peasants call "the Tower 
of Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived at the 
highest point of the road, the traveller has a partial 
view of the fatal plain, which opens fully upon hixc 
as he descends the Gualandra. He soon finds him 
self in a vale enclosed to the left and in front and 
behind him by tlie Gualandra hills, bending round 
in a segment larger than a semicircle, and mnning 
down at each end to the lake, which obliques to the 
right and form the chord of this mountain a -c. 
The position cannot be guessed at from the plains of 
Cortona, nor appeals to be so completely encloset^ 
unless to one who is fauiy within the hills. It then, 
indeed, appears " a place made as it were on pur- 
pose fpr a snare," locus insidiisnatus. " Borghetto 
is then found to stand in a narrow, marshy pass 
close to the hill and to the lake, whilst there is no 
other outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains 
than through the little town of Passignano, which 
is pushed into the water by the foot of a high rocky 
acclivity." + There is a woody eminence branching 
down from the mountains into the upper end of the 
plain nearer to the side of Passignano, and on this 
stands a white village called Torre. Polybius seems 
to allude to this eminence as the one on which Han- 
nibal encamped and drew out his heavy-armed Af- 
fricans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position. 6 
From this spot he despatched his Balearic and light 
armed troops round through the Gualandra heights 
to the right, so as to arrive unseen and form an 
ambush among the broken acclivities which the 
road now passes, and to be ready to act upon the 
left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse 
shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the 
lake near Borghetto at sunset ; and, without send- 
ing any spies before him, marched through the pass 
the next morning before the day had quite broken, 
so that he perceived nothing of the horse and light 
troops above and about him, and saw only the 
heavy-ajrmed Carthaginians in front on the hill of 
Torre. I| The consul began to draw out his army 
in the flat, and in the mean time the horse in am- 
bush occupied the pass behind him at Borghetto. 
Thus the Romans were completely enclosed, hav- 
ing the lake on the right, the main army on the hill 
of Torre in front, the Gualandi-a hills filled with 
the light-armed on their left flank, and being pre- 
vented from receding by the cavalry, who, the faj-ther 
they advanced, stopped up all the outlets in the 
rear. A fog rising from the lake now spread itself 
over the army of the consul, but the high lands 
were in the sunshine, and all the difierent corps in 
ambush looked towaids the hill of Torre for the 
order of attack. Hannibal gave the signal, and 
moved down from his post on the height. At the 
same moment all his troops on the eminences be 
hind and in the flank of Flaminius, rushed forward* 
as it were with one accord into the plain. The Ro- 
mans, who were forming their array in the mist, 
suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy among 



" EqullRi ad Ipaaa fauoea aaltui tunuiliii npte Ic^ntibut locaU" T. Uvf 
lib. xxli. cap. IV. 

t •• UU maxiriMi montca Corlonrniea Thn«»lnieniii aulill." IhkL 

J " Inde collet aaurffiml." \\M. 

% "Yov fdv Karh vj)6aMnov ri)j nnoilai Arf^ if aiirdf gart 
\a6eT0y Kai roOj A«7?ii'ij, «fni r<)Vi''ltiin>tii, e\tti> in^ avr»§ 
K(ir£7r<i(irotr('(5ciiCT£. Hl«<- Hh. Hi. cap. 83. Tho accMUnl In HoljrUu* k 
not to cually rccuncllid.lc with prrwnt Np|x<nrnncr« aa Ihnt in \Ary ; ha lalhi 
of hllli to tlw ri^lil iiikI l<-f\ ol iIk< pnu itiid valley ; but whan t^UMnkitm 
enlniwl he lad the lalUk nt tlw ri),'lit of lotli. 

I " A tmgo M auptvr caput ilcocperv ktaullti." T. LI*. A*. 



>iS 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



fheni , on every side, and before they cuxild fall into 
their ranks, or draw their swords, or see by whom 
Ihcy Avere attacked, felt at once that they were sur- 
rounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the 
Gualandra into the lake. The traveller crosses the 
first of these at about a mile after he comes into the 
plain, and this divides the Tuscan from the papal 
territories. The second, about a quarter of a mile 
further on, is called " the bloody rivulet," and the 
peasants point out an open spot to the left between 
the " Sanguinetto " and the hills, which, they 
«ay, was the principal scene of slaughter. The 
other pa^ of the plain is covered with thick set 
olive-trees in corn grounds, and is nowhere qaite 
level except near the edge of the lake. It is, in- 
deed, most probable, that the battle was fought near 
this end of the valley, for the six thousand Ro- 
mans, who, at the beginning of the action, broke 
through the enemy, escaped to the summit of an 
eminence which must have been in this quarter, 
otherwise they would have had to traverse the wluole 
plain and to pierce through the main army of Han- 
nibal, 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours, 
but the death of Flaminius was the signal for a gen- 
eral dispersion. The Carthaginian horse then burst 
in upon the fugitives, and the lake, the marsh about 
Borghetto, but chiefly the plain of the Sanguinetto 
and the passes of the Gualandra, were strewed with 
dead. Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to the 
left above the rivulet, many human bones have been 
repeatedly found, and this has confirmed the pre- 
tensions and the name of the " stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north 
some painter ic the usual genius of the place, and 
the foreign Julio Rom^ano more than divides Man- 
tua with her native Virgil.* To the south we hear 
of Roman names. Near Thrasimene, tradition is 
still faithful to the fame of an enemy, and Hanni- 
bal the Carthaginian is the only ancient name re- 
membered on the banks of the Perugian lake. 
Flaminius is unknown ; but the postillions on that 
road have been taught to show the very spot where 
fl Console Romano was slain. Of all who foiight 
.and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the historian 
himself has, besides the generals and Maharbal, pre- 
served indeed only a single name. Yoxi overtake 
the Carthaginian again on the same road to Ro'nie. 
The antiquary, that is, the hostler, of the posthouse 
at Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the vic- 
torious enemy, and shows you the gate still called 
Porta di Annibale. It was hardly worth while to 
remark that a French travel writer, well known by 
the name of the President Deputy, saw Thrasimene 
in the lake of Bolsena, which lay conveniently on 
his way from Sienna to Rome. 



But thoUf Clitum nus. 

Stanza Ixvi. line 1. 
No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on 
the temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and 
Spoleto, and no site, or scenery even in Italy, is 
more worthy a description. For an account of the 
dilapidation of this temple, the reader is referred to 
Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of 
Childe Harold. 

37. 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cat- 
aract. Stanza Ixxi. line 9. 
J saw the " Cascata del marmore " of Terni 
Iwice, at different periods ; once from the summit 
of the precipice, and again from the valley below. 
The lower view is far to be preferred, if the traveller 
has time for one only ; but in any point of view. 



either from aDore cr below, it is worth ali the cas 
cades and torrents of Switzerland put togetaer 
the Staubach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Ar- 
penaz, &c,, are rills in comparative appearance. Ol 
the fall of Schaffhausen I cannot speak, not yet 
having seen it. 

38. 
An ins sits amidst the infernal surge. 

Stanza Ixxii. line 3. 
Of the time, place, and qualities t f this kind o, 
iris, tne reader may have seen a sTiort account in s 
note to Manfred. The fall looks so much like " tJra 
hell of waters," that Addison thought the dc-scet-t 
alluded to by the gulf in which Alecto plunged ii. tc 
the infernal regions. It is singular enough ^%\ 
two of the finest cascades in Europe should be air 
tificial — this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoii 
The traveller is strongly recommended t^ trace the 
Velino, at least as high as the little lake called Pie* 
di Lup. The Reatine territory was the Italian 
Tcmpe,* and the ancient natm-alist, among othei 
beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rainbows ol 
the lake Velinus. f A scholar of great name kaa 
devoted a treatise to this district alone. % 



The thundering lauwirie. 

Stanza Ixxiii. line 5. 

In the greater part of Switzerland the avalanchca 
are known by the name of lauwine. 

40. 
/ abhorred 
Too much, to conquer for the poefs sake^ 
The drill d dull lesson, forced dowti word hy word. 

Stanza Ixxv. lines 6, 7, and 8 
These stanzas may probably remind the reader 
oi Ens>g7i Northert07i's remarks: "D — n Homo, 
&c., but the reasons for our dislike are not exactly 
the same. I wish to express that we become tned 
of the task before we can comprehend the beauty ; 
that we learn by rote before we can get by heart ; 
that the freshness is worn away, and the future 
pleasure and advantage deadened and destroyed, by 
the didactic anticipation, at an age when we can 
neither feel nor understand the power of composi 
tions which it requii-es an acquaintance with life, as 
well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason 
upon. For the same reason we never can be aware 
of the fulness of some of the finest passages ol 
Shakspeare, ("To be, or not to be," for instance,) 
from the habit of having them hammered into us at 
eight years old, as an exercise not of mind but 
of memory : so that when we are old enough to en 
joy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite p5.11e.l. 
In some parts of the Continent young persons are 
taught from more common authors, and do not read 
the best classics till their maturity. I certainly do 
not speak on this point from any pique or aversion 
towards the place of my edixcation. I was not a 
slow, though an idle boy ; and I believe no one could, 
or can be more attached to Harrow than I have al- 
ways been, and with reason ; — a part of the v.xiit 
passed there Vas the happiest of my life ; and mj 
preceptor (the Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury) was the hmi 
and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings 
I have remembered but too well, though too late— 
when I have erred, and whose coiinsels I have but 
followed when I have done well or wisely. If evei 
this imperfect record of my feeling towards hinj 
should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one whc 
never thinks of him but with gratitude and venera 
tion — of one who would more gladly boast of ha/- 



• About the middle of the Xllth century the coin* of Mantua be w on one 
Ide Oie image and figure of Virgil. ZeccA d'ltalia, plj»xvii. i. 6. . . Voyage 
^uu le Milanaii, *c, par. A. Z. Millin. torn. ii. pag. 294, Paris, 1817. 



• " ReatJiu me ad sua Tsmpe duxerunt." f icer. epist. ad Attic. «' 
Jb. ir. 

t " In eod«ni 'am nullo oon die appeiete arci^." Plin. IIIa. Nat. lib, M 
cap. Ixii. 

X Aid. Mantt. 'Je Reatlna crbe egroque, aj Sai engre, llteaaur. tern 
p. 773. 



i 



NOTES TO CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



99 



n^ been his pupil, if, by more closely following his 
injunctions, he could reflect any honor upon his in- 
•tnictor. 

41. 

The Scipios^ tomb contains no ashes now. 

Stanza Ixxix. line 5. 
For a comment on this and the two following 
•tanzas, the reader may consult Historical Illustra- 
tions of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 

42. 
The trchlv hundred triumphs. 

Stanza Ixxxii. line 2. 

Orosius gives three hundred and twenty for the 
number of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius ; 
&nd Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writ- 
ers. 

43. 
Oh thoUy whose chariot rolVd on Fortune's toheel, 8^c. 
Stanza Ixxxiii. line 1. 

Certainly were it not for these two traits in the 
life of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should re- 
gard him as a monster unredeemed by any admira- 
ble quality. The atonement of his voluntary resig- 
nation of empire may perhaps be accepted by us, as 
it seems to have satisfied the Romans, who, if they 
nad not respected must have destroyed him. There 
could be no mean, no division of opinion ; they 
must have all thought, like Eucrates, that what 
had appeared ambition was a love of glory, and 
that what had been mistaken for pride was a real 
grandeur of soul.* 

44. 

And laid him with the earth's preceding c^ay. 
•Stanza Ixxxvi. line 4. 

On the third of September, Cromwell gained the 
victory of Dunbar ; a year afterwards he obtained 
•' his crowning mercy " of "Worcester ; and a few 
years after, on the same day, which he had ever 
esteemed the most fortunate for him, died. 

45. 
And thou, dread statue ! still existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 

' Stanza Ixxxvii. lines 1 and 2. 
The projected division of the Spada Pompey has 
already been recorded by the historitvn of the " De- 
cline and Fall of tlie Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon 
found it in the memorials of Fhiminius Yacca, f 
and it may be added to his mention of it that Pope 
Julius III. gave the contending owners five hun- 
dred croAvns for the statue ; and presented it to Car- 
dinal Capo di Fcrro, wlio had prevented the judg- 
ment of Solomon from being executed upon the 
image. In h more civilized age this statue was ex- 
posed to an actual operation : for the French- who 
acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coliseum, re- 
solved that their Ca;sar should fall at the base of 
that Pompey, which was supposed to have been 
Borinkled Avith the blood of the original dictator. 
The nine-foot hero was therefore removed to the 
arena of the ampitheatre, and to facilitate its trans- 
port suffered the temporary amputation of its right 
arm. The republican tragedians had to plead that 
the arm was a restoration : but their accusers do not 
believe that the integrity of the statue would have 
protected it. The love of finding every coincidence 
has discovered the trup Cicsarian ichor in a stain 
near the right knee; but colder criticism has re- 
jected not only the blood but the portrait, and us- 
ligncd the globe of power rather to the first of the 
emperors than to the last of the republican masters 



• " Selpirur, vou« chniignz toctci mw l<l(Jeti <lo In r»roii donl Jo »on» voit 
l|[V. Je croyrU q\ip voi'h iivipi do I'ninl/ttlon, iimln i»i:ci!ii umoiir pour la 
|lali« ! }« voyt'i Iter q-ip rntm .Imr rfmll liiuite ; riinU Je no lotip^nnoia pat 
|0>U« fut gran Vjc."— nUlojpin .Ic .Svllii ct (I'Kncrin.-. 

* Mttoorie. I un. Irli. paf . 9, ap. M-jKtfaivKt, Darium Itallcuin 



of Rome. Winklemann * is Icath to allow an he- 
roic statue of a Roman citizen- but the Grim an] 
Agrippa, a cotemporary almost, is heroic; and 
naked Roman figures were only ve\y rare, not abso- 
lutely forbidden. The face accords much bettei 
with the " hominem integrum eicastu^n et gravetn^'" -f 
than with any of the busts of Augustus, and is toe 
stern for him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, al 
all periods of his life. The pretended likeness tc 
Alexander the Great cannot be liscerned, but the 
traits resemble the medal of Pom.pey. J The objec- 
tionable globe may not have been an ill-applied flat- 
tery to him who found Asia Minor the boundary, and 
left it in the centre of the Roman empire. It seema 
that Winkelmann has made a mistake in thinking 
that no proof of the identity of this statue, with 
that which received the bloody sacrifice, can be de- 
rived from the spot where it was discovered. § Fla- 
minius Vacca says sottu uia cantiua, and this can- 
tina is known to have been in the Vicolo de' Leu tari 
near the Cancellaria, a position corresponding ex 
actly to that of the Janus before the basilica of 
Pc^mpey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred 
the statue after the cicria was either burnt or taken 
down. Il Part of the Pompeian shade, IT the porti- 
co, existed in the beginning of the XVth century, 
and the atrium was still called Satrum. So says 
Blondus.** At all events, so imposing is the sterti 
majesty of the statue, and so memoi-able is the 
story, that the play of imagination leaves no room 
for the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, if 
a fiction it is, operates on the spectator Avith an «»^ 
feet not less powerful than truth. 

46. 

Afid thou, the thtmde^'-stricJien nurse of Rome .' 
Stanza Ixxxv'iii. line 1, 

Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded 
most probably with images of the foster-mother o\ 
her founders, but tliere were tAvo she-wolves of whom 
history rnakes particular mention. One of these, 
of brass in ancient rooi'k, was seen by Dionysius tf 
at the temple of Romulus, under the Palatine^ and 
is universally believed to be that mentioned by the 
Latin historian, as having been made from the money 
collected by a fine on usurers, and as standing un- 
der the Ruminal fig-tree Jl The other was that 
which Cicero ^\J has celebrated both in prose and 
verse, and which the historian Dion also records as 
having suffered the same accident as is alluded to 
by the orator. ||{| The question agitated by the dnti- 



* Storia (Idle ArtI, &c., lib. ix. c:ip. 1, pag. 321, 322, torn. ii. 
t Cicer. Rpisl. ad. Atticum, xi. 6. 

X Published by Caiiseiis in his Museum Romanum. 
§ Storia dclle Arti, &c. Ibid. 

]| Suflon. in vii. August, cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. Cipgnr, cap. 83. ^ppiat 
s;iys it was liunit down. See a note of Pitiscus to Suetonius, pag. 224. 
TT . " Tu niodo Pomp«'ia lenui spatiare sub umbra." 

UtM. Ar. Aman. 

* * Roma insuiumta, lib. ii. fo. 31 

tt \.i\x€(i TT'iifinarn ira^'iing Ipyaaiac, Antiq. Rom. lib I. 
XX '* Ad ru'iim Ruininalein siniuUicm inlanlium conditoruin urbis wtf 
iilv ribns lupip posurnuit." Liv. Hist. lib. x. cap. Ixix Thi* wh» in tia 
year U. C. 45), or 457. 

§§ " 'I'uni sfitua Nattfp, turn shnulacm Dponim, RnmnliiaQue rt Rem'H 
CMiii ;iltrici- Ix-lbia vi fulininus ictis concidernut." De DIvliiat. il. '20. " •IV> 
Itis i>Kt illi< (■ti:im qui hiuic tirtipm condidit Romulus, quern iujvumtum in Cnt^ 
lolio parvum »<quo Wctintem, uN-rihus luj iiiis inhiautem fulaae momiuinta. 
In Catilin. iil. 8. 

" Hie «llveg(riB<r;il Roinnni nonitnlt nltrlx 
Marll :>, qu.? prvos Mnvortis *>n)lne nntM 
Ulicribus gmvldlH vlt;di run* rigt-liat 
dua- tuu) cuui pu< Tin nanimnlo fulininli ictu 
Concidit, ntque avultui prdum renii ji.» llqulL" 

Do Consulatu, lib. Ii. (lib. I. de OiTinat. aqt. IJ 

im 'El' yl\p T(J (fairrjroAfM lUi^fiidvTFi rf troWni vwd cc^mv- 
viov cr\n'e\iovivOrfT,ii), Kn\' a)ii\narn .»V\a re, koi St<i( inl 
Ktov'i \^iiviiit'oif,eiKu>v Tt T(f >»(v«li'r;f (rtlj-irt re' 



'l»M,.,',,\,.. li^ojii.r,^ 



KCrrj. 



Di. 



(/ill' r( 

edil. Rob. Stcph. 15^8. He gaet on to mfulli 

on which thn jiiwa wrr«- writfn went llnupflcil am 

All Ih** ih.* liuinuna lUU vaa tu onct a large tUlua 



'Pi/ICO «d) 

IllM. lilt. XKivll. |.!g. 4T 

that the ktirra t>l '.Ik* cnlunu^ 



U luitlC 



100 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



quaries is, whether the wolf now in the conservators' 
palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or that of Cice- 
ro, or whether it is neither one nor the other. The 
earlier writers differ as much as the moderns : Lucius 
Faunus* says, tliat it. is the one alluded to by both, 
which is impossible, and also by Virgil, which may 
be. Fulvius Ursinus t calls it the wolf of Dionys- 
ius, and Marlianus t talks of it as the one men- 
tioned by Cicero. To him Rycquius tremblingly 
assents. j5 Nardini is inclined to suppose it may be 
one of the many wolves preserved in Ancient Rome ; 
but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian 
er-atue. |1 Montfaucon H mentions it as as a point 
without doubt. Of the latter \vriters the decisive 
Winkelmann ** proclaims it as having been found 
k\ the church of Saint Theodore, where, or near 
where, was the temple at Romulus, and consequent- 
ly makes it the wolf of Dionysius. His authority 
is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it 
xcas placed, not foxmd, at the Ficas Ruminalis, by 
the Comitium, by which he doe? not seem to allude 
to the church of Saint Theodore. Rycquius was 
the first to make the mistake, and WinkelmaiHi 
followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Yacca tells quite a different story, and 
says he had heard the wolf with the twins was 
found tt near the arch of Septimius Severus. The 
commentator on Winkelmann is of the same opin- 
ion Anth that learned person, and is incensed at 
Nardini for not having remarked that Cicero, in 
speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the 
Capitul, makes use of the past tense. But, -wdth 
the Abate's leave, Nardini does not positively assert 
the statue to be that mentioned by Cicero, and, if 
he had, the assumption would not perhaps have 
been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate himself 
is obliged to own that there are marks very like the 
scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the pres- 
ent wolf; and, to get rid of this, adds, that the 
wolf seen by Dionysius might have been also struck 
oy lightning, or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the 
words of Cicero. The orator in two places seems 
to particularize the Romtilus and the Remus, espe- 
cially the first, which his audience remembered 
to have been in the Capitol, as being struck with 
lightning. In his verses he records that tl* twins 



towards the east : no mention is afterwards made of the wolf. This happened 
n A. U. C. 689. The Abate Fea, in noticing this p;issage of Dion (Stori:i 
lelle Arti, &c., torn. i. pag. 202, note x.) says, Non osUinte, aggiunge 
Dione, che fosse ben ferjnata (the wolf) by wliich it is clear the Abite trans- 
ited the Xyhindro-Leunclavian version, which puts quambis stabilita for the 
original i^vuspr), a. word that does not mean ben fermeta, but only raised, 
jt may be distinctly se<-:n from another passage of tlie same Dion : 'H S'lvX))- 
6ri nlv ovv b 'Aypi-Trag Kal tov Avyovjrov tvravda ISfJVGnt. 
Hi«t. lib. Ivi. Dion says that Agripivi " wished to raise a statue of Augustus 
in the Pantheon." 

* " In eadem porticu senea lupa, cujus uberibiis Romulus ac Remus lactan- 
tes inhiant, conspicitur: de hac Cicero et Virgilius semper intellexere. Livius 
faoc signnm i»b ^lilibus ex pecuniisquibusmulctati esseu foeneratores, positum 
Uinuit. Antea in Comitiis ad Picum Rnminalem, quo loco pueri fuerant ex- 
potjr'.i locatum pro certo est." Luc. Fauni de Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. 
♦ii. ap. Sallengre, torn. i. p. 217. In his XVUth chapter he rejjeats tliat tlie 
itv les were there, bnt not that they were found there. 

t Ap. Nardini Roni^ Vetus, lib. v. Ciip. iv. 

J Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph, lib. ii. cap. ix. He mentions another 
WO-f and twins in the Vati&m, lib. v, cap. xxi. 

"Non lesunt qui hanc Ipsi-un esse putent, quam adpinximus, quje e 
Mnuto in Basilicam, Lateranum, cum nonnullis aliis antiquitatum reliquiis, 
alque huic in Capitolium postea relata s' quamvis Marliai. is antiquam Cap- 
lloUnam esse maluit ^ Tulliu ilescriptarr., >.ui ut in re nimis dubia, trepidA ad- 
lentimur." Just. Rycquii de Capil. Roman. Comm. cap. xxir. pag. 250, 
■dit. r.ugd. Bat. 1696. 

I Narxlini Roma Vetvs, ilh. v. cap. Iv. 

^ " Lupa hoilieque in capitoliuis pro8tn\t adibus, cum vestigio fulminis quo 
leU:n narrat Cicero." Diiriuin Italic. tt>m. j. p. 174. 

•* Storia delle Arti, &c., lib. iii. cap. iii. § ii. note 10. Winkelmann has 
innde a stnuige blunder in the note, by saying the Cioeroiiian wolf was not In 
the Capitol, and that Dion Wiis wrong in saying to. 

tt " luteal dire, che I'Ercolo di bronzo, che oggi d trova nella aala di 
Uampidogllu, fu trovato nel foro Romano appresso I'areo di Settimio . e vofu 
trovata anche la lupa di bronrxi che allata Romoto e Remo e sta nella I-iOggia 
le conMrvutori." Flam. Vacca, Memorie, num. liL flag, k ap. Moottaucon, 
Obtf. Ital. torn. L 



and wolf both fell, and the i.fc,ttei ^eft behind ttd 
marks of her feet. Cicero does ntt say that th« 
Avolf was consumed ; and Dion only ment^ns that 
it fell down, without alluding, as the Aoate has 
made him, to the force of the hlow, or the firmness 
with which it had been fixed. The whole strength, 
therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs upon the 
past tense ; which, however, may be somewhat di- 
minished by remarking that the phrase only shows 
that the statue was not then standing in its former 
position. Winkelmann has observed, that the 
present twins are modern ; and it is equally clear 
that there are marks of gilding on the wolf which 
might therefore be supposed to make part of the 
ancient group. It is known that the sacred images 
of the Capitol were not destroyed when injured by 
time or accident, but were put into certain under- 
ground depositories called favisscB* It may be 
thought possible that the wolf had been so depoeit- 
ed, and had been replaced in some conspicuous sit* 
nation when the Capitol was rebuilt by Vespasian. 
Rycquius, without mentioning his authority, tells 
that it was transferred from the Comitium t. the 
Lateran, and thence brought to the Capitol. If it 
was found near the arch of Severus, it may have 
been one of the images which Orosius f says was 
thrown down in the Forum by lightning when Ala 
ric took the city. That it is of very high antiqui- 
ty the workmanship is a decisive proof ; and that 
circumstance induced Winkelmann to believe it the 
wolf of Dionysius. The Capitolene wolf, however, 
may have been of the same early date as that at the 
temple of Romulus. Lactantius % asserts that in 
his time the Romans worshipped a wolf ; and it is 
known that the Lupercalia held out to a very late 
period J after every other observance of the ancient 
superstition had totally eacpired. This may account 
for the preservation of the ancient image longer 
than the other early symbols of Paganism. 

It may be permitted, however, to remark, that 
the wolf was a Roman sjTubol, but that the wor- 
ship of that symbol is an inference di-awn by th» 
zeal of Lactantius. The early Christian Avriters are 
not to be trusted in the charges which they make 
against the Pagans. Eitsebius accused the Ro- 
mans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, 
and raising a statue to him in the island of the Ty- 
ber. The Romans had probably never heard of 
such a person before, who came, however, to play a 
considerable, though scandalous part in the church 
history, and has left several tokens of his aerial 
combat with St. Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding 
that an inscription found in this very island of the 
Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius to be 
a certain indigenai god, called Semo Sangus or 
Fidius. II . 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome 
had been abandoned, it was thought expedient to 
humor the habits of the good matrons of the city 
by sending them with their sick infants to the 
church of Saint Theodore, as they had before car- 



* Luc. Faun. Ibid. 

t See note to stanza Ixxx. n Historical lUoBtiBtions. 

\ " Roiriuli uutrix Lupa hiD-ioribus est tffecta divinii, et ferrem f wtunai' 
\f«\\m fuisset, cujus flguram gerit." Lact£iit. de Falsa Religione, iit. 1, Cftp. 
ex. pag. 101, edit. vi\rior, 1660 : that is to say, he would rather adore a wo> 
nan a prostitute. His commentator has observed that the opinion cf Lirj 
concerning Laurentia being figured in this wolf was not universal. Stnbo 
thought so. Rycquius is wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions tiie woU 

a in the Capitol. 

§ To A. D. 496. " Q.uis credere possit," says Baronius [Ann. Ecdea, 
torn. viii. p. 602, in. an. 496], " viguisse adhuc Romae ad Gelassii tempora, 
quJE fuere ante exordia urbia allata in Itnliam Lupercalia ? " Gelasius wroU 
a letter which occiipies four folio pages to Andromachtis the senator, anil , 
others, to show that the rites should be given up. I 

n EuscMus has these words: nai dvSpiavTi irap' ifiTv wf ^edi i 
TSrijjriTai, b' rw Ti/Sepi irorafi^ fxera^v tcov Svo yecbvpcip, 
f^wJ^ ETriypfKpfjv 'Pcoixai ktiv ravTnv, Scpioji/t Jfw Sir; kto) 
Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. xiU. p. 40. Justin Martyr has to i the story uefoM 
Ktt Baronius himself wa« oHiged to deb ct this fable. Sea NMdlni Raot 
Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



101 



ried Ihem to the temple of Romulus.* The practice 
is continued to this day ; and the site of the above 
rnurch sr^.ems to be thereby identified with that of 
'he temple; so that if the wolf had been really 
'ound there, as Winkelmann says, there would be 
no doubt of the present statue being that seen by 
Dionysius.f But Fauuus, in saying that it was 
at the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitiuin, is only 
talking of its ancient position as recorded by Pliny ; 
and even if he had been remarking where it was 
found, would not have alluded to the church of 
Saint Theodore, but to a very different place, near 
»rhich it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis 
had been, and also the Comitium ; that is, the three 
columns by the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice 
%t the corner of the Palatine looking on the Forum 
It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image 
was actually dug up, J and perhaps, on the whole 
the marks of the gilding, and of the lightning, are 
a better argument in favor of its being the Cicero 
nian wolf than any that can be adduced for the con 
trary opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably selected 
for the text of the poem as one of the most inte 
resting relics of the ancient city, § and is certainly 
the figure, if not the very animal to which Virgil 
alludes in his beautiful verses : 

" Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludere peiidentes pueroa, et lainbere matrem 
Impavidoa : illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Mulcere altenios, et corpora fiiigere lingua." g 

47. 
f For the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 

Stanza xc. lines 3 and 4. 
It is possible to be a very great man, and to be 
still very inferior to Julius Caesar, the most complete 
character, so Lord Bacon thought, of all antiquity. 
Nature seems incapable of such extraordinary com- 
binations as composed his versatile capacity, which' 
was the wonder even of the Romans themselves. 
The fii st general — the only triumphant politician — 
inferior to none in eloquence — comparable to any in 
the attainments of wisdom, in an age made up of 
the greatest commanders, statesmen, orators, and 
philosophers, that ever appeared in the world — an 
*^t>i.or who composed a perfect specimen of military 
ttnals in his travelling carriage — at one time in a 
'iOntr.. versy with Cato, at another writing a treatise 
»)n punning, and collecting a set of good sayings — 
fightingH and making love at the same moiuerit, 



* " In easa gjli iinliclii potitcfici per toijlier la ineiitfiria de' ginochi Liiper- 
eai. iHtituiti in onore rli Koinolo, iiitrodiissitro I'liso di purtivrvi Bambini 
opprcAiii da intermit^ ucciilte, accid *\ iil«rino per I'iiiti'rcPHsiuiie (ii qiiettu 
Bar*.-;, come di coiitiiiiio si gperiiiieiita." ISone xii. Ripa aoiuiriita e »uc- 
dnciK rtcscriaoiie, &c , di ttoina iVluderna di-ll' Ab. Ridnlf. V.-iiiili, 176S. 

t Nardiiii, lib. v. cap. II, convicu Poinponiiw Laitiw crn«ni erroris^Xn 
putting' till' Ruiiiiiial fig'-trei! at tlie cluircli of !3:ilnt "rheodorf": but as LIvy 
layi ihu wolf Wiui at the l-'icns Riiiuiiialis, and DionyRJus at the temple of 
Romulus, he is oblij^Hd (cap. iv.) U) own that the two wtw close togeth'-r, us 
WjU MS tlie Lupcrcal cavi-, shadi-d, as it were, by tlie fisf-tne. 

X " Ad comitium ficus ulim Rujiiinalis gcrminabat, subq-ia liipfe runiam, 
koc nut, inauiiiiam, duceute Varrone, stixcrant ollm RduiuIub hi Ri-miis ; noii 
r»Kul a tempio hodie D. Miriic Liberatricis appelluto niii J'oraau inventa iio- 
r-iUa illi lenea statua lupn; g>'minoB pU'Tulus lactanlifl, quam liodie In capiUilio 
fMemut." Olal Borrichii Antiqua UrIiiH Romana; Facies, cap. x, Sep iiIbo 
Mp. xii. Borrichiui wrote after Nanlinl in 1687. Ap. (ira;v. Autiq. Rom. 
lom. Iv. p. 15W. 

I Donatiis, hi), xi. cap. 18, glv^s a medal representing on one side the wolf 
« the same position as that in the Capitol ; ami in the len-me the wolf with 
ihe head luH reverted. It Is ol tin- time of \ut(iulnus Pins. 

n A'm. viii. 831. See Dr. Middlf^ton, in hi* letter from Rome, who In- 
Mine* Ui the Cicrouian wolf, but without examining the subject. 

^ In his tenth Ixiok, Liican shows hhn sprinkled with the bloo<l of Iliarsalla 
D tlie arms of Cleopatm, 



iguiiie ThesR.-i!ic.'R cladii perfusus ailnltxT 
iiiisit Veuereni curls, el niisciilt armis. 



Alter f!n«ti tig «lth his mUtrf^ss, ho sits up nil night to conreise with the 
l^ypdui uiret • jd telU Achoruus, 

Upes sit mlhi certa videndl 
lea belhini cIvUk nillnquam. 



and willing to abandon both hia empire and hie m."*- 

tress for a sight of the Fountains of the Nil ?. Sucli 
did Julius Cyesar appear to his cotemporaries and to 
those of the subsequent ages, who were the most 
inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal genius.' 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his 
surpassing glory, or with his magnanimous, his 
amiable qualities, as to forget the decision of hSs 
impartial countrymen : 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.* 
48. 

What from this barren being do we reap f 
Vur senses narrow, and our reason frail. 

Stanza xciii. lines 1 axd 2. 
" . . . . omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci 
nihil percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos 
sensus ; imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vitae; in 
profundo veritatem demersam ; opinionibus et insti- 
tutis omnia teneri ; nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps 
omnia tenebris circumfusa esse dixerunt." f The 
eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since 
Cicero wrote this have not removed any of the im- 
perfections of humanity : and the complaints of the 
ancient philosophers may, without injustice or affec- 
tation, be transcribed in a poem written yesterday. 

49. 
The/e is a stern round tower of other days. 

Stanza xcix. line 1, 
Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, callso 
Cape di Bove, in the Appian Way. See Historical 
Illustrations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold 

50. 

Prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death. 

Stanza cii. lines H and 6. 

Td yap ^aveiv ovk aiaxpov dAA' ai(TXPo>i ^aveiv. 

Rich. Franc. Phil. Brunck. Pceta 
Gnomici, p. 231, edit. 1784. 

51. 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thu^ the mighty fills . 
Stanza cvii. line 9. 
The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on 
the side towards the C;rcns Maximus. The very 
soil is formed of crumbled brick-wtnk. Nothh.g 
has been told, nothing can be told, to satisfy the 
belief of any but a Roman antiquary See Histor 
ical Illustrations, page 206. 

52. 
There is the moral of all human tales : 
'Tis hid the same rehearsal cf the past. 
First Freedom., and then Glory, <Sfr. 

Stanza cviii. lines 1, 2. and 3 
The author of the Life of Cicero, ^pcnk^ng of iLo 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator an] 
his c<)tem]iorary Romans, has the followitig eloquent 



" 31c wlut In luta securi pace ironebant 
Noctis iter meiilum." 



Iinnieilktely afu;rwanl», he Is flghtlng agidn mid defending (rerj 
" Seil nilist defiiisor iNqio 
CmtiT ot lios Bilitiis trhidjis, ho« itfulh ,s nroet 

cn<ca nocte I'nriuh 

liislliili «'B»«r seiupiT lelicltcr iisiii 
Prj'Cipid ciinai Ivllornm et tempote mpto." 

* " Jure cjMus exislimeiiir," mya Seulonlns, after n fair eadir ^tlon Y kt 
liiiniciir, and making iiki- ol h |ihrn»e which was n fomiula In I.lvy's lm< 
' M"llmn Jure owsiim prouuntiavit, etJain si regiil erimlne insuiis fwrr. ' 
(lib. Iv. cMip. 48.1 and which was amUiuirnl hi ilio leg.O Jud^ineiiia pit 
noimced III )ii*«ifl,ib|i' luim'cides, such lu klll'og honsi-br-Mkera. ««• H »«.» 
in Til. C. J. Ci>-u«r, with Jw oomiueiibtry of itUaoua, p. )M 
t Acad* Ik I. U. 



102 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



passage; "Fror,, t&eir railleiies of his kind, on the 
barbarity and misery of our island, one cannot help 
reflecting on the surprising fate and revolutions of 
kingdours ; how Rome, once the mistress of the 
world, the seat of arts, empire, and glory, now Jies 
sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, enslaved to 
the most cruel as well as the most contemptible of 
tyrants, superstition, and religious imposture : 
while this remote country, anciently the jest and 
contempt of the polite Romans, is become the hap- 
py seat cf liberty, plenty, and letters ; flourishing 
m all the arts and refinements of civil life ; yet 
ruiiTiing perhaps tho same course which Rome it- 
Beif had run before it, from vii'tuous industry to 
n^ealth ; frora wealth to luxury ; from luxury to an 
■'mpatience c^ discipline, and corruption of morals ; 
till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being 
grown ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to 
some hardy oppressor, and, with the loss of lil^er- 

S, losing everything that is valuable, sinks gradu- 
ly again into its original barbarism."* 

53. . 

And apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime. 
Stanza ex. lines 8 and 9. 
The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; 
that of Aurelius by St. Paul. See Historical Illus- 
trations of the IVth Canto, &c. 



54. 

Still we Trajan's name adore. 

Stanza cxi. line 9. 
Trajan was proverbially the best of the Roman 
print es ; f and it would be easier to find a sovert-ign 
uniting exactly the opposite characteristics, than 
one p )ssessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to 
this emperor. "When he mounted the throne," 
says the historian Dion, j "he was strong in body, 
he was vigorous in mind ; age had impaired none of 
his faculties ; he was altogether free from envy and 
from detraction ; he himored all the good, and he 
advanced them ; and on this account they could not 
be the objects of his fear, or of his hate; he never 
listened to informers ; he gave not way to his anger : 
he abstained equally from unfah- exactions and un- 
just punishments ; he had rather be loved as a man 
than honored as a sovereign ; he was affable with 
his people, respectful to the senate, and universally 
Deloved by both ; he inspired none with di'ead but 
the enemies of his country." 

55 
Rienzi, last of Romans. 

Stanza cxiv. line 5. 
The name and exploits of Rienzi must be famil- 
i&i* to the reader of Gibbon. Some details and ined- 
ited manuscripts relative to this unhappy hero will 
be seen in the Illustrations to the IVth Canto. 



• The Hislor)- of the Life of M. Tullius Cicero, eecl. vi. vol. ii. p. 102. 
l"he contTdsv has been reversed in a late extraordinary instance. A gnntle- 
Kian was thrown into prison at Paris ; efl'orts were made for his release. The 
French minister continued to detain him, uniler the pretence tha". he was not 
Ui Englishman, but only a Rojruin. See " Interesting Facts relatuig to 
Toachim Mnrat," pag. 139. 

t " Hujus tantun> niernoriae delatum est, ut, usque ad nostram fctatem 
v>r. ■tliter in Senatu principibus acclamatur, ni.ii, FKLICIOR . AVGVSTO . 
MELIOR . TRAJANO." Eulrop. Brev. Hist. Rom. lib. viii. cap. v. 

J TJi Tt yap aiofxaTi Epjiorro kuI rrj xpvxij 'IKl-ia^^f, 

lis [xfiQ'' vno yfipoJi dfiS^vvtaOei «ai ovt' i(p66^£i ovrc 

KaQf\pfi Tiva, dWa kuI Trdvv^iravrai tovs dyaOnvs trifia Kal 
ilxeydXvvi' Kal Sid tovto uvre tijj'iSETrS riva avrwv, 'nvT€ 

ipiaei SiaSoXing re riKtara i-trirrrevE, Kal opytj tjxio-rtt 

iSnvXovro' TMv TC X rj/iiaTWi/ rdjj/ nAXwriOiwi' 'iaa kuI (p6po)V 

TMV dSiKioi/ d-eix^TO <Pi\ovpsvC_ re ovv en* avroTs 

uiiWov ?y Tii/aJijiEvng Exaip^, Kal tm rt Snixto ncr' inieiKEias 
rvifCyivr.To, Kal ttj ynO'Vffia aEpivropcirMi iifiiXef dyaTrrjTOS 
pitk ndcf (poSepoi oi pi]6Evl, ttX>)v noXeiJioti wv. Hist. Rom. lib. 
Ixvm. ABO. Tl. ci vii. torn. ii. p. 1123, 1124. edit. Harab. 1750. 



56. 



Egeria ! siceet creation of some h^art 
JVhich found no moHal resting-pMce sc ^ «»« 
As thine ideal breast. 

Stanza cxv. lines 1, 2, and 3 

The respectable authority of Flarainius Vaccv 
would incline us to believe in the claims of the Ege- 
rian grotto.* He assures us that he saw an inscrip- 
tion in the pavement, stating that the fountain wai 
that of Egeria, dedicated to the nymphs. The in- 
scription is not there at this day : but Montfancon 
quotes two lines f of Ovid from a stone in the Villa 
Giustiniani, w'hich he seems to think had c e^a 
brought from the same grotto. 

This grottc and valley were formerly frequecte^ 
in summer, and partic.ularly the first Sunday in May, 
by the modern Romans, wlio attached a salubrious 
quality to the fountain which trickles from an ori- 
fice at the bottom of the vault, and, overflowing the 
little pools, creeps down the matted grass into the 
brook below. The brook is the Ovidian Almo, 
whose name and qualities are lost in the modern 
Aquataccio. The valley itself is called Valle di 
Caffarelli, from the dukes of that name w^ho made 
over their fountain to the Pallavicini, with sixty 
rubbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the 
Egerian valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of 
Umbritus, notwithstanding the generality of his 
commentators have supposed the descent of the sat 
ii-ist and his friend to have been into the Arician 
grove, where the nymph met Hippolitus, and where 
she was more peculiarly worshipped. 

The -step from the Porta Capena to the Alban 
hill, fifteen miles distant, would be too considera- 
ble, unless we were to believe in the wild conjectur* 
of Vossius, who makes that gate travel ft-om its 
present station, where he pretends it was d\iring the 
reign of the kings, as far as the Arician grove, and 
•then makes it recede to its old site within the 
shrinking fcity.;|: The tufo, or pumice, which the 
poet prefers to marble, is the substance composing 
the bank in which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographers ^ find in the grotto the 
statue of the nymph and nine niches for the Muses, 
and a late traveller || has discovered that the cave 
is restored 'to that simplicity which the poet re- 
gretted had been exchanged for injudicious orna- 
ment. But the headless statue is palpably rather a 
male than a nymph, and has none of the attributes , 
ascribed to it at present visible. The nine Muses 
coTild hardly have stood in six niches ; and Juvenal 
certainly does not allude to any individual cave.lF 



* " Poco lontano dal detto luogo ei scende ad un casaletto, del qualen e 
sono Padroni Ii Cafarelli, che q^n questo nome A ehiainato il luogo ; vi e una 
fontaiia sotto una gran volta antica, che al presente si gode, e Ii Roman! vI 
vnnno IVstate a ricrearsi ; nel pavimento di essa fouie si If'gge in un epitafik 
essp.re quella la fonte di Kgeria, dedicata alle nmfe, i quesva dice I'epitafi5» 
essere la niedesima fonte in c\ii fu converlita." Memori«, 4c., ap. Nardiai, 
pag. 13. He does not give the inscription. 

t " In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratnc K/Ii;?w i» fuaoii tk 
h»c duo Oviilii carrnina sunt : 

iEgcria eii ^u a; prabet aquas dea grata CamaL a 
Ilia Numa- coniunx consiliumque fuit. 

Qui lapis videtnr ex eodem Egeria fonte, aut ejus vicinia istlu i eoir j 'StcXOk 
Uiarium Italic, p. 153. 
\ De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Grsev. Ant. Rom. tom. iv. p. ISOJ . 
§ Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' agro Romano, correuo (fad' Aho» 
Venuti, in Roma, 1750. Th-y U lieve in the grotto and nymph. •= Kmula 
cro di qnosto fonte, essenilovi sculpite le acque a pie di esse." 
n Classical 'Pour, chap. vi. p. 217, vol. ii. 
H "Suljstitit ad veteres arcus, madidamque Capenam, 
Hie ubi noclurna: Numa constituebat arnica:. 
Nunc sacri fontis nenius, et dehibra locantur 
Judasis quorum cophinum foenainque supellax. 
Onmis enim populo mereeaein pcndere jiiasa eat 
Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Camcenis. 
In vallem Egeria descenilimus, et speluncaa 
Dissimiles Veres : qu;i.ntopi*aUinlius esset 
Numen aqua, viridi si margine clauderet unda< 
Herha, nee ingenuuin violareut mamwra tophum," 



il 



^OTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



103 



Kothmg can be 'joll'^'-ted from the satirist but that 
»omewhere near the Porta Cap(;na was a spot in 
which it was supposed Numa held nightly consulta- 
tions with his nymph, and where there was a grove 
and a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated 
to the Muses ; and that from this spot there was a 
descent into the valley of Egeria, where were . sev- 
eral artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of 
the Muses made no part of the dicoration which 
the satirii-t thought misplaced in these caves ; for he 
expressly assigns other fanes (delubra) to these di- 
vinities above 'the valley, and moreover tells us 
that they had been ejected to make room for the 
Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called that of 
Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini* places them in a poplar 
gro^t, which was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, 
that the cave now shown may be one of the " arti- 
ficial caverns," of which, indeed, there is another a 
little way higher up the valley, under a tuft of alder 
imshes : but a single grotto of Egeria is a mere mod- 
ern invention, grafted upon the application of the 
epithet Egerian to these nymphea in general, and 
which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa 
apon the bank^of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mis- 
translation by his acquaintance with Pope : he care- 
fulJv preserves the correct plural — 

'« Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots ; oh, how unhke the true. 

The valley abounds mth springs,t and over 
these springs, which the Miises might haunt from 
their neighboring groves, Egeria presided; hence 
she was said to supply them with water ; and she 
was the nymph of the grottos through which the 
fountains were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of 
the Egerian valley have received names at will, 
which have been changed at will. Venuti t owns 
he can see no traces of the temples of Jove, Saturn, 
Juno, Venus, and Diana, whifth Nai'dini found, or 
hoped to find. The mutatorium of Caracalla's cir- 
•;us, the temple of Honor and Virtue, the temple of 
Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god Redi- 
oulus, are the antiqiiaries' despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of 
that emperor cited by Fulvius Ursiiuis, of whicl>the 
reverse shows a circus, supposed, however, by some 
to represent tlie Circus Maximus. It gives a very 
good idea of that place of exercise. The soil has 
been but little raised, if we may judge from the 
small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, 
whir '\ was probably the chapel of the god Comus. 
This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must have 
teen in the circus itself, for Dionysiiis ^ could not 
be persuaded to believe that this divinity was the 
Roman Neptune, because his altar was under 
ground. 

57. 
Yet let us ponder boldly. 

Stanza cxxvii. line 1. 

" At ill events," says the author of the Academi- 
r.%\ Questions, '* I trust, whatever may be tlie fate 
of my own spec\ilations, that philosophy Avill regain 
that estimation which it ought to possess. Tiie 
free and philosonhic spirit of our nation has been 
the theme of admiration to the world. This was 
the proud distinction of Englishmen, and tlie lumi- 
nous source of all their glory. Shall we then for- 
get the many and dignified sentiments of our an- 
cestorH, to prate in the language of the motlier or 
the nurse about our good old prejudices? This is 
tot the way to defend the cause of truth. It was 



• Lib. m. op. 111. 

t " Uncllqiin o iolo Aqiim iciituriunt.' 
( l'V:hinanl. Ac, Cic. dt. p. 'iT, 3W 
I Au<i«, Hxun. Uk U. cap. xxxi. 



Nanlini, ilb U cap. Ul 



not thus that our fathers maintained it in the briH 
iant periods of our history. Pre_ udice may b« 
trusted to guard the outworks for a short space c» 
time while reason slumbers in the citadel ; but il 
the latter sink into a lethargy, the former will 
quickly erect a standard for herself. Philosophy, 
wisdom and liberty, support each other ; he who 
will not reason is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool ; 
and he who dares not, is a slave." Preface, p. xiv 
XV. vol. i. 1805. 

58. 

Great Nemesis ! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage l<n,g. 
Stanza cxxxii. lines 2 and b. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a 
warning received in a dream,* coanterftited, once 
a year, the beggar, sitting before the gate of his 
palace with his hand hollowed and stretched out foj , 
charity. A statue formerly in the Villa Borghese, 
and which should be now at Paris, represents the 
Emperor in that posture of supplication. The ob- 
ject of this self degradation was the appeasement 
of Nemesis, the perpetual attendant on good for- 
tune, of whose power the Roman conquerors were 
a\so reminded by certain symbols attached to then 
cars of triumph. The symbols were the whip and 
the crotalo, which were discovered in the Nemesis 
of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary made the 
above statue pass for that of Belisarius : and until 
the criticism of Winkelmann f had rectified the 
mistake, one fiction was called in to support another 
It was the same fear of the sudden termination ol 
prosperity that made Amasis, king of Egypt, warn 
his friend Polycrates of Samos, th;»t the gods loved 
those whose lives were checkered with gocd and 
evil fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in wail 
particularly for the prudent ; that is, for those whose 
caution rendered them accessible only to mere acci- 
dents : and her fi.rst altar was raised on the banks 
of the Phrygian ^'Esepus by Adi-astus, probably the 
prince of that name who killed the son of Croesus 
by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adi-as- 
tea.J 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and augiut. 
there was a temple to her in the Palatine under the 
name of Rhamnusia : ^^ so great indeed was the 
propensity of the ancients to trust to the revolution 
of events, and to believe in the divinity of Fortune, 
that in the same Palatine there was a "temple to the 
Fortune of the day.i| This is the last superstition 
which retains its holc^ over the human heart ; and 
from concentrating in one object the credulity to 
natural to man, has always appeared strongest in 
those unembarrassed by other articles of belief. 
The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to be 
synonymous with Fortune and with Fate ^.H but it 
was in her vindictive quality that she was worship- 
ped under the name of Nemesis. 



* Sxeton. in Vit. Aiignsll, cap. 91. CiimaulMn, in thfi note, r(»fere to fflu- 
tarch's Ijivi>8 or Camilltis and £n)iliui PiUihiii, and alco tu Ilia apothrx"ii* 
for the chartvoter of this diity. The hollDWctI luuid waa rcckoniHl the laji 
degree of dog7e<lalion ; and wlu-n llie dead taly of th'" pr.^l.-ct Riifiiiiii wx« 
lx)rn'3 alMiiit in iriuinph l>y the iieuplf, tlie indignity wis incre:u(>d uy piirting 
his hand in that position. 

t Su>ria d(!llc Arti, &c., lib. xli. cap. ill. torn. ii. p 123. Visconti cilU tlit 
■tatne, however, a Cyl)ele. His given in tlie Mvisoo Pio-C'leun-nt, u>m. I. y>i\r, 
40. The Alette Fca (SpicgayJono del Rami. Storia, &c., toni. Ui. p. SIS), cal j 
il« Chrialppus. 
\ Diet, de B;iylo, article Admstca. 
§ It is eninneraUid by tlie rt-gionnry Victor. 
II Fortune hiijiiice diel. Ciccru mentions lu-r, dt- Leg^L> 'it> U. 
TI I)KAK NKMKSI 

• SIVK ♦'OH TINAE 
PISTOHIVa 
UVtJIANVS 
V. C. I.KiiAT. 
l.Kti. XI II. U. 

com). 

Ekw (Inritlonri Rnmnnm, ftc, np. (iiicv. Antiq. Uoiniii. ( <iii. v p. !M8. *Mk 
b1m> Murtturl, Nov. Thcsaur lt.«rrlp. Vrt. loin. I. p. (M, M, wh«r« U«i^ IT 
time UiUa and ouo Greek inscnptioa to Neinaik, luul otkon to fale. 



l04 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I see before me the Gladiator lie. 

Stanza cxl. line 1. 

W.iether tne wonderful statue which suggested 
this image be a laquearian gladiator, which, in spite 
of Winkelmann's criticism has been stoutly main- 
tained,* or whether it be a Greek herald, as that 
p:eat antiquary positively asserted, f or whether it 
is to be thought a Spartan or barbarian shield- 
bearer, according to the opinion of his Italian edit- 
or,;i: it must assuredly seem a copy of that master- 
pi2C3 of Ctesilaus which represented "a wounded 
man dying who perfectly expressed what there re- 
mained of life in him." § Montfaucon || and Maf- 
fei *ff thought it the identical statue ; but that 
Btatue was of bronze. The gladiator was once in 
the villa Ludovizi, and was bought by Clement XII. 
The right arm is an entire restoration of Michael 
Ajigelo.** 

60. 

He, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday. 

Stanza cxli. lines 6 and 7. 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and vol- 
untary ; and were supplied from several conditions : 
from slaves sold for that purpose ; from culprits ; 
from barbarian captives either taken in war, and, 
after being led in triumph, set apart for the games, 
or those seized and condemned as rebels ; also from 
free citizens, some fighting for hire (auctorati) 
others from a depraved ambition : at last even 
knights and senators were exhibited, a disgrace of 
which the first tyrant was naturally the first in- 
ventor. ff In the end, dwarfs, and even women, 
fought ; an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
these the most to be pitied, undoubtedly, were the 
barbarian captives ; and to this species a Christian 
wi-iterjj justly applies the epithet "innocent," 
to distinjiuish them from the professional gladiators. 
Aurelian and Claudius supplied great numbers of 
these unfortunate victims ; the one after his tri- 
umph, and the other on the pretext of a rebellion. ^^ 
No war, says Lipsius,|||| was ever so destructive to 
the human race as these sports. In spite of the 
laws of Constantine and Constans, gladiatorial 
shows sm *^ived the old established religion more 
than seveK v years ; but they owed their final ex- 
tinction to liie courage of a Christian. In the year 
4^)4, on the kalends of January, they were exhibit- 
ing the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre before 
the usual inimeuse concourse of people. Almachius 
or Telemaclius, an eastern monk, who had travelled 
to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed into 
the midst of the arena, and endeavored to separate 
the combatants. The pra;tor Alypius, a person in- 



* By the Abate Bracci, dissertazioue supra un clipeo votivo, &c. Preface, 
fAg. 7, who accounts for the corrl round the neck, but not for the horn, which it 
ioe« not appear the gladidtors themselves ever used. Note A, Storia delte 
tm, torn. ii. p. 205. 

t Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by OEdipua; or Cepreas, herald 
a< Euritheus, kiUeil by the Athenians when he endeavored to drag the Hera- 
'Jidoe from the altar of mercy, and in whose honor they instituted annual 
janif? ;fntinued to the time of Hadrian ; or Antheinocritus, the Atlienian 
be.-ald, i> lied by the Megarenses, who never rfecovered the impiety. See 
*-.ri:i delh Arti, &c., ton^ ii. p. 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, lib. ix. cap. ii. 

X tStonu, &•.., torn. ii. p. 207. Not. (A.) 

§ " Vnlneratum deficientem fecit in quo possit intelligi quantum restat 
uuniw." Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ixxiv. cap. i'. 

jl Antiq. torn iii. par. 2, tab. 155. 

iff Race. Stat. tab. 64. 

•* Mils. Capitol, torn. in. p. 154, edil.*1755. 

ft Julius C-Bs;ir, who rose by the fall of t!ie arisuicracy, bro. rht Fun us 
Lepimuft and A. Caienus upon the arena. 

J* Tertuli.in, "certe quidem et inuorpntps fladiatoresin ludem vpi.'v.nt et 
foluplatis publica; host.H tiaut." .lu.-!. I.ips. Saturn. Sermon, lib. ii. cap. iii. 

§§ Vopiscui-:. i'l v't. \jubI. and in vit. Claud. Ibid. 

ll" 



credibly attached to these games,* gave instant oi 
ders to the gladiators to slay him ; and Telemachiu 
gained the crown of martyrdom, and the title oi 
saint, which surely has never either before or sinca 
been awarded for a more ftoble exploit. Honoriua 
immediately abolished ti e shows, which were nevei 
afterwards revived. The story is told by Theodore "f 
and' Cassiodorus, J and seems worthy of credit not 
withstanding its place iu the Roman martyrology. § 
Besides the torrents of blood which flowed at th« 
funerals, in the amphitheatres, the circus, the forums, 
and other public places, gladiators were introduced 
at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst the 
supper tables, to the great delight and applause ol 
the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to sup- 
pose the loss of courage, and the evident degenera- 
•by of mankind, to be nearly connected with the abo- 
lition of these bloody spectacles. || 

61. 

Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 

Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd. 

Stanza cxlii. lines 5 and 6. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shout 
ed, " Ae has it," "hoc habet," or«"habet." The 
wounded combatant dropped his weapon, and ad 
vancing to the edge of the arena, supplicated the 
spectators. If he had fought well, the people saved 
him ; if otherwise, or as they happened to be in- 
clined, they turned down their thumbs, and he was 
slain. They were occasionally so savage that they 
were impatient if a combat lasted longer than ordi- 
nary without wounds or death. The emperor's 
presence generally saved the vanquished ; and it ia 
recorded' as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that 
he sent those who supplicated him for life, in a 
spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in othei 
words, handed them over to be slain. A similar 
ceremony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. 
The magistrate presides ; and after the horsemen 
and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore 
steps forward and Ijows to him for permission to 
kill the animal. If the bull has done his duty by 
killing two or three horses, or a man, which last is 
rare, the people interfere Avith shouts, the ladies 
wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses are accompa- 
nied with the loudest acclamations, and many ges- 
tures of delight, especially from the female portion 
of the audience, including those of the gentlest 
blood. Everything depends on habit. The author 
of Childe Harold, the x^Titer of this note, and one 
or two other Englishmen, who have certainly in 
other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, 
during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box 
at the great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite 
to Cadiz. The death of one or two horses com- 
pletely satisfied their curiosity. A gentleman 
present, observing them shudder and look pale, no- 
ticed that unusual reception of so delightful a sport 
to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and 
continued their applauses as another horse fel' 
bleeding to the ground. One bull killed thre 
horses off his own hortu. He was saved by accla- 
mations, which were redoubled when it was known 
he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with 



Augustinus (lib. vi. confess, cap. viii.) " Alipium suurn gladiatori spectacoli 
inhiatu incredibiliu-.! abr.-ptum," scribit. ib. lib. i. cap. xii. 

t Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

X CkssIoiI, Tripartita, I. x. c. xi. Satuni. ib. ib. 

§ Baroniiis, ad. ann. et in notis ad Martyiol. Rom. 1, Jan. See Maran- 
goni dellt ineniorie sacre e profane dell' Anfiteatro Flavio, p. 25, edit. 1748. 

II " (iuol ? non til I.ipsi moiii"utum aliquod habnisse censes ail virtulem ? 

Miinfiiuni. Teiiipora nostra, nosque ipso* videamus. Oppidum Hce unan 

alterumve captum, direpium est : tumultus circa nos, non in iio'?i« . et tamel 

coccidimus et turliamur. Ubi robur, ubi tot per annos me<litara sspiealiat 

ipjo imd tcio nulium bellum tantam claiem vastitiemque generi studiaf ubi ille animus qui possit dicere, si fractus illabatur orbii?" ftc, 



ibmano 1 11 nlliHe, quam hoe ad voli 



-.-•Msm luJos." luK. I ■-«. Ibid. lib. 



Ibid. lib. ii. cap. 
I buU-bai'iar. 



vxvi. The prototype of Mr. Vli^indiiani'i panegyric oa 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAKOLU & PILGRIMAviB. 



105 



i<>eing two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot 
bear to look at a horse galloping round an arena 
writh his bowels trailing on the ground, and. turns 
from the spectacle and the spectators with horror 
aud disgust. 

62. 

Like Laurels on the bald first Ccesar^s head. 
Stanza cxliv. line 6. 

Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was par- 
ticularly gratified by that decree of the senate, 
which enabled him to wear a ^vreath of laurel on all 
occasions. He was anxious not to show that he 
was the conqueror of the wor^', but to hide that he 
was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly have 

guessed at the motive, nor should we without the 
elp of the historian. 

63. 
While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand. 
Stanza cxlv. line 1. 
This is quoted in the Decline and Fall of the Ro- 
man Empire ; and a notice on the Coliseum may b'^ 
Been in the Historical Hlustrations to the IVth 
Canto of Childe Harold. 

64. 

Spared and blest by time. 

Stanza cxlvi. line 3. 

•* Though plundered o/ all its brass, except the 
ling which was necessary to preserve the aperture 
above ; though exposed to repeated fires, though 
sometimes flooded by the river, and always open to 
the rain, no monument of equal antiquity is so 
well preserved as this rotunda. It passed with lit- 
tle alteration from the Pagan into the present wor- 
ship ; and so convenient were its niches for 'the 
Christian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious 
of ancient beauty, introduced their design as a 
model in the Catholic church." — Forsyth's Re- 
marks, &c., on Italy, p. 137, sec. edit. 

65. 

And they who feel for genius may repose 
rheir eyes on honored forms, whose bttsts arotmd 
them close. Stanza cxlvii, lines 8 and 9. 

The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the 
t usts of modern great, or, at least, distingxiished, 
men. The flood of light which once fell through 
the large orb above on the whole circle of divinities, 
now shines on a numerous assemblage of mortals, 
some one or two of Avhom have been almost deified 
6v the veneration of their countrymen. 

66. 
Th€T2 IS a dungeon, in whose dim, drear light. 

Stanza cxlviii. line 1. 
This and the three next stanzas allude to the 
itcry of the Roman daughter, which is recalled to 
the traveller by the site, or pretended site, of that 
adventure, now shown at the church of St. Niclio- 
iw ir. carrere. The dilficulties attending the full 
oelicf of the tale are stated in Historical Illustra- 
tions^ &c. 

67. 
Twnt to the Mole, which Hadrian reared on high. 

Stanza clii. line 1. 
The castle of St, Angelo. See — Historical lUus- 
JKtlons. 

68. 
Stanza cliii. 
This and the six next stanzas have a reference to 
the church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of 
the comi)arative length of this basilica, and the 
%ther great churches of FiUrope, sec tlie pavement 
)f St. Peter's, and the classical 1 :ur through Italy, 
vol il page 12-5, et soq. chap, w 
14 



The strange fai9 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns. 

Stanza clxxi. lines 6 aad 7. 
Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken 
heart; Charles V. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bank- 
rupt in means and glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; 
and, " the greatest is behind," Napoleon lives 8 
prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but superflu- 
ous list might be added of names e«iually illustrioua 
and unhappy. 

70. 

Lo, Nemi, navell'd in the woody hills. 

Stanza clxxiii. line I. 

The village of Nemi was near the Arician relTeat 
of Egeria, and from the shades which embosomed 
the temple of Diana, has preserved to this day its 
distinctive appellation of The Grove. Nemi is* but 
an evening's ride from the comfortable inn of Al- 
bano. 

71 

And afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean lavea 
The Latian coast, S^c. Stc. 

Stanza clxxiv. lines 2, 3, and 4. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unri- 
valled beauty, and from the convent on the highest 
poii t, which has succeedSd to the temple of the La- 
tian Jupiter, the prospect embraces all the objects 
alluded to in the cited stanza ; the Mediterranean ; 
the whole scene of the latter half of the ^neid, 
and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber 
to the headland of Cir'caeum and the Cape of Terra 
cina. 

The site o^ Cicero's villa may be supposed either 
at the Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince 
Lucien Bonaparte. 

The former was thought some years ago the ac- 
tual site, as may be seen from Middleton's Life of 
Cicero. At present it has lost something of its 
credit, except for the Domenichinos. Nine monks 
of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining 
villa is a cardinal's summer-house. The other vil- 
la, called Rufinella, is on the summit of the hill 
above Frascati, and many rich remains of Tuscu 
lum have been found tnere, besides seventy-two 
statues of different merit and preservation, and 
seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine 
hills, embosomed in which lies the long valley oi 
Rustica. There are several circumstances which 
tend to establish the identity of this valley with the 
^^Ustica" of Horace; and it seems possible that 
the mosaic pavement which the peasants uncover by 
throwing up the earth of a vineyard may belong to 
his villa. Rustica is pronouncca short, not Accord- 
ing to our stress upon " Usticce cubdntis." — It is 
more rational to think that we are \\Tong than that 
the inhi^.bitants of this secluded valley have changed 
their tone in this word. The addition of the con- 
sonant i)refixcd is nothing : yet it is necessary to be 
aware tliat Rustica may be a modern name which 
the peasants may have caught from the antiijuaries 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a 
knoll covered with chestnvit trees. A stieam runs 
down the valley, and altht)ugh it is not true, as said 
in the guide books, that this stream is called Liccn- 
za, yet there is a village on a rock at the hca I of 
the valley which is so denominated, and which may 
have taken its name from the Digeutia. Licena* 
contains seven hundred inhabitants. On a peak a 
little way beyond is Civitella, containing tliree hnn 
dred. On the banks of the Anio, a little before you 
turn up into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an 
hour from the villa, is a town called Vicovaro, 
uniilher favorable coincidence with the I'uria of the 
poet. At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, 
there is a bare hill, crowned w; h a little town callwl 
Baidela, At the foot of this hill the rivulet jf U 



.06 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



isenzd flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy 
Otd before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be 
more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in 
\ metaphorical or direct sense : 

" Me qaotie.is refich gelitlus Digeutia rim*, 
Q,uem Mandola bibit rugosus frigore pagus." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before 
it reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yel- 
low like a sulphur rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half 
Rn horn's walk from the vineyard where the pave- 
ment is sho^^^^, does seem to be the site of the 
fane of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells 
that this temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired 
by V» spasian.* "With these helps, and a position 
torres;jonding exactly to everything which the poet 
has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably se- 
cure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called 
Campanile, and by following up the ri rulet to the 
pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the 
higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the 
only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on 
the knoll whe-^e this Bandusia rises. 

" . . . . tu frigus amatnle 
Fesds vomere tauris 
Prtebes, et pecori vago." 

The peasarts show another spring near the mo- 
saic pavement, which they call " Oradina," and 
which flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, 
and then it ti-ickles over into the Digentia. 

But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upward* to their spring," 

Oy exploring the windings of the romantic valley in 
search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange 
that any one should have thought Bandusia a foun- 
tain of the Digentia — Horace has not let drop a 
word of it ; and this immortal spring has in fact 
been discovered in possession of the holders of 
many good things in Italy, the monks. It was at- 
tached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais 
near Venusia, where it is most likely to be found. f 
We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in find- 
ing the occasional jjine still pendant on the poetic 
villa. Ihere is not a pine in the whole valley, but 
there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or 
mistook, for the tree in the ode. J The truth is, that 
the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a 
garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found 
in the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica. 
Horace probably had one of them in the orchard 
close above his farm, immediately overshado-n-ing 
his villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance 
from his abode. The tourist may have easily sup- 
posd himself to have seen this pine figured in the 
above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his description of 
the royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been 
since displaced, were assuredly only acacias and 
other common garden shrubs.^ The extreme dis- 
appointment experienced by choosing the Classical 
Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find 
vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted 
without fear of contradiction, will be confinned 
by every one who has selected the same conductor 
through the same country. This author is in fact 
one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory ■writers 



• imp. ciesar vespasianvs 

i'ontifex max1m\'s. trie 

potest. censor. ^pem 

victoria:, vetvstate illapsam 

SVa. IMPENSA. RESTITVIT. 

t Bee Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 

{ See Classical 1'our, &c., chap. vii. p. '230, vol. li. 

§ " Under our windows, and lionlering on ilv t<>ach, Is the royal garden, 
«ld out in parterres, aiid walks sbadei. by rows af orange trees." ClasKuJ 
Toui, Ac., ciiap. xi. vol. ii. oct. 365. 



that have in our times attained a temporary repute 
tion, and is veiy seldom to be tiusted even when h« 
speaks of objects which he must be presumed tfc 
have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggera- 
tion to the downright misstatement, are so frequent 
as to induce a suspicion that he had either nevei 
visited the spots described, or had trusted to th« 
fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical 
Tour has every characteristic of a mere compila- 
tion of former notices, strung together upor. a ver) 
slender thread of personal observation, and swelled 
out by those decorations which are so easily supplied 
by a systematic adoption of all the common places 
of praise, appUed to everything, and therefore sig- 
nifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and 
cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of 
others, and such may experience some salutary ex- 
citement in pkughing through the periods of the 
Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that 
polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of 
value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to 
toil up a climax with a huge round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there 
was no such latitude allowed to that of his senti- 
ments. The love of viitue and of liberty, which 
must have distinguished the character, certainly 
adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and tne gentle'- 
manly spirit, so recommendatory either in an au- 
thor or his productions, is very conspicuous through- 
out the Classical Tour. ~S\xt these generous quali 
ties are the foliage of such a performance, and may 
be spread about it so prominently and profusely as 
to embaiTass those who wish to see and find the fruit 
at hand. The unction of the di-s-ine, and the exhor 
tations of the m^oralist, may have made this worl 
something more or better than a book of travels, 
but they have not made it a book of travels; and 
this observation applies more especially to that en- 
ticing method of instruction conveyed by the per 
petual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel 
and bluster before the rising generation, and terrify 
it into decency by the display of all the excesses of 
the revolution. An animosity against atheists and 
regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, 
mav be honoral)le, and may be useful as a rer^ra} 
but that antidote should either be administered in 
any work rather than a tour, or, at least should. bt 
served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole 
mass of infoi-mation and reflection as to give a bit 
terness to every page : foi who would choose to have 
the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he as 
pires to the credit of prophecy, is not answerablt 
for the changes which may take place in the country 
which he describes ; but his reader may very fairly 
esteem ill his political'portraits and deductions as 
so much waste paper, the moment they cease to as- 
sist, and more particularly if they obstruct his at 
tual survey. 

Neither encomiimi nor accusation of any govern 
ment or governors, is meant to be here otirred ; but 
it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that th? 
change operated, either by the addi-ess d" the latt 
imperial system, or by the disappointn:!cnt of cverj 
expectation by those who have succeeded to the 
Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so 
apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigal- 
lican philippics entirely out of date, but even U 
throw some suspicion upon the competency and can 
dor of the author himself. A remarkable example 
may br found in the instance of Bolonga, ovei 
whose papal attachments, and consequent desola- 
t'on, the tourist pours forth such strains of condo- 
lence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed 
trumpet of Mr. Biuke. Now Bolonga is at this mo- 
ment, and has been for some years, notorious 
amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to 
revolutionary principles, and was almost the only 
city which made any demonstrations in favor of the 
unfortunate Murat. This change may, however 



JMOTES TO CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIM AGB. 



10] 



oave been made since Mr. Eustace visited tnis coun- 
try ; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with hor- 
ror at the projected stripping of the copper from the 
cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find 
that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or 
any other plunderers, the cupola being covered with 
lead.^ 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics 
had not given considerable currency to the Classical 
Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the 
reader, that however it may adorn his library, it 
""ill be of little or no service to him in his carnage ; 
and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto 



• 'What, then, will be the aBtonishment, or rather the horror of my 

reador, when I inform hiiii the French committee 

tumud its attentiun to Snint Peter's, and employed a compiiny of Jews to 
eatiiiiate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the inside of 
the edifice, as Weil as the copper that covers xhf raults and dome on the 
ouiaide." Chan. hr. p. 139 vou. ii. The ctoiy about the iwn it poKthrely 



been suspended, no attempt would have oeen trjaoe 
to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who 
stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace 
may be permitted to appeal from cotemporary 
praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just in 
proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the 
farther removed. This appeal had, in some lueasure, 
been made before the above remarks were v\Tittcn ; 
for one of the most respectable of the Florentine 
publishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated 
inquiries of those on their journey southwards to 
reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, 
by the concurring ^vice of returning travellers, in- 
duced to abandon his design, although he hud al- 
ready arranged his types and paper, and Lad struck 
off one or two of the first sheets. 

The wTiter of these notes wouid wish to part (like 
Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the 
Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to ex- 
tend the same ^:8cre«»t sileucf to their LumOie par* 



THE GIAOUR; 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE 



Oue fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
it* bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes— ' 
To which life noihing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 

MOORE 



t TO 

SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 

A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, BESFECT FOh 
HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PKODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVyVNT, 

BYRON 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The Tale which these disjointed fragments pre- 
sent, is founded upon circumstances now less com- 
mon in the East than formerly ; either because the 
ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden 
time ; " or because the Chiistians have better for- 
tune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, 
contained the adventures of a female slave, who was 
thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for 
infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her 
lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed 
Dy the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Ar- 
aaouts were beaten b<.ck from the Morea, which 
they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the 
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, 
on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the 
abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desola- 
tion of the Morea, during which the cruelty exer- 
cised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals 
of the faithful. 



THE GIAOUR. 

H breath of air to break the wave 
Teat rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb ' which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiflF, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain : 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
"Which, seen from far Collona's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight. 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheett 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the Eastern wave ; 
And if, at times, a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom frgm the trees. 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there . 
For there — the rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale,* 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high^ 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
Unbent by wnds, unchill'd by snows, 
Far from the mnters of the west. 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given, 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And gi-ateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
That holds the pirate for a gue«t ; 



THE GIAOUR. 



109 



Whose bark in sheltering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow 

rill the gay mariner's guitar^ 

Is heard, and seen the evening star 

Then stealing with the muffled oar, 

Far shadtd by the rocky shore, 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — that where Nature lov'd to trace 

As if for gods, a dwelling place, 

And every charm and grace hath mix'd 

Within the paradise she fix'd, 

There man, enamor'd of distress, 

Should mar it into wilderness. 

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 

Ihat tasks not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land, 

Bat springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside 

There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd, 

And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell, 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

oo soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 



He who hath bent him o'er the dead, 

Ere the first day of death is fled, 

The first dark day of nothingness, 

The last of danger and distress, 

(Before decay's effacing fingers 

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 

And mark'd the mild angelic air, 

The rapture of repose that's there. 

The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak 

The languor of the placid cheek. 

And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 

Where cold obstruction's apathy* 

Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 

As if to him it could impart 

The doom hs dreads, yet dwells upon ; 

Yes, but for these, and these alone. 

Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour 

He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 

So fair, eo calm, so softly seal'd, 

The first, last look by death reveal'd ! * 

Such is the aspect of this shore ; 

*Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 

We irtart, for soul is wanting there. 

Hers is the loveliness in death. 

That parts not quite with parting breath ; 

But beauty with that fearful bloom, 

'I'hat hue which haunts it to the tomb, 

Kxpression's last receding ray, 

A gilded halo hovering round decay, 

The farewell beam of feeling past away ! 
©park of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
W7xi» h gleams, but warms no more its cheri/ hed 
earth ! 



Clime of the unforgotten btdre ! 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cayf 
Was freedom's home or glory's grave ' 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be. 
That this is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their storj' not unknown 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from the ashes of your siree 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame 
They too will rather die than shame . 
For freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, 
Though baffled oft, is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid. 
Have left a nameless pyramid. 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy muse to stranger's eye 
The graves of those that cannot die ! ' 
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from splendor to disgrace ; 
Enough — ^no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 



What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the muse might soM 
High, as thine own in days of yore, 

"When man was worthy of thy clime ; 
The hearts within thy vallies bred. 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave • 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain 'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 
Without even savage virtue bleat. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighboring porta they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found, 
For this, and this alone, reno^^^l'4. 
In vain might liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke. 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoK« . 
No more her sorrows 1 oewaii, 
Yet this will be a mournful tale, 
And they who listen may believe, 
Who heard it first had cause to gri«T* 

• ••••••• 



no 



BYKCN'S WORKS. 



Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing 
The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
Start on (he fisher's eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
And, fearful for his light caique. 
He shuns the near, but doubtful creek ; 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar. 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an eastern night. 
******** 

^^lio thundering comes on blackest steed 
With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide; 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-moiTOw's tempest lower, 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! ' 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface: 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
[s scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye. 
As meteor-like thou glidest by. 
Right. well I view and deem the one 
Wliom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hastened, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight," 
His aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my stiirtled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs the steed ; he nears the steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
He wir ds around ; he hurries by ; 
The re ;k relieves him from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
, Who/'e glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
An J not a star but shines too bright 
On lim who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along, but, ere he pass'd. 
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A r oment on his stirnip stood — 
Wh ' looks he o'er the olive-wood ? 
Tht cresent glimmers on the hill. 
The mosque's high lamps are quivering still 
Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike,^ 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
To-night the Bairam feast's begun ; 
To-night — but who and what art thou, 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And what are these to thine or thee, 
Thnt then shouldst either pause or flee ? 



He stood — some dread was on his faoc 

Soon hatred settled in its place ; 

It rose not -with the reddening flush 

Of transient anger's darkening blush, 

But pale as marble o'er the toniu, 

WTiose ghastly whilieness aids its gloom. 

His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, 

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And sternly shook his hand on high, 

As doubting to return or fly : 

Impatient of his flight delay'd. 

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasped hi« bVtdA 

That sound had burst his waking dream, 

As slumber starts at owlet's scream. 

The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 

Away, away, for life he rides ; 

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed,^ 

Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 

The rock is doubled, and the shore 

Shakes with the clattering tramp no more : 

The crag is won, no more is seen 

His Christian crest and haughty mien. 

'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 

That fieiy barb so sternly rein'd : 

'Twas but a moment that he stood, 

Then sped as if by death pursued ; 

But in that instant o'er his soul 

Winters of memory seem'd to roll, 

And gather in that drop of time 

A life of pain, an age of crime. 

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 

Such moment pours the grief of years. 

AYhat felt he then, at once opprest 

By all that most distracts the breast ? 

That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate 

Oh, who its dreary length shall date ? 

Though in time's record nearly nought, 

It was eternity to thought ! 

For infinite as boundless space 

The thought that conscience must embrace 

Which in itself can comprehend 

Wo without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ! 

And did he fly or fall alone ? 

Wo to that hour he came or went ! 

The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, 

To turn a palace to a tomb : 

He came, he went, like the simoom,''' 

That harbinger of fate and gloom. 

Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 

The very cypress droops to death — 

Dark tree, still sad when other's grief is floi, 

The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 

No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 

The lonely spider's thin gray pall 

Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 

The bat builds in his haram bower ; 

And in the fortress of his power 

The owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 

The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 

With baffied thirst, and famine grim ; 

For the stream has shrunk from its maible bed 

Where the weeds and the desolate dust arc spread 

'Twas sweet of yore to see it play, 

And chase the sultriness of day, 



rflE GIAOUR. 



Ill 



AS, spring-'ng high, the silver dew 

2n whirls fantastically flew, 

A.nd flung luxurious coolness round 

The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 

'Tw-^s sweet, when cloudless stars were bright. 

To view the wave of watery light, 

And hear its melody by night, 

And oft had Hassan'? childhood play'd 

Around the verge of that cascade ; 

And oft upon his mother's breast 

That sound had hannonized his rest ; 

And oft had Hassan's youth along 

Its bank been soothed by beauty's song ; 

And softer seemed each melting tone 

Of music mingled with its own. 

But ne'er shall Hassan's age repose 

Along the brink at twilight's close : 

The sti-eam that fill'd that font is fled— 

The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice ; 

The last sad note that swell' d the gale 

Was woman's wildest funeral wail ; 

That quench'd in silence, all is still. 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 

The rudest stops of fellow man — 

So here the ver* voice of grief 

Might wake an echo like relief; 

At least 'twould say, " all are not gone ; 

There lingers life, though but in one — " 

For many a gilded chamber's there. 

Which solitude might Avell forbear; 

Within that dome as yet decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gathered o'er the gate 

Nor there the fakir's self will wait ; 

Nor there will wandering dervise stay. 

For .bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred " bread and salt." " 

Alike must wealth and poverty 

Peps heedless and unheeded by, 

F'>r mrtesy and pity died 

Wit» Hassan on the mountain side. 

His loof, ♦hat refuge unto men, 

It desolation's hungry den. 
1 he guest flies the hall, and the vassals from labor, 
Biuce his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre ! '^ 
• ♦♦**♦«♦♦ 

I hear the sound of coming feet, 

But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 

More near — each turban I can scan, 

And silvor-shcathed ataghan ; '"^ 

The foremost of the band is seen, 

An emir by his garb of green : '•* 

'* Ho ! who art thou ? — this low salam " 

Replies of Moslem faith I am. 

The burden ye so gently bear. 

Seems one that claims your utmost care, 

And, doubtless, holds some precious freight^ 

l\!y humble bark would gladly wait." 



'• Thou speakcst sooth, thy skiff unmoor, 
'Vod waft UH from the silent shore ; 



Nay, leave the sail still furl'd and ply, 
The nearest oar that's scattcr'd by ; 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channell'd waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run. 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of '' 



Sullen it plung'd, and slowly sank. 

The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 

I watch'd as it sank, methought 

Some motion from the current caught 

Bestiir'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 

That checker'd o'er the living stream : 

I gazed, till vanishing from view. 

Like lessening pebble it withdi-ew ; 

StiU less and less, a speck of white 

That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight 

And all its hidden secrets sleep. 

Known but to genii of the deep, 

Wliich, trembling in their coral caves 

They dare not whisper to the waves. 

As rising on its purple wing 

The insect queen '^ of eastern spring, 

O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 

Invites the young pursuer near. 

And leads him on from flower t<5 flower - 

A weary chase and wasted hour. 

Then leaves him, as it soars on high. 

With panting heart and tearful eye : 

So beauty lures the full-grown child. 

With hue as bright, and wing as wil ^ ; 

A chase of idle hopes and fears, 

Begun in folly, closed in tears. 

If won," to equal ills betray'd. 

Wo waits the insect and the maid— 

A life of pain, the loss of peace. 

From infant's play, and man's caprice . 

The lovely toy so fiercely sought 

Hath lost its charm by being caught. 

For every touch that wooed its stay 

Hath brush'd its brightest hues away. 

Till, charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 

'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast 

Ah ! where shall cither victim rest ? 

Can this with fadod pinion soar 

From rose to tulip as before ? 

Or beauty, blighted in an hour, 

Find joy within her broken bower? 

No ! gayer insects fluttering by 

Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die. 

And lovelier things have mercy shown 

To every failing but their own, 

And every wo a tear can claim 

Except an erring sister's sliame. 



The mind, that broods o'er guilty wood, 
Is like the scorpion girt by fire, 

In circle narrowing as it glows, 

The flames nrounii their captive close. 

Till, inly search'd by thotisund throes, 
And maddcninK in her irr. 



112 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



One SUd and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain. 
And darts into her desperate brain : 
So do the dark in soul exph-e, 
Or live like scorpion girt by fire ; '7 
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Aj-ound it flame, within it death ! 

Black Hassan from the haram flies. 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila l^ere no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell : 
Strange rumors in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away. 
When Rhamazan's '8 last sun was set, 
And flashing from each minaret, 
Millions of lamps proclaim d the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless east. 
'Twas then she went as to the bath. 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage. 
In likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond tlfie Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd. 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery^'deserv'd a grave: 
And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tales his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
And others say that on that night, 
By pale Phingari's '^ trembling light 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
« * * * * * * * « 

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell. 
But' gaze on that of the gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark. 
But soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid, 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.^o 
Ye.i,6';M/, and snould our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
Though on Al-Sirat's 2> arch I stood 
Which totters o'er tnn flery flood. 
With parndise within my view. 
And all his houris beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leifa's glance could read 
And keep that portion of his creed ** 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ?^ 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
rhat through her eye the Immortal shone ; 



On her fair cheek's unfai* ing hue 

The young pomegranate' s ^^ blossoms 3Xxe^ 

Their bloom in, blushes ever new ; 

Her hail- in hyacin thine 24 flow, 

When left to roll its folds below. 

As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all. 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 

Ere from the cloud that gave it bu-th 

It fell and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! '■'■* 

As rears her crest the rnflled s\van, 

And spurns the wave with vnngs of priae 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide • 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus armed with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praia*. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate : 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 

Stern HasSttU hath a journey ta'en 

With twenty vassals in his train. 

Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 

With arquebuss and ataghan ; 

The chief before as deck'd for war, 

Bears in his belt the sciraetar 

Stained with the best of Arnaut blood 

When in the pass the rebels stood. 

And few return'd to tell the tale 

Of what befell in Fame's vale. 

The pistols which his girdle bore 

Were those that once a pasha wore. 

Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with g«w] 

Even robbers tremble to behold. 

'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 

More ti-ue than her who left his side ; 

The faithless slave that broke her bower. 

And worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 

The sun's last rays are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
^Vhose welcome waters, cool and clear. 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer ; 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard- 
Here may he rest where none can see. 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not di-ain. 

The foremost Tartar's in the gap. 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night. 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ( 



THE GIAOUR 



113 



Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray. 
By time, or mountain lightning riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
******** 

They reach the grove of pine at last: 

<* Bismillah ! 26 uow the peril's past ; 

For yonder view the opening plain, 

And there we '11 prick our steeds amain.** 

The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 

A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 

The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again ; 
Onseen thfe foes that gave the wound. 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheathed, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, . 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock. 
And there await the coming shock, 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stem Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course. 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; - 
Then curl'd his very beard 27 with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire: 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
['ve scaped a bloodier hour than this. " 
And now the foe their covert quit. 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nnr raised the craven cry, Amaun ! •* 
% In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who loads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
'* 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil c\e^ 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array 'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith. 
It shall not save him from the death: 
'Tis he ! well inet in any hour ! 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour ! " 

As rolls the river into the ocean, 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sca-tidc'a opposing motion. 
In azure rolumn proudly gloaxuing, 
16 



Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood. 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wav» 
Roused by the blast of ivinter, rave ; 
Through sparkling s^^ray, in thundering c)&a> 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In avfful whiteness o'er the shore, 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
With waves that madden as they meet- 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong» 
And fate, and fm"y, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 

And pealing vride or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear. 
The death-shot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 

Reverberate along that vale, 

Mcxe suitea to tne shepherd's tale : 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strifes 
That neither spares noi speaks for life 1 
Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But love itself '^ould never pant 
For all that beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervor hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes. 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold . 
Friends meet to part ; love laughs at faith { 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death I 

******** 

With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt: 
Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
His turban far behind him roU'd, 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn. 
And crimson as those clouds of mom 
That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every bush that bore 
A fragment of his palampore.^o 
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riveOc 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fallen Hassan lies — his unclosed e]|p 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 
As if the hour that seal'd his late 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
And o'er him bends that foe vrith brow 
As dark as his that bled ttlow. — 
***'****m 

•* Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Het spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour . 
He call'd on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
I watched my time, I leagued >vith thoMk 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My ^^Tath is wTcak'd, the deed is done. 
And uow I go — but go alone." 



ri4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The browiing jamels' bells are tinkling : 
His mother lovk i frbm her lattice high, 

She saw the dt^s of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
* 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
** Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the bridegroom nis promised gift ? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
Ajid he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 
How could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate. 
But scarce upheld his fainting weight ; 
His swarthy visage spake distress. 
But this might be from weariness ; 
His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
But these might be from his courser's side ; 
He drew the token, from his vest — 
Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest — 
His calpac 3i rent — his caftan red — 
'* Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed ; 
Me, not for mercy, did they spare. 
But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ; 
Wo to the Giaour! for his the guilt." 
**«**♦«« 

'' A turban 3^ carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead. 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an OsmanUe 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine. 
Or prayed with face towards the shrine. 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of *' Alia Hu !" ^3 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arius he stood, 
And unavenged, at 1 *st in blood. 
But him the maids of paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite. 
And the dark heaven of Houri's eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright , 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave, ^ 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's 35 scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis' * throne ; 
A fire unquench'd, unquenchable, 
Aroundi within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear car hear nor tongue can toll 



The tortures of that inward hell ! 
But first, on earth as vampire ^ sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent . 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them. 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a father'' s name- 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue : 
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
But now is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip » 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they ! 

** How name ye yon lone Caloyer ! 

His feat^es I have scann'd before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death was stamp'd upon his brow." 

" 'Tis twice three years at summer-tide 
Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies. 
But broods mthin his cell alone, 
His faith and race alike unknown. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost. 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
But only Christian in his face : 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made, 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought, 
And thus our abbot's favor bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further ttay. 



1 



THE GIAOUR. 



lih 



Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm' d beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliflf he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him. 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 
« « « « « « « 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
The flash of that dilating eye 
Reveals too much of times gone by ; 
Though varying, indistinct its hue, 
Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 
For in it lurks that nameless spell 
Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
A spirit yet unquell'd and high. 
That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 
And like the bird whose pinions quake, 
But cannot fly the gazing snake, 
Will others quail beneath his look. 
Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 
From him the half-affrighted friar 
When met alone would fain retire. 
As if that eye and bitter smile . 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 
Not oft to smile descendeth he. 
And when he doth 'tis sad to see 
That he but mocks at misery. 
How that pale lip will curl and quiver, 
Then fix once more as if for ever ; 
As if his sorrow or disdain 
Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth 
But sadder still it were to trace 
What once were feelings in that face : 
Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 
But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 
And there are hues not always faded. 
Which speak a mind not all degraded 
■ Evfen by the crimes through which it wadad : 
The common crowd but see the gloom 
Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
The close observer can espy 
A noble soul, and lineage high : 
Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain, 
Which grief could change, and guilt could stain. 
It was no vulgar tenement 
To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
And still with little less than dread 
On such the sight is riveted. 
The roofless cot, decay 'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent. 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
Each ivied arch, and pillfir lone. 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

* His floating robe around him folding, 
8k v^ sweeps be th. ^.gh the colum'd aisle; 



With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 

The rights that sanctify the pile. 
But when the anthem shakes the choir 
And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
By yonder lone and wavering torch 
His aspect glares within the porch ; 
There will he pause till all is done— 
And hear the prayer, but utter none. 
See — by the half-illumined wall 
His hood fly back, his dark hair fall. 
That pale brow widely wreathing round. 
As if the Gorgon there had bound 
The sablest of the serpent-braid 
That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
For he declines the convent oath, 
And leaves those locks unhallow'd growthi 
But wears our garb in all beside : 
And, not from piety but pride, 
Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
Of his one holy vow nor word. 
Lg ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
Peals louder praises to the sky. 
That iivid cheek, that stony air 
Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine 
Else may we dread the wrath divine 
Made manifest by awful sign. 
If ever evil angel bore 
The form of mortal, such he wore : 
By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! ' 

To love the softest hearts are prone, 

But such can ne'er be all his own ; 

Too timid in his woes to share. 

Too meek to meet, or brave despair ; 

And sterner hearts alone may feel 

The wound that time can never heal 

The rugged metal of the mine 

Must burn before its surface shine, 

But plunged within the furnace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same ; 

Then temper'd to thy want, or mil, 

'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breastplate for thine hour of need. 

Or blade to bid thy foemen bleed ; 

But if a dagger's form it bear, 

Let those who shape its edge beware ! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 

Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 

From these its form and tone are ta'en. 

And what they make it, must remain. 

But break — before it bend again. 



If solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share ; 
Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear ; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate 
It is as if the dead could fool 
The icy worm around thorn steal, 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their rla,j 



116 



BYRON S WORKS. 



1 1 is as if the desert-bird,39 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famished nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the di-eary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
ThroAvn, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely -wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay. 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 

******** 

•* Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 

'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 
To bid the sins of others cease. 

Thyself without a crime or care. 
Save transient ills that all must bear. 
Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
And thou -wilt bless thee from the rage 
Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd. 
Such as thy penitents unfold. 
Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
My days, though few, have pass'd below 
In much of joy, but more of wo ; 
Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
I've 'scaped the weariness of life ; 
Xow leagued with friends, now girt by foea, 
£ loathed the languor of repose. 
Now nothing left to love or hate. 
No more with hope or pride elate, 
I'd rather be the thing that crawls 
Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
Yet, lurks a msh mthin my breast 
For rest — ^but not to feel 'tis rest. 
Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still. 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem ; 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom ; 
Though better to have died with those 
Than bear a. life of lingering woes. 
My spirits shrunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet. 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I've braved it — not for honor's boast ; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To sucli let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
4.ught that 1 deem a worthy prise« 



The maid I lo'« e, the man I hate ; 

And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require. 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire ; 
Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from cne 
Who would but do — what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let life go to him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — ^need Inow f 
********% 



*' I loved her, friar ! nay adored—. 

But these are words that all can 
I proved it more in deed than word : 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose ; 
'Twas shed for her, who died for me. 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 

Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed. 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
Well welded in some hardy hands. 
And wounds by Galileans given. 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the prophet's gate : 
I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to pref 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh ; 
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 
She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
But look — 'tis written on my brow ; 
There read of Cain the curse and crime, 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause 
Yet did he but what I had done 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
But true to me, I laid him low : 
Howe'er deserved her doom might be. 
Her treachery was truth to me ; 
To me she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall ; 
And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
'Twas some relief, our foe a grave 
His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
Has made me — what thou well may'st 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it welv, 
Warn'd by the voice of stem Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear ^o 
The death-shot peal'd of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell • 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid. 
One prayer to Alia al^ he made 



THE GIAOUR. 



117 



He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
f gazed upon him where he lay. 
And watch 'd his spirit ebb away ; 
Though pierc'd like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
T search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rag6, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ? 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
********* 

"The cold in clime are cold in blood. 
Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 

But mine was like the lava flood 
That boils in -Sltna's breast of flame. 

I cannot prate in puling strain 

Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain ; 

If changing cheek, and scorching vein. 

Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 

If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 

And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 

And all that I have felt, and feel. 

Betoken love — that love was mine, 

And shown by many a bitter sign. 

'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 

I knew but to obtain or die. 

I die — but first I have possess'd. 

And, come what may, I have been blest. 

Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 

No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 

But for the thought of Leila slain, 

Give me the pleasure with the pain, 

So would I live and love again. 

1 grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 

For him who dies, but her who died : 

She sleeps beneath the wandering wave— 

Ah ! had she but an earthly grave. 

This breaking heart and throl^bing head 

Should seek and share her narrow bed. 

She was a form of life and light, 

That, seen, became a part of sight ; 

And rose, where'er 1 turned mine eye, 

The morning-star of memory ! 

"Yes, love indeed is light from heaven ; 

A spark of that immotal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above. 
But heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
To wean from self each sordid tliought ; 
A ray of him who forni'd the whole ; 
A glory circling round the soul ! 
I grant fny love imporfoct, all 
That mortals by the name jniscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt! 
She was my life's unerring light: 
That qiicnch'd, what beam shall break ray night ? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me Htill, 
A.) though to death, or dead!i «t ill ! 



"Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
This present joy, this future hope. 
No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In frenzy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward bl)W 
"Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear: 
I read abhorrence on thy brow. 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
'Tis true that, like that bird of prey, 
"With havoc have I mark'd the way : 
But this was taught me by the dove. 
To die — and know no second love. 
This legson yet hath man to learn. 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn ; 
The bird that sings within the brake. 
The swan that swims upon the lake 
One mate, and one alone, will take 
And let the fool still prone to range. 
And sneer on all who cannot change. 
Partake his jest with boasting boya . 
I envy not his varied joys. 
But deem such feeble, heartless man. 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine- 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ' 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth. 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 

*< And she was lost — and yet I breathea 

But not the breath of human life ; 
A serpent roxmd my heart was wTeathed, 
And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, Ubhorr'd all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from nature's face, 
"Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know. 
And all my sins, and half my wo. 
But talk no more of ])onitcnce ; 
Thou scc'st I soon shall part from hence, 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that's done can'st thou undo ? 
Think me not thankless — but tliis grief 
Looks not to priesth(H)d for relief.*' 
My soul's estate in secret guess: 
Hilt wouldst thou pity more, say lesB. 
When thou canst bid my fieila live, 
Tlicn will I sue thee to forgive : 
Then plead my cause in that high placw 
Where purchased masses protfer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
From forcst-cavo her shrieking voung. 



118 

And calm the lonely lioness : 

But sooth not — mock not my distress. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



'' In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to blend, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had — ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorbed like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — ^he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When prudence would his voice assume. 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass. 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in -vvrath would turn away, 
If guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold : 
The vsdther'd frame, the ruin'd mind. 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
•Bear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 



** Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 

No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 

Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 

I only watch 'd, and wish'd to weep ; 

But could not, for my burning brow 

Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 

I wish'd but for a single tear, 

As something welcome, new, and dear 

I wish'd it then, I wish it still; 

Despair is stronger than my will. 

Waste not thine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer 

I would not, if I might, be blest ; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 

I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 

And shining in her white symar,*^ 

A.8 through yon pale gray cloud the star 



Which nc w I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spark, 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 
I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
I saw her, friar ! and' I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasjrher to my desperate heart; 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing form within my grasp. 
No heart that beats reply to mine, 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much) 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever wish to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow prest, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there ! in silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye— 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die \ 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me \vild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, 
Oh ! pass thy deAv;^' fingers o'er 
This brow that then will burn no more ; 
Oivplace them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul, 
Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
* * *,» * * « 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 

And thank thee for the generous teat 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead. 
And, save the cross above my head. 
Be neither nane nor emblem spread. 
By prying stranger to be read. 
Or stay the passing pilgi.m's tread.' 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace. 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day : 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew.** 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR 



1. 

That tomb, which, gleaming o'er the cliff. 

Page 108, line 3. 
A. TOMB above the rocks on the promontory, by 
tome supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 

2. 

Sultana of the nightingale. 

Page 108, line 16. 
The attachment of the nightingale to the rose ia 
» -n ell known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the 
'Bulbul of a thousand tales " is one of his appel- 
lat'ons. 

3. 
Till the gay mariner's guitar. 

]Page 109, line 3. 
The guitar is the constant amusement of the 
Greek seilor by night : with a steady fair wind, and 
during a calm, it is accompanied always by the 
voice, and often by dancing. 

4. 
Where cold obstruction's apathy. 

Page 109, line 44. 

'' Ay, but to die and go we know not wheit, 
To Ue in cold obstructioii." 

Meaaure for Measure, Act 111. 130, Sc2. 

5. 

The first, last look by death reveaVd. 

Page 109, line 52. 
1 trust that few of my readers have ever had an 
opportunity of witnessing what is here attempted 
in description, but those who have, will probably 
retain a painful reiaembrance of that singular beauty 
which pervades, with few exceptions, the features 
of the dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, 
"after the spirit is not there." It is to be re- 
marked, in cases of violent death by gunshot 
wounds, the expression is always that of languor, 
whatever th? natural energy of the sufferer's char- 
acter: but in death from a stab, the countenance 
►preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the 
mini its bias to the last. 



Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave. 

Pagb 109, line 114. 
Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, (the 
•lave of the seraglio and guardian of the women,) 
who appoints the Waywode. A pander and eu- 
buch — these are not polite, yet true appellations — 
DOW governs the governor of Athens ! 

/. 
• Tii :aTmer than thy hedrt, young Giaour. 
Page 109, line 24. 
l&fidel. 

8. 
In echoes of the far tophaike. 

Page 110, line/iQ. 
^Tophaike," musket, — Ihe B.iirum is announced 
by the cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the 
mosques, and the firinjj of all kinds of small arms, 
V^aded with ball, proclaim it during the night. 



9. 

Swift as the hurVd on htghjerretd. 

Page 110, line 84 
Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Ttirkish javelia. 
which is darted from horseback with great force iZi.i 
precision. It is a favorite exercise of the Mussul- 
mans ; but I know not if it can be called a manly 
one, since thamost expert in the art are the BlacK 
Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to these^ 
a Mamiouk at Smyrna was the most skilful thr^t 
came within my observation. 

10. 
He came, he went, like the simoom. 

Page 110, line 118. 
The blast of the desert, fatal to everything livina:, 
and often alluded to in eastern poetry. 

11. 
To bless the sacred *' bread and salt." 

Page 111, line 143. 
To partake of food, to break bread and salt with 
your host, insures the safety of the guest ; even 
though an enemy, his person from that mou^ent i« 
sacred. 

12. 

Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre. 

Page HI, line 51. 

I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospi 

tality are the first duties enjoined by Mahomet, 

and, to say truth, very generally practised by his 

disciples. The first praise that can be bestowed on 

a chief is a panegyric on his bounty ; the next, on 

his valor. 

13. 
And silver-sheathed ataghan. 

Page 111, line 56. 
The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in 
the belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; 
and, among the wealthier, gil% or of gold. 

14. 
An e?nir by his garb of areeyi. 

'Page 111, line 58. 
Green is the privileged color of the prophet'8 
numerous pretended descendants ; with theni, ai 
here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to 
supersede the necessity of good works : they are the 
worst of a very indifferent brood. 

15. 
Ho! who art thouf — this low sn/am. 

Page 111. line 59. 
Salam aleikoum saliim ! peace be with yon ; b« 
with you peace — the salutation lesorved lor tho faith- 
ful : — to a Christian, '* Urlarula," a good journey: 
or saban hiresem, saban serula ; good morn, good 
even ; and sometimes, "may your end be happy! " 
are the usual salutes. 

16. 
The insect-queen of eastern sprin/j. 

Page .111" line 92. 
The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmecr, the moii 
rare and beautiful of tba sp«> ies 



120 



BkKON'S WORKS. 



17. 



Or live like 80f<^yion girt hyfire. 

Page 112, line 7. 
Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, 
BO placed for experiment by gentle philosophers. 
Some maintain that the position of the sting, when 
turned towards the head, is merely a convulsive 
movement ; but others have actually brought in the 
verdict, "Felo de se." The scorpions are svirely 
interested in a speedy decision of the question; as, 
if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will 
probably be allowed to live as long as they think 

E roper, without being martyred for the sake of an 
Tpo thesis. 

18. 
When Rhamazan's last sun was set. 

Page 112, line 23. 
The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See 
notes. 

19. 
By pale Phingari's trembling light. 

Page^l2, line 42. 
Phingari, the moon. 

20. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 

Page 112, line 54. 
The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, 
the embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendor, 
named Schebgerag, "the torch of night;" also, 
'' ttie cup of the sun," &c. — In the first edition, 
♦* Giamschid " was wiitten as a word of three syl- 
lables, so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am told Rich- 
ardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jam- 
shid." I have left in the text the orthography of 
the one with the pronunciation of the other. 

21. 
Though on Al-Sirafs arch I stood. 

Page 112, line 58. 
Al-Sirat, the b;ridge of breadth less than the 
thread of a famished spider, over which the Mus- 
6ulraans must skate into paradise, to which it is the 
only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the river 
beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be ex- 
pected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive to 
tumble with a " facilis descensus Averni," not very 
pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There 
is a shorter cut downwards for the" Jews and Chris- 
tians. 

22. 
And keep that portion of his creea. 

Page 112, line 63. 
A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third 
paradise to well-behaved women ; but by far the 
greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text 
their own way, and exclude their moieties from 
heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot 
discern " any fitness of things " in the souls of the 
other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

23. 
The young pomegranate" s blossoms strew. 

Page 112, line 69. 
An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though 
f«irJy stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Ai-abie." 

24 
Her hair in hyacinthine flow. 

Page 112, line 71. 
Hyacinthine, in Arabic, " Sunbul ; " as common 
& thought in the eastern poets, as it was araoug the 
frieeks. 

25. 
The loveliest bird of Franquestan. 

Page 112, line 81. 
Frangusstan," Circassia. 

26. 
Bismillah ' now the perirs past. 

P ige 113, line 92. 



Bismillah — " In the name of God ; " the com' 
mencement of all the chapters of the Koran but 
one, and of prayer and thanksgiving. 

27. 
Then em i-d his very blard with ire. 

Page 113, line 37. 
A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry 
Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitan Pacha's whis- 
kers, at a diplomatic audience, were no less lively 
with indignation than a tiger cat's, to the horror oi 
all the di-agomans ; the portentous mustachioi 
twisted, they stood erect of their own accord, an^ 
were expected every moment to change their color, 
but at last condescended to subside, which, protsi" 
bly, saved more heads than they contained hairs 

28. 
Nor raised the craven cry. Amaun. 



' Amaun," quarter, pardon. 



i'age 113, Hne 47. 



/ know him by the evil eye. 

Page 113, Une 56. 
The ** evil eye," a common superstition in the 
Levant, and of which the imaginary effects are yet 
very singular, on those who conceive themselves af 
fected. 

30. 
A fragment of his palampore. 

Page 113, line 111. 
The flowered shawls, generally worn by persona 
of rank. 

31. 
His calpac rent — his caftan red. 

Page 114, line 29. 
The " calpac " is the solid cap or centre part of 
the head-dress ; the shawl is wound roimd it, and 
forms the turban. 

32. 
A turban carved in coarsest stone. 

Page 114, line 36. 
The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate 
the tombs of the Osmanlies, Avhether in the ceme- 
tery or the wilderness. In the mountains you fre- 
quently pass similar mementos ; and, on inquiry, 
you are informed, that they record some victim of 
rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 

33. 

At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " 

Page 114, line 47. 
•' Alia Hu ! " the concluding words of the Muez- 
zin's call to prayer from the highest gallery on the 
exterior of the minaret. On a still evening, when 
the Muezzin has a fine voice, which *s frequently 
the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond i 
all the bells in Christendom. \ 

34. 

They come — their kerchiefs green they wavt. 
Page 114, line 56. 
The following is part of a battle-song of thfc 
Turks : — " I see — I see a dark-eyed girl of paradiae, 
ana she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of grees ; 
and cries aloud, Come, kiss me, <^or I love thee " 
etc. 

35. 
Beneath avenging MonKir's scythe. 

Page 114, line 62. 
Monkir and Nckir are the inqi isitors of the dead, 
before whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate 
and preparatory training for damnation. If the an- 
swers are none of the clearest, he is hauled up with a 
scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace til] 
properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary pro- 
bations. The office of these angels is no sinecure; 
there are but two, and the number of orthodox de* 
cea iod being in a small proport^'^u to the remainder 
th*-!! hands are always full. 



NOTES TO THE GIAOUR 



121 



Tc wander round lost Ehlis' throne. 

Page 114, line 64. 

Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

37. 

But first, on earth, a* vampire sent. 

Page 114, line 69. 

The Vampire superstition is still general in the 
Levant. Honest Toumefort tells a long story, which 
Mr. Southey, in the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about 
these " Vroucolochas," as he calls them. The Ro- 
maic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole 
family being terrified by the scream of a child, 
which they imagined must proceed from such a visi- 
tation. The Greeks never mention the word with- 
out horror. I find that "Broucolokas " is an old 
legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so ap- 
plied to Arsenius, who, according to the Greeks, 
was after his death animated by the Devil. — The 
taoderns, however, use the word I mention. 

38. 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip. 

Page 114, line 95. 
The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the 
lip with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vam- 
pire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of 
these foul feeders are smgular, and some of them 
most incredibly attested. 

39. 
It is a^ if the desert-bird. 

Page 116, line 7. 
The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by 
the imputation of feeding her chickens with her 
blood. 

40. 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear. 

Page 116, line 129. 
This superstition of a second-hearing (for I never 
met with downright second-sight in the east) fell 
once under my own observation. — On my third 
journey to Cape Colonna early in 1811, as we passed 
through the defile that leads from the hamlet L-:r 
vWecn Keratiar and Colonna, I observed Dervisi. 
Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning 
his head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up 
and inquired. " We are in peril," he answered. 
•* What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in 
the passes to' Ephcsus, Messalunghi, or Lcpanto; 
there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates 
have not courage to be thieves." — " True, AlFendi, 
out nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears." 
^•The shot! not a tophaike has been fired this 
^^prning." — ** I hear it notwithstanding — Bom — 
^W)m — as plainly as I hear yoiir voice." — "Pshaw." 
"As you please, Affendi ; if it is written, so will it 
be." — I left this qui'ck-eared predostiixiirian, and 
rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose 
ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means rel- 
ished the intelligcn''e. We all arrived at Colonna, 
remained some liours, and returned leisurely, say- 
Uig a variety of brilliant things, in more languages 
than spoiled the building of Babel, u])on the mis- 
taken soer ; Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, 
and English were all exercised, in various conceits, 
upon the unfortiinate Mussulman. While we were 
contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was 
occupied about the columns. I thought he was de- 
ranged inti an antiquarian, and asked him if he had 
I become a ' PainoaMro ' nviTi : '• No," said he, " but 
these pillars will be useful in making a stand;" 
I ind added other remarks, which at least evinced his 
' cwn belief in his troublesome f.icnUy ul' fore-/iearin</. 
> On our return to Athens, we heard from Leone (a 
f prisoner set ashore some days after) of the intended 
attack of the Mainotos, mentioned, with the cause 
I ^C its not taking place, in the notes to Childe 
16 



Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question 
the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and 
marks of the horses of our party so accurately, that 
with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his 
having been in " villainous company," and our- 
selves in a bad neighborhood. Dervish became a 
soothsayer for life, and I dare Say is now hearing 
more musketry, than ever will be fired, to the great 
refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his na- 
tive mountains.' — I shall mention one trait more ol 
this singular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably 
stout and active Arnaout came (I believe the tenth 
on the same errand) to offer himself as an attend- 
ant, which was declined: "Well, Affendi," quoth 
he, " may you live ! — you would have found me use- 
ful. I shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow, 
in the winter I return, perhaps you will then receive 
me." — Dervish, who was present, remarked, as a 
thing of course, and of no consequence, " In iLe 
mean time he will join the Klephtes," (robbers,) 
which was true to the letter. — If not cut off, they 
come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested 
in some town, where they are often as well known 
as their exploits. 

41. 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 

Page 117, line 125 
The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to h^rt 
had so little effect upon the patient, that it could 
have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufG.oient 
to say, that it was of a customary length (as may 
be perceived) from the interruptions and uneasiness 
of the penitent,) and was delivered in the nasal 
tone of all orthodox preachers. 

42. 
And shining in her white symar. 

Page 118, line 59 

" Symar " — shroud. 

43. 
Page 118, Une 121. 

The circumstance to which the above story re 
lates was not very uncommon in Tmkey. A few 
years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to 
his father of his son's supposed infidelity ; he asked 
with whom, and she had the bai-barity to give in a 
list of the twelve handsomest women in Yanina 
They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and di-own 
ed in the lake the same night ! One of the gusirds 
who was present informed me, that not one of the 
victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of ter- 
ror at so sudden a "wrench from all we know, from 
all we love." The fate of Phrosine, tlie fairest ol 
this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and 
Arnaout ditty. The story in the text is one told 
of a young Venetian many years ago, and now 
nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by 
one of the coffee-house story-tellers who abound in 
the Levant, and sing or recite their narratives. 
The additions and interpolations by the translator 
will be easily distinguished from the rest by the 
want of Eastern imagerv ; and I regret that my 
memory has retained so few f;agments of the origi- 
nal. 

For the contents of some the notes I am indebted 
partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most east- 
ern, and, as Mr. Wel)er justly entitles it, " sublime 
tale," the " Caliph Vathek.'' I do not know from 
what source the author of that singular volume 
may have drawn his materials; some of his inci- 
dents arc to be found in the " Bibliothe(iue Orien- 
tale; but for correctness of costume, beauty of 
descripti(m, and power of imagination, it far sur- 
passes all European imitations ; and bears such 
marks of originality, that those who have visited 
the East, will find stmie difficulty in believing it to 
be more than a translation! As an I'^asteai tale, 
even Rasselas must bow before it; his "llanpt 
Valley " will not tear a comparison vvitli tho " HaU 
of Eblis." 



'THE BKIDE OF ABYDOS; 

A TURKISH TALE. 



Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

BURM8. 



TO 



THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

«riTH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND RESPECT, BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGXU 
AND SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



CANTO L 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
K-now ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 

shine ; 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 

perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul ^ in her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky. 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 

.done ? 2 
Oh wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the talcs wMch 
they tell. 

II. 

Begirt with aany a gallant slave, 

AppJi-eird as becomes the brave. 

Awaiting each his lord's behest 

To guide his steps or guard his rest, i 



Old Giaffir sat in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

m 

" Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train difia( 
pear'd — 

"Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.'* 
"With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 

<' Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Wo to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is iix'd this very h: UT : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 

By me alone be duty taught !" 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey.'* 
No more must slave to despot say- 
Then to the tow'^r had ta'en bis way 
But here young Selim silence brake, 
First lowly rendering rererenie meet 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



I2d 



Aiid downcast look'd and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide. 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be. 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me— 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That— let the old and weary sleep— 
J could not ; and co view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep. 
With aone to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood. 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
1 on Zuleika's slumber broke. 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own. 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
With Memoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 3 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour * 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew: 
But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 

IV. 

Son of a slave ! " — the Pacha said — 
"From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the boW; 

And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 

Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed. 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire. 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 

ay, tamely view old Stauibol's wall 

efore the dogs of Moscow fall. 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaft^ — not the brand. 
But, Ilaroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark— of thine own head take heed— 
If thus Zuleika oft takes winu; — 
Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string ! " 

V. 

No sound from Sclim's lip was heard 
At least that met old Giaffir's ear. 

Bv.t every fro%vn and every word 

Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
*• Son of a sla-e ! — reproach'd with fear I 
Those gibes ha 1 cost another dear. 

Son of a slave ! — and loho my sire ? " 
Thug held his thoughts their dark career ; 



^: 



And glances even of more than ire 
Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 

Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
And started ; for within his eye 

He read how much his wrath hath done ; 

He saw rebellion there begun : 

** Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 

I mark thee — and 1 know thee too ; 

But there be deeds thou dar'st not do 

But if thy beard had manlier length, 

And if thy hand had skill and strength, 

I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 

Albeit against my own perchance " 

As sneeringly these accents fell. 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaflfii-'s quail'd and shrunk askance 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
** Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved hiin from his birth, 
And — ^but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life 
I would not trust that look or tone ; 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no mor«^- 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab = to my sight. 
Or Christian crouching in the fight- 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice : 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear '• 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear. 
With all to hope, and nought to fear 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet as the desert-fo\mtain's wave 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy bkth, and bless thee now : 

VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 

AVh-en on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 

Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind- 
But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling » 

Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transceudant vision 
To soiTow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 

When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysiaiv 
And paints the lost on earth revived in heaven ; 

Soft, as the memory of buried love; 

Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above . 

AVas she — the daiighter of this rude old chief, 

Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its :"wn delight, 
His changing che'.k, his sijiking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmaik'd b) her \lone; 



124 



BYRON'tj WORKS. 



The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the music breathing from her face,* 
The hear", whose softness harmonized che whole — 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Nat that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
, Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 
** Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman ^ 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou ; 
His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman. 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger ^ what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love thy lord may show." 

VIII. 
In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fill'd with tears. 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, , 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped. 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in beauty's eye. 

Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So SAveet the blush of bash fulness, 

Even pity scarce can wish it less ! 
Whate'er it Avas the sire forgot ; 
Or if remember'd, mark'd it not : 
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed,' 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd Chibouke,i<^ 
And mounting featly for the mead, 

With IMaugrabee •• and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Delis took,^^ 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, and blunt jerreed. 
The Kis'ar only and his M )ors 
Watch' d well the Haram'a massy doors. 



IX. 



His head was lean*, upon his hand. 

His eye look'd o'er the dark-blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand. 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt ^^ 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin -darting crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs i^ wild and loud- 
He thought but of old Giaffir's daughlac . 

X. 

No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
Still gazed he through the lattic^ grat« - 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd : 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame, 
But yet that heart alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak # 
Yet speak she must — ^but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn awa7 ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet," 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix*d ; 

She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's is perfume. 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof i® and marble floor : 
The di-ops, that through his glittering rest 
The playful girl's appeal addrest, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
** What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curioiis order set 

The fairest flowers of Eastern land — 
** He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breath'd 
Before the rose was pluck'd and wreathed: 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
*' This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul '" bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XL 

" "What ! not receive my foolish flower? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And knoAv'st thou not who loves the© best ? 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail* 
Even from my fabled nigtingale. 



»« 



IHE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



125 



i knevr our sire at times was stem, 
But this from thee had yet to learn : 
Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
k But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 

Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan— 
This kinsman Bey of Caiasman 
I'erhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
Ah ! were I sever' d from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen, time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Even Azrael ^^ from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for mei 
Our hearts! to undivided dust ! " 



XII. 

He lived — ^he breathed — he moved — ^he felt ; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darlcness dwelt; 
With thoughts that burn— in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows ; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

From tae black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife. 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
" Now thou art mine, for ever mine. 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
^ Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
^ Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 

That vow hath saved more heads than one : 

But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 

Claims more from me than tenderness ; 

I would not wrong the slenderest hair 

That cluster round thy forehead fair, 

For all the treasures buried far 

Within the caves of Istakar.*^ 

This morning clouds upon me lower'd. 

Reproaches on my head were shower' d, 

And Giaffir almost called me coward ! 

Now I have motive to be brave ; 

The son of his neglected slave. 

Nay, start not 'twas the term he gave, 

May show, though little apt to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

ffta son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee. 

Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 

But let our plighted secret tow 

Be only known t« at at now 



I know the wretch who dares dcmana 

From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 

Holds not a Musselims ^ control : 

Was he not bred in Egripo ? ^^ 

A viler race let Israel show ! 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 

I've partisans for peril's day : 

Think not I am what I appear ; 

I've arms, and friends, and vengeance neai 

XIII. 

" Think not thou art what thou appearest, 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself esitranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before,. 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

And hate the night I know not why. 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 
Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
My own have nearly caught the same. 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To sooth thy sickness, watch t^iy health. 
Partake, but never waste thy -"vealth. 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by« 
And lighten half thy poverty j 
Do all but close thy dying eye. 
For that I could not live to try ; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire • 
More can I do ? or thou require ? 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We see so much of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot di-eam nor tell. 
But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 
Yet what thou mean'st by • arms ' and * friendt 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can tkis fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

'I'he partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts \%ith life begfur., 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shall 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now i 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree I 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 



.26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



This wherefore should I not reveal ? 

Why wilt thou ui'ge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good : 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why, I know not, but withic 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,22 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 

XIV. 

•' Zuleika! to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet ; 

Artd now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There's fearful news from Danube's b mk, 

Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 

Our Sultan bath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep. 
Unto thy cell will Selim come ; 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I appear " 



CANTO II. 



The winds are high on Helle's wave, 
As on that night of stormy water, 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high. 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
A.nd clouds aloft and tides below, 
Vith sipns «nd sounds, forbade to go, 



He could not see, he would not hear 

Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 

His eye but saw thai light of love, 

The only star it hail'd above ; 

His ear but rang with Hero's song, 

" Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! ' — 

That tale is old, but love anew 

May nerve young hearts to prove as true 

II. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And night's descending shadows hide 
• That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 

The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle : • 

III. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These fee^ave press'd the sacred shore ; 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne- 
Minstrel ! %A'ith thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore. 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own " broad Hellespont "*^ still dasnn 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Ammon's ^ son ran proudly rouna 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how nairow , 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stont ; 
But th ou — thy very dust is gone ! 

V. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; 

Till then no beacon on the cliff 

May shsipe the course of struggling skiff j 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay. 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower ; 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber. 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;** 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,*^ 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And by her comboloio ^ lies 
A Koran of illiunined dyes ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYuOS. 



13 



And many a bright emblazon 'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes rcdeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom. 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume; 
Ail that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather' d in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
Bhe, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

VI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from \viuds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

And starting oft, as through the ^lade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat. 

The uiaid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her teiTor urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side ? 

How teach her tender lips to chide ? 

VII. 
They reach' d at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature but enlarged by art. 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her prophet had disdained to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure. 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss. 
Without Aer, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear with him coul(^ dwell ? 
What Houri sonth him half so well ? 

VIII. 
Since last she visited the spot 
Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 
Jt might be only that the night 
©isguised things seen by better light : 
That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
A ray of no celestial hue ; 
But in a nook within the cell 
Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
There arras were piled, not such as wield 
The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 
And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 
A cup too on the board was set 
That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 
Her Sclim— " Oh . can this be he ? " 

IX. 
His robe of pride was thrown aside. 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red. 

Wreathed Uj^htly round hia temples wore : 



That dagger, on "»hose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem. 
No longer glitter'd at his waist. 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote . 
Beneath — his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.^ 



" I said I was not what I seem'd : 
And now thou seest my words were tru* 

I have a tale thou hast not dieam'd, 
If sooth — its truth must others rue 

My story now 'twere vain to hide ; 

I must not see thee Osman's bride; 

But had not thine own lips declared 

How much of that young heart I shared, 

I could not, must not, yet have shown 

The darker secret of my own. 

In this I speak not now of love ; 

That, let time, ti'uth, and peril prove . 

But first — Oh ! never wed another — 

Zuleika! I am not thy brother !" 

XI. 

** Oh ! not my brother ! — ^yet unsay~ 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before. 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou has cause for vengeance, see 
My breast is ofFer'd — take thy fill ! 

Fan better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
And I alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn 'd, revilad. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thoujsave 
My life. Oh ! bid me be thy slave '" 

XII. 

" My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine ; 

But, gentle love, this transport calm : 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran '^ verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change ; but, my Ztilrika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 



128 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



My father was to Giafiir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He reai-'d me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ;3<> 
He watched me like a lion's whelp, 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take : 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, belov'd Zuleika ! hear 
How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

" How hist their strife to rancor grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew : 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember' d yet in Bosniac song, 
And Paswan's 3^ rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest ; 
His death is all I need relate. 
The stern effect of Giafhr's hate; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 
" When Paswan, after years of strife. 
At last for power, but first for life, . 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate, 
Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horsetails ■^ to the wind, 

And, mustering in Sophia's plain, . 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd : 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words ? the deadly bowl. 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Reclined and feverish in the bath. 

He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : ' 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, ^ nor needed more ! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt. 
Call Haroun — ^he can tell it out. 

XV. 

*• The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honors were obtain'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd; 
'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence ? Survey the waste 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow.' — 



Why me the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded non» 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; but not in peace 
He cannot curb his haughty mood. 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI. 

" Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are trua 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few: 
They only want a neart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knowg, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh ; 
He in Abdallah's palace grew. 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die : 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
He led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knoAvledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feele 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 

XVII. 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounis ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er, my t6ngue thy softness wound§, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn. 

And long must wear : this Galiong^e, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn. 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 

WTiose laws and lives are on their sword* , 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale , 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brougU: 
The hands that wield are not remote 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fiU'd — once quafF'd, they ne'er repine ; 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 
«♦ What could I be ? Proscribed at hom»k 
And taunted to a wisn to roam ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



12b 



And listless lett -for Giaffir's fear 

Denied the courser and the spear — 

Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft !— 

In full Divan the despot scofF'd, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand : 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried, "linknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd. 

Though it nnmann'd me, still had cheer'd — 

To Bnisa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaited'sl there the field's event. 

Haroun, wlio saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggiSh yoke. 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through. 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay — Heaven itself was mine ! 

XIX. 

• The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey 'd me from this idle shore ; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
1 sou*ht by turns, and saw them all ; *• 

But when and »^here I join'd the crew 
With wnom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 

"VNTien all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood. 
But rough in form, nor mild in mo^d ; 
And every creed, and every race. 
With them hath found — may find a place 
^But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chief's commaitd ; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than even my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar ra»:k. 
But chiefly to my counsel call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire. 

The last of Lambro's •''* patriot's tVisre 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate. 
To snatch the Rayahs ^ from their fate. 
So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew: 
1 have a love for freedom too. 

17 



Ah ! let me like the ccean patriarch'' roam. 

Or only know on laad the Tartar's home !** 

My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 

Ai-e more than cities and serais to me : 

Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail. 

Across the desert, or before tne gale. 

Bound where thou wilt, my barb I or glide, my proj(^ 

But be the star that guides the wanderer. Thou ! 

Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark _ 

The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! • 

Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 

Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 

The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 

And tints to-mon-ow with prophetic ray ! 

Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wail 

To pilgrim's pure and prostrate at his call 

Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 

That r.teals the trembling tear of speechless praise 

Dear- -as his native song to exile's ears, 

Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endeari 

For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 

Blooming as Aden^s in its earliest hour. 

A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand 

Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command 

Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 

The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 

The Haram's languid years of listless ease 

Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these: 

Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 

Unnumber'd perils — ^but one only love ! 

Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 

Though fortune fro^vns, or falser friends betray. 

How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill. 

Should all be ch anged, to find thee faithful stil 

Be tut thy soul like Selim's, firmly shown • 

To thee be Selim's tender as thme own ; 

To sooth each sorrow, share in each delignt, 

Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 

Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide j 

Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 

Ypt there we follow but the bent assign'd 

By fatal nature to man's warring kind : 

Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease 

He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 

I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

The blest alternative of fraud or force ; 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come. 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There even thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes wliich peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or wo, 

Or even disgrace would lay her lover low. 

Sunk in the lap of I'.ixury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! not Zuleika's name: 

But life is hazard at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear ; 

Yes, fear !— the doubt, the dread of losing thee. 

By Osman's power and Giafhi s stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 

Which love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath channt 

Earth — sea alike — our world mthin our arms ! 

Ay — lot the loud winds whistle o'er the de''k, 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck, 

The deepest monuur of thi«» lip shall b« 



130 



BYRON'S ^ORKS 



No sigh, for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To love, whose deadliest bane is human art : 

There lie the oply rocks our course can check ; 

ETo'e moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape ! 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Ft w words remain of mine my tale to closed 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 

Hfea — foos — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 

\nd is not Osman, who would part us, thine 

XXI. 

*'• His head and faith from doubt and death 

Return'd in time my guard to save ; 

Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land. 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain ; 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance his life who gave thee thine, 
"With me this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now. 
Here rest I — ^not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head ! " 

XXII. 
Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
Stood like that statue of distress, 
"When, her last hope for ever gone. 
The mother harden'd into stone ; 
All in the maid that eye could see 
Was but a younger Niobe. 
But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 
Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
Far flashed on high a blazing torch ! 
Another — and another — and another — 
" Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than 

brother ! " 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving, 
Stem Giffiar in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave— 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — " 'tis come — soon past- 
One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash : 
Tet now too rew— the attempt were xw*\l : 

No matter — ^yet one effort more." 



Forth to the cavern mouth he stept , 

His pistol's echo rang on high ; 
Zuleika started not, nor wept. 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes moi^e nigb. 
Then forth my father's scimitar ; 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — ^here linger safe, ^ 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him ? — ^may I expire. 
If in this strife I sefek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 

XXIV. 
One bound he made, and gain'd the sand ; 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — ^but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft. 

And almost met the meeting wave : 

His boat appears — not five oars' lengthL— 
His comrades strain with desperate strength 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 

His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay. 
Their sabres glitter through the spray , 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the laYid ! 
They come ! — 'tis but to add to slaughter— 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 

XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 
To where the strand and billows met : 
There as his last step left the land. 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
How late will lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray : 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball-— 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
"Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang } 
"Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling— •> 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan. 
The rushing billows chok'd the tone . 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



181 



XXVI. 

M am slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 
And fragments of each shiver' d brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 
May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
A broken torch, an earless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'Tis rent in twain — one dark red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er hii? relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burden round Sigaeum's steep, 

And cast ©n Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion- is not life, 
Yet feeblj seems to menace strife. 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then lev ell' d with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave ? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
And mourned above his turban-stone,^ 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed- 
Yea — closed before his own ! 



XXVII. 
By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — ^man's cheek is pale: 
Zulieka ! last of Giaffir's race. 

Thy destined lord is come too late ; 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wiil-wulleh <• warn his distant ear ? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chaunters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Bighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

TFll him thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — * 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave 1 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy 

first ! 
fhrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies 
The ■worm that rnll not sleep — and never dies ; 



Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That di-eads the darkness, and yet loathes ^he light 
That winds around and tears the quivering heart ' 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ' 
Wo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief ; 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed. 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy daughter's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou haaf 

shed ! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of despair : 
" Where is my child ? " — an echo answ»s — 
"Where?" "2 

XXVIII. 
Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms. 
And withers not, though branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief. 

Like early unrequited love. 
One spot exists, which ever blooms. 

Even in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

lis lonely lustre, meek and pale 
It looks as planted by despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail. 
And hands more rude than winter sky 
May wi-ing it from the stem — in vain- 
To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower. 
Which mocks the tempest's withering horn 
And buds unshelter'd by a bowei , 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower^ 

Not woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings. 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the bulbul ; but his throat. 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain . 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'Tis sorrow so unmix 'd with dread. 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

lie sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
And harsh be they that blame) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllabic its sound 
Into Zuleika's name «• 



132 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



'Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 
That^melts in air the liquid word ; 
"Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore : 
For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
N*»xt mom 'twas found where Selim fell, 



Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

Denied his bones a holier gray* : 

And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'Tis named the " Pirate phantom's pillow 
Where first it lay that mourning flower 
Hath flourish'd ; flourisheth this hour. 

Alone and de-vv-y, coldly pure and pale ; 

As weeping beauty's cheek at sorrow's tale ! 



NOTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



1. 

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom. 
Page 122, line 8. 
"Gul," the rose. 

2. 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
Page 122, Une 17. 

" Souli made of fire, and children of the sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue.— ybung-'* Revenge. 



With Mej'noun's tale, or Sadi's song. 

Page 123, line 23. 
Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the 
Bast. Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

4. 
Till 7, who heard the dee^ tambour. 

Page 123, line 24. 
Tambour, Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, 
noon, and twilight. 

5. 
He is an Arab to my sight. 

Page 123, line 95. 
The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the com- 
pliment a hundred fold) even more than they hate 
the Christians. 

6. 
The mind, the micsic breathing from her face. 
Page 124, line 2. 
This expression has' met with objections. I will 
not refer to " him who hath not music in his soul," 
but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten 
seconds, the features of the woman whom he be- 
lieves to be the most beautiful ; and if he then 
does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed 
in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For 
%.n eloquent passage in the latest work of the first 
female writer of this, perhaps of any age, on the 
analogy (and the Immediate comparison excited by 
that analogy), between *' painting and music," see 
vol. iii. cap. 10. De l'Allemagne. And is not this 
connexion still stronger with the original than the 
y>py i With the coloring of nature than of art ? 



After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; 
still I think there are some who will understand it, 
at least they would have done, had they beheld the 
countenance whose speaking harmony suggested the 
idea ; for this passage is not di-awn from imagina- 
tion, but memory, that miiTor which affliction 
dashes to the earth, and looking down upon the 
fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied. 

7. 
But yet the li?ie of Carasman. 

Page 124, hne 24. 
Carasman Oglou, or Cara Osman Oglou, is the 
principal landholder in Turkey : he governs Mag- 
nesia : those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, pos- 
sess land on condition of service, are called Tima- 
riots : they serve as Spahis, according to the extent 
of territory, and bring a certain number into the 
field, generally cavalry. 

8. 
And teach the messenger what fate. 

Page 124, line 36. 
When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the 
single messenger, who is always the first bearer oi 
the order for his death, is strangled instead, and 
sometimes five or six, one after the other, on the 
^ame errand, by command of the refractoi^ patient ; 
if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, 
kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and ia 
bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, seve- 
ral of these presents were exhibited in the niche ol 
the Seraglio gate; among others, the head of the 
Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young man, cut off by 
treachery, after a desperate resistance. 



Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed. 
Page 124, line ^. 

Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The 
Turks hate a superfluous expenditure of voice, an<l 
they have no bells. 

10. 
Resigned hta gem-adorn' d chibouque. 

Page 124, line 6€. 



MUTES TO THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



13S 



Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber 
Jiouth-piece and sometimes the ball which contains 
the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in pos- 
jBession of th^ wealthier orders. 

11. • 
With Mauqrabee and Mamaluke. 

Page 124, line 58. 
Maugrabee, Moorish mercenar'ies. 

12. 

His way amid his Delis took. 

■■■^ Page 124, line 59 
Deli, bravos who form the forlorn hope of the 
tavalrv, and always begin the action. 

13. 

Careering cleave the folded felt. 

Page 124, line 71. 
A tAvisted fold oifelt is used for scimitar practice 
by the Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut 
through it at a single stroke: sometimes a_ tough 
tuiban is used for the same purpose. The jerreed 
is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. 

14. 
Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud. 

Page 124, line 74. 
Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the 
Spanish poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a cry 
of which the Turks, for a silent people, are some- 
what profuse, particularly during the jerreed, or in 
the chase, but mostly in" battle. Their animation 
in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their 
pipes and comboloios form an amusing contrast. 

15. 

The Persian Atar-guVs perfume. 

Page 124, line 93. 
" Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the 
finest. 

16. 
The pictured roof and marble floor. 

Page 124, line 95. 
The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the 
Mussulman apartments are generally painted, in 
great houses, Tith one eternal and highly colored 
vieAv of Constantinople, wherein the principal 
feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, 
arms, scimitars, &c., are in general fancifully and 
not inelegantly disposed. 

17. 

A message from, the Bullml hears. 

Page 124, line 111. 
>"'' It has been much doubted whether the notes of 
this " Lover of the rose," are sad or merry ; and 
Mr. Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked 
some learned controversy as to the opinions of the 
ancients on the snl))ect. I dare not ventiire a con- 
jecture on the point, thougli a little inclinrd to the 
**errare mallem," &c., if Mr. Vox was mistaken. 

18. 
Even Azrael,from his deadly quiver. 

Page 12-3, line 19. 
" Azrael " — the angel of death. 

19. 
Within the caves of Tstakar. 

Page 12'), line 54. 
The treasures p*" the Pre- Adamite Sultans. Sec 
0'Herbklot, article Iskatar. 

20. 
HoUIh not a Mtcssclini^s control. 

Page 125, line 70. 
M isseliiti, a governor, the next in rank after a 



Pacha ; a Waywode is the third ; and then :om« 
the Agas. 

21. 
Was he not bred in Egripo ? 

Page 125, line 71. 
Egripo — the Negropont, — According to the prov- 
erb the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, an(J 
the Greeks of Athens, are the worst of theii- respec- 
tive races. 

22. 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar. 

Page 126, line 13. 
"Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who pre- 
cedes a man of authority." 

23. 

Thine own " broad Hellespont " still dashes. 
Page 126, line 83. 
The wi'angUng about this epithet " the* broad 
Hellespont" or the "boundless Hellespont," 
whether it means one or the other, or what it means 
at all, has been beyond all possibility of detail. 1 
have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and, not 
foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, 
amused myself with swimming across it in the mean, 
time, and probably may again before the point is 
settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth oi I 
"the tale of Troy divine" still continues, much oi I 
it resting upon the talismanic .word " arrej/x^j ; " j 
probably Homer had the same notion of distance 
that a coquette has of time, and when he talks oi 
boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a 
like figure, when she says eternal attachment, sim 
ply specifies three weeks. 

24. 

Which Ammon's son ran proudly round. 

Page 126, line 9*. 
Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the al- 
tar with laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated 
by Caracalla in his race. It is believed that the last 
also poisoned a friend, named Festus, for the sak" 
of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep 
feeding on the tombs of ^sietes and Antilochus 
the first is in the centre of the plain. 

25. 
O'er which her fairy fingers ran. 

Page 126, line li3. 
"When rtibbed, the amber is susceptible of a per- 
fume, which is slight but not disagreeable. 

26. 
Her motlw^s sainted amulet. 

Page 126, line 110 
The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or e»j 
closed in gold boxes, containing scraps from the Ko- 
ran worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still uni- 
versal in the East. The Koorsee (throne) verse in 
the second chapter of the Koran describes the at- 
tributes of tlie Most High, and is engraved in thi» 
manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteeiP 
ed and sublime of all sentences. 

27. 
And by her Comboloio lies. 

Page 126, line !!&. 
" Comboloio " — a Turkish rosary. The MSS. pai 
ticularly those of the Persians, are richly adorned 
and illiimiiiatcd. The (Jreek females are kept ir 
utter ignorance ; but many of the Turkish girls ar« 
highly accomplished, though not actually (jualified 
for a Christian coterie; perhaps some .•)f our own 
** blues " might not be the worse for bleaching. 



In him was some voung Galhmjee 

' Page 127, lino 77. 
Qaliongee" — or Galioiigi, a aaiior, that is. m 



i34 



BYRON'b WORKS. 



Turkish sailor' the Greeks navigate, the Turks 
fvork the guns. Their diess is picturesque ; and I 
have seen the Capitan Pacha more than once wear- 
ing it as a kind of incog. Their logs, however, are 
generally naked. The buskins described in the 
text as sheathed behind with silver, arc those ot an 
Ai'naut robber, who was my host, riie had quitted 
the profession,) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the 
Morea ;>'they were plated in scales one over the 
other, like the back of an armadillo. 

29. 
So may the Koran verse display' d. 

Page 127, line 116. 
The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain 
sometimes the name of the place of their man- 
ufacture, but more generally a text from the Ko- 
ran, in letters of gold. Among those in my pos- 
Bession, is one with a blade of singular construction ; 
it is very broad, and the edge notched into serpen- 
tine curves like the ripple of water, or the wavering 
of flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what 
possible use such a figure could add : he said, in. 
Italian, that he did not know ; but the Mussulmans 
had an idea that those of this form gave a severer 
Wound ; and liked it because it was " piu feroce." 
1 did not umch admire the reason, but bought it for 
Its peculiarity. 

30. 
But like the nephew of .a Cain. 

Page 128, line 8. 
It is to be observed, that every allusion to any- 
thing or personage in the Old Testament, such as 
the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mus- 
Bulmau and Jew : indeed, the former profess to be 
much better acquainted with the lives, true and fab- 
ulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by oui' 
r>wn sacred writ, and not content with Adam, they 
have a biography of Pre- Adamites. Solomon is the 
monarch of all necromancy, and Moses a prophet 
inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is 
the Persian name of Potiphai-'s w^ife, and her 
amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest 
poems in the language. It is therefore no violation 
of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, into 
*he mouth of a Moslem. 

31. 
And Paswan^s rebel hordes attest. 

Page 128, line 24. 
Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin, who for the 
i&st years of his life, set the whole power of the 
Porte at defiance. 

32. 
They gave their horsetcMs to the wind. 

Page 128, line 36. 
Horsetail^ the standard of a Paclia. 

33. 

He drahk one draught, nor needed more. 

Page 128, line 49. 
Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am 
liOt sure which, was actually taken off by the Alba- 
niiin Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali 
f'acha, while I was in the country, married the 
daughter of his victim, some years after the event 
had taken place, at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. 
The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, which is 
prt sented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after 
dressing. 

34. 
/ sought by turns and saw them all. 

Page 129, line 35. 
The Turkish notions of almost all islands are con- 
Cned to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

3-5. 
The last of Lambro's patriots there. 

Page 129, line 58. 
I.«inbro Canzani, a Gr^ek. famous for his elforts 



in 1789-90 for tho independence of his country. 
ab-'indoned by the Russians, he became a piiate, and 
the Archipelago was the scene of his enterprises 
He is said to be still alive at Petersbm-gh. lie ana 
Riga are the two n^st celebrated of the Greek 
revolutionists. 

36. 
To snatch the Rayahs from their fate. 

Page 129, line 62 
" Rayahs " all who pay the capitation tax, called 
the ' Haratch." 

37. 
Ay . let me like the ocean-patriarch roam. 

Page 129, line 66. 
The first of voyages is one of the few with whicl» 
the Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

38. 

Or only know on land the Tartar's home. 

Page 129, line 67- 
The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and 
Turkomans, will be found well detailed in any' book 
of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm pe- 
culiar to itself cannot be denied. A young French 
renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he nevPt 
found himself alone, galloping in the desert, with- 
out a sensation approaching to raptm-e, which was 
indescribable. 

39. 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 

Page 129, line 87. 
" Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, tbc 
Mussulman Paradise. 

40. 
And mourn' d above his turban-stone. 

Page 131, line 36. 
A turban is carved in stone above the graves oi 
men only. 

41. 
The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear. 

Page 131, line 45. 
The death-song of the Turkish women. Th« 
" silent slaves " are tne men whose notions of de- 
corum forbid complaint in public. 

42. 

*■' Where is my child ? " — an echo answers — ' * Where? " 
Page 131, line 81. 

" I came to the place of my birth and cried, ' thij 
friends of my youth, where are they ? ' and an Echo 
answered, ' Where are they ? ' " — From an Arabie 
MS. 

The above quotation (from which the idea in the 
text is taken) must be already familiar to every 
reader — it is given in the first annotation, page 6/, 
of *' The Pleasures of Memory " a poem so weU 
known as to render a reference almost superfluoua ; 
but to whose pages all will be delighted to recux- 

43. 

Into Zuleika's name. 

Page 131, line 128 

" And airy tongues that sylltMe men's namei." 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the 
form cf birds., we need not travel to the east. Lord 
Lyttleton's ghost story, the belief of the Dutchess 
of Kendal that George I. flew into her window in 
the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Reminiscences,) 
and many other instances, bring this superstition 
nearer home. The most singulaj- v.as the whim of 
a Worcester lady, who, believing her daughter to 
exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally fur- 
nished her pew in the Cathedral with cages-full oJ 
the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactress 
in beautifying the church, no o1)jection was made tc 
her harmless folly. For this anecdote see Orford'f 
Letters. 



THE COESAIR; 

A TALE. 



•I »uoi penaieri In lui donnir non ponno." 

TASSO, Qtnto dedmo, Gerutcdemm* LUmvti^ 



THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

Wy dbae Moorb,— 

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which 
I shall trespass on public patience, and your indul- 
gence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anx- 
ious to avail myself of this latest and only opportu- 
nity of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated 
by unshaken public principle, and the most -un- 
doubted and various talents. "While Ireland ranks 
you among the firmest of her patriots ; while you 
Btand alone the first of her bards in her estimation, 
and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit 
one, whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, 
has been the years he had lost before it commenced, 
to add the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, 
to the yoice of more than one nation. It will at 
least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the 
gratification derived from your society, nor aban- 
doned t^e prospect of its renewal, whenever your 
leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your 
friends for too long an absence. It is said, among 
those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in 
tlie composition of a poem whose scene will be laid 
in the East ; none can do those scenes so much 
justice. The wrongs of your own country, the mag- 
nificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and 
feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; and 
Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish 
Eoicgups, was not aware how true, at least, was a 
pwt of his parallel. Your imagination will create a 
warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; but wildness, 
tenderness, and originality are part of your national 
elaim of oriental descent, to which you have already 
thus far proved your title more clearly than the most 
Eealoi.s of your country's antiquarians. 

M'ay I add a few words on a subject on which all 
men are su])])osed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? 
—Self. I have written much, and published more 
than enough to demand a longer silence than I now 
aieditate ; but for some years to come, it is my in- 



tention to tempt no further the award of «'god% 
men, nor columns." In the present composiiion 1 
have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, 
the best adapted measure to our language, the good 
old and now neglected heroic couplet. Tne stanza 
of Spenser is, perhaps, too slow and dignified fot 
narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measxu-e most 
after my own heart ; Scott alone, of the present 
generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over 
the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this 
is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty gen- 
ius: in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and oiir 
di-amatists, are the beacons that shine along the 
deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock 
on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet ia 
not the mosi; popular measure certainly ; but as I 
did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more with 
that versification, in which I have hitherto published 
nothing but compositions whose former circulation ia 
part of my present, and will be of my future regret. 
With regard to my story, and stories in general, 
I should have been glad to have rendered my per- 
sonages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inas- 
much as I have been sometimes criticised, and con- 
sidered no less responsible for their deeds and qual- 
ities than if all had been personal. Be it so — if I 
have deviated into the gloomy vanity of " drawing 
from self," the pictures are probably like, since they 
are unfavorable; and if not, those who know me 
are undeceived, and those who do not, I h:ive little 
interest in undeceiving. I have no particuhu- desire 
that any but my acquaintance should lliink the 
author better than the being? of his imagiTiing ; but 
I cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amu«e- 
ment, at some odd critical exceptions in the present 
instance, when I see several bards, (far more de- 
serving, I allow,) in very reputable plight, and 
quite exempted from all participation in the fault* 
of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be ((•iiud 
with little more morality than " Thi' Giauur, ' .ind 
perhaps >but no — I must «»f^iiut Childo Harold to 



136 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



be a very repulsive personage ; and as to his iden- 
tity, those who like it must give him whatever 
** alias " they please. 

If. however, it were worth while to remove the 
Impression, it might be of some service to me, that 
the man who is alike the delight of his readers and 
hii friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of 
his own, permits me here and elsewhere to subscribe 
myself, 

Most truly, 

And affectionately. 

His obedient servant, 

BYRON. 
Jatuary 2, 1814. 



CANTO I. 



' — — -^ nessun maggior dolore, 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felic^ 

Neils niMerla, " ■ 

Danie. 



I. 

" O'tsr the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free. 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre alf who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ! not thou, luxxirious slave ! 
Wliose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave : 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please— 
Oh, Avho can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. 
And danced in triumph o'er the watei-t wide, 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
A.nd turn what some deem danger to delight ; 

nat seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core. 
Its ho])e awaken and its spirits soar ? 
No di-ead of death — if with us die oxir foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ? 
Let liim who crawls enamor'd of decay 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Onrs with one pang — one bourd — escapes control. 
His corse may boast iti^urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed. 
When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in dange-'s day. 
When those who win at length divide the prey. 
And cry, remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
H.OW had the brave who fell exulted now I " 



II. 

Such were the notes that from the pirate's isle 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks alonf^ 

And unto ears as rugged scem'd a song ! 

In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 

They game — carouse — converse — or «vhfit the brand 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 

Repaii- the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others straggling muse along the shore • 

F&c the wild bird tlie busy springes set. 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 

With all the thirsting eye of enterprize ; 

Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil :• 

No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief ? His name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup th ey fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 

AVould that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too . 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots 

And scarce the summer luxui-y of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But Avhile he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

•' Steer to that shore ! " — they sail. " Do this t "' 

'tis done : 
" Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is "vroa 
Thus prompt his accents and his acti )ns still . 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuoxip eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 
" A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to hope ; 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 
No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thoii breeze ! — she anchors ere the dark 
Already doxibled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spraj 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
Her white wdngs flying — never from her foes- 
She walks the waters like a thing of life. 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wi-eeV— 
To move the monai'ch of her peopled deck ? 

IV. 
Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
The sails are -furl'd ; and anchoring round she strir ga 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stem. 
'Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout ! — the fiiendly speech i 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity 1 



THE CORSAIR. 



V. 

The tidmgs spread, and gathering grows the crowd ; 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear 

word : 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
From where the battle roars — the bilows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
\nd kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes." 

VI. 

" Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short ; 

Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief; 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 

Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our retui'n. 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 

Ascending slowly by the rock-he^vn way. 

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 

By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring. 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst. 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 

From crag to cliff they mount— Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 

In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 

*' 'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — an I tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approa ;h — thou know'st his mood, 

Vv hen strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent — 

He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 

These Juan calls — the> come — to their salute 

He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 

" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 

Whate'cr his tidings we can well report. 

Much that " — " Peace, peace ! " — he cuts their 

prating short. 
Wondering they turn, abashed, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech; 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look. 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Wliere 's Gonsalvo ? " 

" In the anchor'd bark." 

■* Thei? let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

" Tc night, Lord Conrad ? " 

** Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My ccyslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Blir.g m thy bugle — see that fiee from rust 
My cai bine-lock springs worthy of my trust; 
Be the odge sharpen'd of my boarding brand, 
lud give its guard more room tc fit my hand. 
18 



This let the Armc rer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foe« 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay's expired " 

VIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in "Haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conxad guides, 
And who dare question aught tnat he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sign ; 
Whosq name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallowei* hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their fate can bind ? 
The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind 1 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept Avith skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their'hands, but, still to these unknown 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his owa. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun, 
The many still must labor for the one ! 
'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoilR. 
Oh !• if he knew the weight of splendid chains. 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race. 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire: 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused t"o look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien 

Still seems there something he would not have seen 

His features' deepening lines and varying hu** 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few whose aspect nug:it defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye : 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would see* 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek. 

At once the observer's purpose to espy. 

And on himself roll back his ^rutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chiefs to day 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer. 

That raised emotions both of rage and le;ir ; 

And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell . 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within — within — 'twas there the «pirit wroixght i 



ISS 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Eetiay no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the go\ern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deooer passions; and to judge their mien, 
He, wL ) would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread^ the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart. 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze, or glow. 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — ^how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 

XI. 

yet was not Conra"' thus by Nature sent 

To lead the guilty- guilt's worst instrument — 

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill. 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 

Nor deeni'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to live again. 

Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her 

force. 
He hated man too much to feel remorse. 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call. 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded 

^00. 

Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From a]l affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn — but nqt avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
And he may crush — ^not conquer — still it stings ! 

XII. 

-Nonf Ere all evil — quickening round his heart. 

One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 

Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 

By passions vvthy of a fool or child ; 

Yet 'gainst tuxv. passion vainly still he strove, 

And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 

Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Though fair est captives daily met his eye, 

Qe shunn'd nar sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 



Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bowei 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress. 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 
^^Tiich nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
"Which still would meet with joy, with calmness pari 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — ^but not the passion, nor its power. 
Which only proved, all other vu-tues gone. 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveljest one I 



XIIL 
He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
" Sti-ange tidings ! — many a peril have I past. 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We'll fiirnish momners for our funeral-pile. 
Ay — ^let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now tolSIedora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
Long may her OAvn be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave ! 
Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage Avhich with brutes we share 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them — uot to vainly bleed : 
No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of my ci'it 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare. 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single casf ? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 

XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-cro\vu'd hill 
There at the portal paused — for A^-ild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : 



1. 
" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 

Lonelv and lost to light for evermore, 
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 

Then trembles into silence as before. 




MEDORA.— Page 139. 



THE COKSAIR 



139 



'* There in its ceutre, a sepulchral lamp 
Bums the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 

Vhich not the darkness of despair can damp, 
'f uOugh vain its ray as it had never been. 



• Remember me— Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there recline ; 

Tie only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 



« My fondest — faintest— latest accents near — 
Grief f jr the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 
The first — last— sole reward of so much love ! " 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the con-idore, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er ; 
'* My own Medora I sure thy song is sad — " 

• In Conrad's absence wouldst thbu have it glad ? 
Without thine ear to listen to my l^/, 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd— although ny lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined. 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge. 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge; 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke di-eary oh my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and bless the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! vHlt thou ne'er, 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam ; 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tendei- still. 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " 

Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been 
changed ; 
Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 
And soarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn. 
My very love to thee is hate to them. 
Bo closely mingling here, that disentwincd 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
A.8sures the future that my love will last ; 
But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentle heart, 
l'hi« hour i^ain — but not for long — wo part." 



This hour we part ! — my heart foret jded this i 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this he ar away . 
Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay : 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Have need of rest before they toil anew : 
My love ! thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouUaE 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress. 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and shaie 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare , 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
And where not sure, perplexed, butpleas'd, 1 guess'd 
At such as seem'd the faii-est : thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snaw ! 
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the Sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my hand naids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song • 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Shall sooth or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. ' 
Why — tliou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile. 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
And thus half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more tiiva 

dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main 
And he deceived me — for — he came agafai ! ' 

" Again — again — and oft ag«in — my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above. 

He will return — ^but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing : 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell i 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell i 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose— 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared*: 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet. 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List !— -'tis the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 

One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu ! " 

She rose — she sprung— she clung to his embraob. 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
Ho dared not raise to his that dcoi)-blne eye. 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem d almost unfelt ! 



140 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hark — ^peals the thunder of tne signal-gun ! 
It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
A.gain — again — that form he madly press 'd, 
Which mutually clasp'd, imploringly caress'd . 
A.nd tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt— that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — tvim'd — is Conrad gone ? 

XV. 

'* And is he gone ? " — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful qjiestion will intrude ! 

" 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 

And now"' — without the portal's porch she rush'd, 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd; 

Big— bright — and fast,unknown to her they fell ; 

But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell ! " 

For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er ever}' feature of that still, pale face, 

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 

The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 

Till — Oh, how. far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 

And then it flow'd — and frenzied seem'd to swim 

Thi-ough those long, dark, and glistening lashes 

dew'd 
With drops of sadness oft. to be renew' d. 
" He's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is 

driven. 
Convulsed and quick — ^then gently raised to heaven ; 
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
" It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 

XVI. 
From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he tiu-n'd his head ; 
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
•That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 
And she — the dim and melancholy star. 
Whose ray of beauty reach 'd him from afar. 
On hsr he must not gaze, he must not think. 
There he might rest — ^but on Destruction's brink ; 
Yet, once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave; 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind. 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears. 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast. 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast. 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 
He bounds — ^he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach. 
There chtcks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
TUe breezy freshness of the deep beneath. 



Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view ; 
For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seea 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
That ihecks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent : 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — ^than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard, 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared ? * 

" They are — ^nay more — embark'd : the latest boit 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sword, and my capote 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
" Call Pedro here ! " He comes — and Conrad benda 
With all the coiu-tesy he deign'd his friends ; 
"Receive these tablets, and peruse with care. 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Ai-rives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shin* 
On our return — till then all peace be thine ! " . 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung. 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprurg, 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves' phosporic ^ brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands. 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant ull her crev/ — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to yoxmg Gonsalvo turn — 
Whiy doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower. 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day— 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the shark 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew. 
And fast and falcon-ltke the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smilt ; 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
i^iscovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Co..'nt they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The Lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
'And ancuor'd where his ambush meant to lie : 



THE CORSAIR 



Ui 



Bcreen'd froai espial by the juttiiig cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talked — and yet he talk'd of blood • 



CANTO II. 



' Conoaeeite i Jubioai desiri ? " 

DanU. 



ts Coron's bay floats many a galley light. 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night • 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come. 
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rover ;S home; 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast. 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will. 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay. 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Bevel and rout the evening hours beguile. 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 

II. 
High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefe he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilafF— 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice ' 
The slives bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long Chibouque's < dissolving cloud supply, 
While dance the Almas * to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
Bnt waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must. 
And less to conqxiest than to Korans trust ; 
And yei the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 

III. 
Witk cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 



Bows his bent*head — ^his hand salutes the floor 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Der\-ise, from the pirate's nest® 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest " 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than year% 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was throw*. 
And Avrapt a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession manned. 
He calmly met the curious eyes that sca:::n'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's veill allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

<' Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 



A fugitive — " 



" From the outlaw's den, 

' Thy capture where and whea ? ' 

From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chain* 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight ; 
I seized the hour and find my safety here — 
With thee — ^most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ? " 

" How speed the outlaws ? stand they well prepared 
Their plunder' d wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ! 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? 

" Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
I only heard the reckless waters roar. 
Those waves that would not bear me from the shor* 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may'st thou judge, at least, from my escape. 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all around ! — now grant repose — release.** 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question— stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring! 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting: 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Cleaily and full — I love not mystery." 

'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious maa, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd high relish for the banquet 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 



142 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
A.long his cheek, and tranquillized as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher' d in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

" "What ails thee, Dervise ? eat— dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite. 
And hated hosts seem brethi-en to the sight ! " 

** Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my di'ink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's ^ laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

'* Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villian spy- — seize — cleave him — slay him now!" 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, ajid tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell. 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Paaha's angry cry, 
Thet/ sieze that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 3 
He saw their teiror — check 'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd. 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — ^brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
'Tis answer'd — " well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem design hath left me single here ? " 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury, what their fear begun, 
Ind UAakes the many basel] <iuail to one. 



I The cloven turbans o'er the cliamher spTead, 
And scarce an arm dare raise to guara its head ; 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, ena 

prise. 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fied the fight; ' 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling tlK2t}Ff 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within. 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must diP 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do— 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ? " 

V. 

Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight Avas fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
Of wome<n struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yeii. 
" Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
One female form — remember — we have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke, 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frame! 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest naood, 
And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking i)ile and combat's wreck — away— 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed t 
The Kwam queAi — ^but still the slave of Seyd ! 

VI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnaxe.' 
Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 
For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 
The foe before retiring, fast and far. 
With wonder saw their footsteps^ unpursued, 
First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few 
Compared with his the Corsair's roving crew, 
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Alia '. Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry*— 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



143 



^d flame for flame and blood for blood must tell 

The tide of triumphs ebbs that flow'd too well — 

Wlien wrath returns to renovated strife, 

A.nd those who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Com Ad beheld the danger — he beheld 

His li>llowers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 

•' One effort — one — to break the circling host ! " 

They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

A.h ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 

Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er ; 

But each strikes singly, silently, and home. 

And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 

Hip last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 

fill the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed. 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd. 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall 'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affi-ight, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
** The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life — ^my loving lord remember'd not! " 

VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
£at gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, , 
Fell d — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought. 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
An? stancli'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
Bnt h:>p by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Woula doom him ever dying — ne'er to die • 
C'.in this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
Wh«n his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 
Tie he indeed — disarm'd btrt undepress'd, 
His noie regret the life he still possess'd ; 
Uis rounds, too slight, though taken with that will, 
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could 

kill. 
OV. were there none, of all the many given, 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
?or crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of Ungei ing tortures to repay the debt — 
de deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — no^ serves to hide. 



Still in his stem and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen. 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed aroomd : 
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd. 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
The better warriors who beheld Kim near. 
Insulted not the foe who taught them feai ; 
And the grim guards that to his durance kd, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread- 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — ^but not in mercy —there. 
To note how much the life yet left could bear . 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of mom 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst. 
That day by day death still forbears to slake. 
While famished vultures flit around the stake. 
** Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — ^he dies. 
This was his doom v — the Leech, the guard, wew 

gone, 
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alonn 



'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew~ 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — combined- 
Lie dark and jarring \y\X\i perturbed force. 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake befoit — 
But cries " I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'f* 
Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May \vrithe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
Even in that lonely hour Avhen most it feels. 
And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest at once unseen, unsought ; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
All mshing through their thousand avenues, 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triiimph in our fatt , 
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd nc4 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot f 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to st^n reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 
Not cankering leas because the more conceal'd 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 
That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
To snatcli tlie mirror from the soul — and break 
Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
Each hath some fear, and he who least betray*, 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and fl'-Mi 
But he who looks on death- -and ailcnt die* 



144 



bi:kon'8 works. 



So steel'd ly pondering o'er his far career, 

He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 

XI. 

fn the high chamber of his highest tower. 
8ate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 
Alone he sa .e — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty I osom, but that breast he mann'd: 
One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
*' Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 
A-nd strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed ; 
But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
" And now come torture wnen it will — rr may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day ! " 
This said, with languor to his mat he '^ept. 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly sVpt. 
'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once .vere done ; 
And Havoc loathes so much the wap^.e of time.. 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd— 
Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 
demn 'd — 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saA'ing — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends : 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain. 
And once unclosed — ^but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn Avaves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot. 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it 

there ? 
Ah ! rather ask what will not woman* dare ? 
Whom youth and pity lead like tbee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
She left his side — his signet-ring she bore. 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before— 
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil* and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
The> stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 
Bhe gazod in wonder, ** Can he calmly sleep. 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
A.nd mine in restlessness are wandering here— 
'Vhat sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 



True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than wo 
'Tis late to think — but soft — ^his slumber breaks-- 
How heavily he sighs ! — ^he starts — awakes ! " 

He raised his head — and dazzled vnth the light, 
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: 
He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor's face shows wond'rous fair ! *' 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — ^but I am one. 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done, 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why- 
Yet not to hurt — I would not'see thee die." 

"If so kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight : 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest griet 
Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief— r 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles. 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes vnth the wisest and the best. 
Till even the scaffold i' echoes with their jest ! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that wdthin. 
Whate'er it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth. 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 
Few thoughts had he to spai'e from gloom and stiife 

XIV. 

** Corsair ! thy doom is named — ^but I have power 

To sooth the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — ^would save thee 

now. 
But this — time — ^hope — nor even thy strength allow 
But all I can, I will : at least delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

" Yes ! — ^loth indeed : — ^my soul is nerved to all. 

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 

Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : * 

Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanlv fly. 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clinga, 

Till to these eyes her own wild softness spring*. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — my bark — ^my sword — ^my love— mj 

God! 
The last I left in youth — ^he leaves me now — 
And man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne vrith prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand ' 




"THE QUEEN OF NIGHT ASSERTS HER SOLEMN REIGN." — Page 145. 



THE CORSAIR. 



145 



My bark is sunk or captive — ^but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh .' she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine, appear'd, Gulnare ! 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as f?.ir." 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy thc3i 
Whose liearts on hearty as faithful can repode 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thoi.qht 
That sighs o'er visions su<;h as mine bath wrougnt." 

♦* Lady — ^methought thy love was his, for ■wLom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

• My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my 

love — 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once 

strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt— I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favor d slaVe at best. 
To share his splendor, and seem very blest ! 
Oft must my soul the question undergo. 
Of—' Dost thou love ? ' and bum to answer, ' No ! ' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Us pulso 'iOt check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold : 
And when resign'd, it di-ops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his impress'd, 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reliection comes — and come it must — 
1 fear that hencefortl. 'twill but bring disgust ; 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
Or seek another and give mine release. 
But yesterday — I could havft said, to peace ! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign. 
Remember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endear'd below, 
Who share such love as I can never kpow. 
Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
'Twill coat me dear — but dread no death to-day ! " 



XV. 

8ht press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 

^nd noiseless as a lovely dream is gone, 

A.nd was she here ? and is he now alone ? 

What gem hath diopp'd and MH)arkle8 o'er his chain ? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others* pain, 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity'i mine, 

Already polish'd by the hand divine ! 

Oil ! too convincing — dangeroiwly dear — 
(n woman's eye the unanswerable tear" 



That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield 

Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs. 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero liy ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven. 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven i 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo 

XVI. 

'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thitg 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing: 
By his closed eye, unheeded and unfelt. 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stillen'd limb 
Refraining earth — ^reviving all but him ' — 



CANTO III. 



" Come Tedi— encor non m'abbaDdoaa. 



I. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be mi, 
Along Morea's hills*the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows 
Oil old iligina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine. 
Though there his altars are no more divine; 
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaves 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd hi? last 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murdcr'd sage's " latest day I 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill— 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once dclightfu' dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he scem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phaibus never frown'd before) 
But ere ho sank below Cithirron's head, 
The cup of wo was quaff *d — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly— - 
Who liv'd and died, as none can live or die f 

Piit Id ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queeu of night asserts her silent reiga.** 



146 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glo^^^lng form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
WTier<^ meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
The c} press saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk,"* 
-And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye— 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
Again the ^Egean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war : 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphu-e and of gold; 
Mixt with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That fi'<iwn— where gentler ocean seems to smile. »5 

II. 

Not now my theme— why turn my thoughts to thee ? 
Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its m^gic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
Not he— whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades"! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. . . 

The Sun hath sunk -and, darker than the night. 
Sinks vith its beam upon the beacon height, 
Med.jra's heart- -the third day's come and gone— 
W xth it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
Tnc wind was fair though light ; and storms w«re 

none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale. 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
The night-breeze freshens— she that day had past 
In watching all that Hape proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate^on high— Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd heedless of the spray 
Tlat dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away ; 
She saw not — felt not this— nor dared depart. 
Nor deem'd it cold— her chill was at herhearf; 
rU grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
^^liose inmates first beheld whom first they swight ; 
Bome bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped— ^Ais all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
Hi3 fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot ; 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
Vhs'. deem'd net till they found their energy. 



While yet was Hope — they soften'd — ^fttttter*d- 

wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — ^but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said 
' With nothing left to love — there's nought f 

dread." 
Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's heipht. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it wcl! 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies " 



" Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 



i1 
il 



She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
stood ; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another giave: 
But that with hands though rude, yet weepmg eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short 

IV. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge : 
All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few. 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 

V. 

Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate: 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 

Here at his feet the lo-v^ly slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would sooth his gloom of mind 

While many an anxious glance her large dark eff 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy. 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, '^ 

But inly view§ his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd— he dies : and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hatf 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard— 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray- 
Watch 'd— folio w'd— he were then an easier prey 
But once cut off— the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand " 

«' Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 
Were ofTer'd ri'^h as Stamboul's diadem; 



THE CORSAIR. 



141 



If hr each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 

Ft had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 

But that I know him fetter'd in my power ; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

"Nay, Seyd ' — I s6ek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
Hia riches— thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band. 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

"His capture could ? — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ?— thine 

Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude. 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — ^regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on. all Suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say — ^wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks. 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 

I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's wo — 

Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 

Know'st thou that I can clip tliy wanton wing ? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 

Rage in his eye, and threats in his adieu : 

Ah ! -little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 

^ hich frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued; 

And little deem'd he what thy hfeart, Gulnare ! 

Wlien soft could feel, and when incensed coiild idare. 

His doul)ts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 

How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 

She was a slaVe — from such may captives claim 

A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 

Rtin half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 

Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 

A|?ain his rage re])oird — until arose 

riiat otrife of thought, the gource of woman's woes. 



VI. 

Meanwhile — long anxioxis — weary — still — the same 

HoU'rl day and night — his soul .-ould never tame — 

This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 

When every stop that echo'd l)y the gate 

Mifrht entering lead where axe and stake await ; 

When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might be the last that h« could ever hear ; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

*! vl proved unwilling as unlit to die ; 



'Twas worn — ^perhaps decay'd — jQt silent bore 
That conflict deadlier far than all before : 
The heat of fight, the huia-y of the gale, 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — * 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend- 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end. 
With not a friend lo animate, and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well • 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie. 
And blot life's latest scene with calumny > 
Before the tortures, which the soul can dare, 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking fle^ may bear ) 
But deeply feels a single cry would sraRne, 
To valorls praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise:— thy heaven 
Of earthly hope— thy loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustaiiii 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sustain'd he — ^boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still I 

VII. 

The tirst day pass'd — ^he saw not her — Gulnai-e— 
The second — third — and still shi came iiot there ; 
But what her words avouch'd, he*' charms had done 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day roll'd along and with the night, 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might • 
Oh ! how he listen' d to the rushing deep. 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep . 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave. 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave , 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
And flashed the lightning by the latticed b<».r, 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his cht^ai 
And hoped t/iat peril jnight not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roU'd onward, and disdain'dto strike 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurn 'd his grou« 

VIII. 

The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once moi« 
Slow turns the grating liolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ' 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as licrmit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremuloiis her frame ; 
On him she cast her dark and hm-ried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — " thou must die 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one r?source, 
Tho last— the worst — if torture were mt wonw 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



•* Lady ! I look to none — ^my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
A.nd change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the need 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lavpless deed." 

•* Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind? 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
BecaT:si3 — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved: 
It fesvr d thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd— 

lovedA 
Reply not, telTtiot now thy tale again. 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and would' st be free. 
Receive this poniard — rise— and follow me ! " 

'* Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread. 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

•' Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard. 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain : 
Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time. 
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged— 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
But he has said it — and the jealous well. 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
'■ Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since mth me came a heart he could not buy. 

[ was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

T-vas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will ; 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — ^would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 



But had he not thus menacea fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in jtiih, 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacna spared 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst 

Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would** 

not start. 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Maniote prow : 
Biit in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppreevai 

Seyd ! " 

" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 

My abject fortune, wither' d fame so low. 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand, * 

And therefore came I, in my bark of war. 

To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 

Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " 

"Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake. 

And thy limbs wiithe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I \vill not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

Kis sure pursuit ? my \vi-ongs too unrepaid. 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I'll try the firmness of a female hand ; 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er* 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold,^ and my shroud." 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply. 
But his glance follow'd far \\'ith eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and cxirb their sour.d 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were thtre : 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
He reach'd an open galleiy — on his eye 
Gleamed the last star of night, the clearing sky: 
Yet scarcely heeded these— another light 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing ioor 
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
With hasty step a figure outward past. 
Then paused— and turn'd — and paused— 'tis She »< 

last ! 

No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — [kill ! " 
«* Thanks to that softening heart— she could vot 



THE CORSAIR. 



141, 



Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Btarts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

Bhe stopp'd — threw back her dark far -floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 

Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood— 

Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 

X. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
He had been tempted — chastened — and the chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 
It flow'd.in combat, or was shed by men. 

XI. 

" 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 

Corsair ! he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 

All words would now be vain — away — away ! 

Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 

The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine. 

And these thy yet surviving band shall join : i 

Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 

When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 
che clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as moimtain wind ; 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate. 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
Tlie city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
ifhe glad waves dancing on the yellow beach; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd: 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, tliti sail unfuil'd, the light breeze blew— 

How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 

Sunk he in Contemi)lation, till the cape 

Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 

Ah !— since that fatal night, thoiigh brief the time. 

Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 

As its far shadow frown 'd al)Ove the mast, 

He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he past; 

He thought of all— Gonsalvo and his band, 

His fleeting triumph, and his failing hand ; 

He thought on her afar, his lonely bride ; 

He tui-n'd and saw — Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his foatnres till she ooiild not bear 
Their fi^czing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Kell quen Vd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 



She knelt beside him, and his hand she prest • 
'* Thou may'st forgive though Alla's self detest 
But for that deed of darkness, what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — ^but not yet — Oh ! spare me tioiD . 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder' d — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt. 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou mlt ' 

XV. 

She -wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upt;twa 

Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he maJei 

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexpr^st, 

They bleed within that silent cell — his breast 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge 

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge , 

Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 

A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 

Their little bark her men of watch descry, 

And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near, 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier. 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 

" 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again- 

I am not all deserted on the main ! " 

They own the signal, answer to the hail. 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

" 'Tis Conrad ! Conrad ! " shouting from the dech 

Command nor duty coiild their transport check I 

With light alacrity and gaze of pride. 

They view him mount once more his vesst. s side. 

A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 

Theji" arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace 

He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 

I{.eturns their greeting as a chief may greet. 

Wrings with a cordial giasp Anselmo's hand. 

And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 

XVI. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had t.'Ve.j 

known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own. 
She were tlieir queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way 
With niany an asking smile, and wondering staxt 
They whisper round, and gaze upon (julnarc : 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex. 
Whom blood appall'd not, theu* regbrds perp)-?! 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring . ye. 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe — to :':itc resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ' 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he lessi 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress; 
What she luis done no tears can wash away, 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day • 
But it was done : he know, whate'er lier guilt. 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spill 



150 



BYRON'S WORKS 



A.nd he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
/Lnd now he turn'd him to that dark-ey'd slave 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and 

meek. 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain 'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasped that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare I" 
Sha raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fail- no more than this. 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling, 
A.S he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle : 

To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 

The haven hums with many a cheermg sound. 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round. 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek. 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower. 
And midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
Amid so many, her's alone is dark. 
'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd. 
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
^ With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 
He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
S Uives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 

high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

Ele reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd,* and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd-^but faintly — for his tr(!mbling hand 
Refused to aid his hea\'y heart's demand. 
The" portal opens — 'tis a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
[ts lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 



He snatch'd the lamp— its iight will answer ali 

It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore. 
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ' 



He 



XX. 

-spoke not — sunk 



not — ^fix'd tuk 



turn'd not- 

look. 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain . 
In life itself she was so still and fair. 
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
And the cold flowers •' her colder hand contaia'd, 
In the last grasp as tenderly were strain 'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 
And made it almost niockeiy yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'o 

below — 
Oh [ o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
Sinks those -blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips- 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
^But the white shroud, and each extended ti-ess, 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness. 
Which, late the sport of every summer wina. 
Escaped the baiiled wi-eath tiiat strove to bind 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the biei- 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here > 

XXI. 

He ask'd no question — all v>ere answer'd now 
By the first glance on that stir inarble brow. 
It was enough — she died — what reokV \* how? 
The love of y(mth, the hope of better years. 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he couid not hate. 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate. 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never BOM 
The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo. 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite— • 
But who in patience parts with all delight? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to leam 
And many a withering thouj/ht lies hid, not lo« 
In suiiies that least befit who wear then most. 



XXII. 
By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks for all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show. 
For Truth denies uU eloquence to Wo. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lulled it into rest : • 

So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an Infant's wept ; 



\ 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



151 



It wab the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess' d without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart. 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim : 
A.r.d the nigk ■. :ometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no dar<Ji9ss like the cloud of mind, 
On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — ^but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 
His heart was formed for softness — warp'd to wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 
If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
Ihere grew one flower beneath its rugged brow. 
Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
n?« Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 



The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fell. 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver' d fragments on the barren gro\ind * 

XXIV. 

'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his towei 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain. 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain: 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'Tis idle all — ^moons roll on moons away. 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mo*ri 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes ^* 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



The time in this poem may seem too short for 
lhe.'>ccurrences, but the whole of the ^gean isles 
ar« vithin a few hours' sail of the continent, and 
the reader must be kind enough to take the wirid as 
I hjive often found it. 

1. 

Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 

Page 139, line 90. 
Orlando, Canto 10. 

2. 
Around the waves phosphoric brightness broke. 
Page 140, line 100. 
By night, particularly in a wann latitude, every 
itroke of the oar, evei'y motion of the boat or ship, 
Is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning 
from the wate) 

3. 



Coffee 



Thomjh to the rest the sobei' berry's Juice. 

Page 141, line 39. 



The lOTig Chiboiique's dissolving cloud sttpplg. 
Page 141, Imo 41. 
Pipe. 



5. 

While dance the Almas to wild minstreisy 

Page 141, line 42. 
Dancing girls. 

6. 
A captive Dervise, from the Pirate's nest. 

Page 141, line 55. 
It has been objected that Conrad's entering dis- 
guised as a spy is out of nature. — Perhaps so. \ 
find something not unlike it in history. 

"Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state 
of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguisinsj 
the color of his hair, to visit Carthage in the char- 
acter of fiis own ambassador ; and Geuseric wa« 
afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had 
entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Kv. 
mans. Such an anecdote may be rojected as an 
improbable fiction ; but it is a" fiction wliii-li would 
not have been imagined unless in the life of a 
liero." — Gibbon, J), and F., vol. Vl. ;>. ISO. 

That Conrad is a character not altogether out o< 

nature 1 shall attempt to prove Vv some historical 

coincidences which I have met with since writing 

" The Corsair." 

" Eccelin prisonnler," dit Rolandiui. * 8'enf»» 



152 



BYRON'S fVORKS. 



moit dans un silence mena(?ant, il fixoit sur la terre 
son visage f'Toce, et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa 
profonde indignation. — De toutes parts cependant 
les soldats et les peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient 
voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la joie univer- 
selle eclatoit de toutes parts. 

* * * * « * 

"Eccelin etoit d'une petite taillie ; mais tout I'as- 
pect de sa personne, tons ses mouvemens, indiquoi- 
ent un soldat. — Son langagf etoit amer, son deporte- 
tnent superbe — et par sob seul egard, il faisoit 
trembler les plus hardis." Sismo?idi, tome iii. page 
219, 220. 

" Gizericus (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the 
tonqueror of both Carthage and Rome) statura 
mediocris, et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, 
sftrmone rarus, luxurise contemptor, ira turbidus, 
habendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes providen- 
tissinius," &c., &c. Jornatides de Rebus Geticis, 
c, 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy reali'ties to keep 
in countenance my Giaour and Corsair. 



A7id my stern vow and order's laic oppose. 

Page 142, line 17. 
The dervises are in colleges, and of different or- 
ders, as the monks. 

8. 
Thsy seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 
Page 142, line 52. 
Batan. 

9. 
He tore his heard, and foaming Jted the fight. 
Page 142, line 73. 
A common and not very novel effect of Mussul- 
man anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 
24. *' The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; 
he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he 
was obliged to quit the field." 

10. 
Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare. 
Page 142, line 117. 
Gulnare, a female name ; it means, literally, the 
flower of the pomegranate. 

11. 

Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest ! 
Page 144, line 87. 
In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, 
and Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, when grasping her 
neck, she remarked that it "was loo slender to 
trouble the headsman much." During one part of 
the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave 
some "mot" as a legacy ; and the quantity of fa- 
cetious last words spoken during that i>eriod would 
form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size. 

12. 
That closed their murdefd sage's latest day. 
Page 145, line 100. 
Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before 
sunset, (the hour of execution,) notwithstanding 
the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun 
went down. • 

13. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 

Page 145, line 112. 
The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our 
;jwn country : the days in winter are longer, but in 
•Dimmer of shorter duration. 

14. 
The gleaming tw >'et of the gay Kiosk. 

Page 146, line 10. 



il 



The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm 
is without the present walls of Athens, not far from 
the temple of Theseus, between which and the treo 
the wall intervenes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed 
scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. 

15. 

That frown * — where gentler ocean seems to smile 
Page 146, line 20. 

The opening lines as far as Section II. have, per- 
haps, little business here, and were annexed to an 
unpublished (though printed) poem ; but they were 
written on the spot in the spring of 1811, and — ^I 
scarce know why — the reader must eycuse their ap 
pearance here if he can. 



16. 



His 



bends in seeming o'er his heads. 

Page 146, line 104. 
The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads 
are in number ninety-nine. 

17. 

And the cold flowers her colder hand contain' d. 
Page 150, line 75 
In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers oft 
the bodies of the dead, and in the hands v>f young 
persons to place a nosegay. 

18. 

Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crtmes 
Page 151, line 43. 

That the point of honor which is represented iq 
one instance of Conrad's character has not been 
carried beyond the bounds of probability may pet 
haps be in some degree confirmed by the folfowiil^ 
anecdote of a brother Buccaneer in the year 1814. 

Our readers have all seen the account of the en- 
terprise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, 
we believe, were informed of the situation, history, 
or nature of that establishment. For the informa- 
tion of such as were unacquainted with it, we have 
procured from a friend the following interesting 
narratiA'e of the main facts, of which We has per- 
sonal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest 
some of our readers. 

Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm of the Gulf oi 
Mexico : it runs through a rich but very flat country 
until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi 
River fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. 
The bay has branches almost innumerable, in which 
persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny. 
It communicates with three lakes which lie on th( 
southAvest side, and these, with the lake of the 
same name, and which lies contiguous to the sea, 
where there is an island formed by the two arms q{ 
this lake and the sea. The east and west points of 
this island were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band 
Ou pirates under the command of one Monsieur La 
Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of 
that class of the population of the State of Louisi- 
ana who fled from fhe Island of St. Dom ngo dur- 
ing the troubles there, and took refuge in the 
Island of Cuba: and when the last war letv^eep 
France and Spain commenced, they were com- 
pelled to leave that island with the short notice 
of a few days. Withowt ceremony, they entered 
the United States, the most of them the State 
of Louisiana, with, all the negroes they had pos- 
sessed in Cuba. They were notified by the Gover- 
nor of that State of the clause in the constitution 
which forbade the importation of slaves ; but, at the 
same time, received the assurance of the Governor 
that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation 
of the General Government for their retaining thil 
property. 

The Island of Barrataria is situated about Imt 



ti 

s 

)l 



8eo " Cune of Minerra. ' 



NOTES TO THE CORSAIR. 



153 



29 deg. 1'5 min. 1» n. 92. 30. and is as remarkable for 
ttfl health, as for the superior scale 'and shell-fish 
with which its waters abound. The chief of this 
liorde, like Charles de IMoor, had mixed with his 
many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this 
party had from its turpitude and boldness, claimed 
the attention of fhe Governor of Louisiana ; and to 
break up the establishment, he thought proper to 
strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward 
of live hundi'ed dollars for the head of Monsieur I.a 
Fitte who was well kndwn to the inhabitants of the 
city of New Orleans, from his immediate connexion, 
and his once having been a fencing-master in that 
cfty of great reputation, which art he learnt, in 
Bonaparte's army, where he was captain. The le- 
ward which was offered by the Governor frr the 
head of La Fitte was answered by the offer of a re- 
ward from the latter of fifteen thousand for the head 
of the Governor. The Governor ordered our a com- 
pany to march from the city to La Fitte's island, 
and to burn and destroy all the property, and to 
bring to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. 
This company, under the command of a man who 
had been the intimate associate of this bold Cap- 
tain, approached very near to the fortified island, 
before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until he 
heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. 
Then it was he found himself surrounded by anned 
mm who had emerged from the secret avenues 
which led into Bayou. Here it was that the mod 
em Charles de Moor developed his few noble traits ; 
for to this man, who had come to destroy his lite 
and all that was dear to him, he not only spared his 
life, but offered him that which would have ^nade 
the honest soldier easy for the remainder of his 
days, which was indignantly refused. He then, 
with the approbation of his captor, returned to the 
city. This circumstance, and some concomitant 
eTfnts, proved that this band of piraces was not to 
be taken by land. Our naval force having always 
^^»en small in that quarter, exertions for the destruc- 
tion of this illicit establishment could not be ex- 
peottd from them until augmented ; for an officer 
of the navy, with most of the gunboats on that 
that station, had to retreat from an overwhelming 
force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation 
of the n.ivy authorized an attack, one was made 
the ovrthrow of this banditti has been the re.«iull ; 
and r.ow this almost invulnerable point and key to 
New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped 
the govtrnment will hold it by a strong military 
force. — Frcrn an American Newspaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographi- 
cal History, there is a sin^lar passage in his ac- 
count of Aichbishop Blaciboume; a.nd as in some 



measure connected with the profession of the hero 
of the foregoing poem, I cannot r'^sist the tempta' 
tion of extrac'.ing it. 

"There is something mysterious in thehi;torj 
and cha,racteT of Dr. Blackbourne. The former ia 
but imperfectly known ; and report has even as 
sertcd he was a buccaneer ; and that one of bia 
brethren in that profession having asked, on his ar- 
rival in England, what had become of his old chum. 
Blackbourne, was answered, he is archbishop ol 
York. "We are informed, that Blackbourne was in- 
stalled sub-dean of Exeter, in 1694, which office he 
resigned in 1702 ; but after his successor Le-v^is Bar- 
net's death, in 1704, he regained it. In the follow- 
|ing year he became dean: and, in i.7T4, held with it 
the archdeanety of Cornwall. Ixe vva^ consecrated 
bishop of Exeter, February 24 171P , and translated 
to York, Novembe:; 28, 172-1, as a reward, accord- 
ing to court scanif?l, for anlcing George I. to the 
Duchess of Munscer. This, however, appears to 
have been an unfound:-d calumny. As archbishop 
he behaved .vi'ch grej,t prudence, and was equally 
respectable aa the guardian of the revenues of the 
see. Rum jr whipperej^ he retained the vices of hia 
youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed ad 
item In the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from 
beir^g convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not 
a^'poar to have been directly criminated by one. lu 
ohort, I look upon these aspersions as the effects of 
mere malice. How is it possible a buccaneer should 
have been so good a scholar as Blackbourne cer- 
tair.iy was ? he who had so perfect a knowledge ol 
the classics, (particularly of the Greek tragedians,) 
as to be able to read them mth the same ease as he 
could Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to 
acquire the learned languages ; and have had both 
leisure and good masters. But he was undoubtedly 
educated at Christchurch College, Oxford. He ia 
allowed to have been a pleasant man : this, how- 
ever, was turned against him, by its being said, ' he 
gained more hearts than souls.' " 



" The only voice that could soothe the passions 
of the savage, (Alphonso III.) was that of an amia 
ble and vu-tuous wife, the *ole object of his love ; 
the voice of Donna Isabella, the daughter of the 
Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of Philip II. 
King of Spain. — Her dying words sunk deep into 
his memory ; his fierce spirit melted into tears ; and 
after the last embrace, Alphonso retired mto his 
chamber to bewail his irreparable loss, and to medi- 
tate on the vanity of human life. — M/ntilaneotu- 
Works of Gibbon. "New Edition. 8vo. yc». Lii paee 
473. 



LAEA: 

A TALE. 



CANTO I. 



I. 



The Serfs are glcd through Lara's wide domain, 

A.nd Slavery half forgets her feudal chain : 

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 

The long self-exiled chieftain is restored ; 

There be bright faces in the busy hall, 

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 

Far checkering ^'er the pictured window, plays 

The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 

A.nd gay retaineii gather round the hearth, 

VCith tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 

11. 

i'he chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of wo, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 

And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 

But from the hour he waved his parting hand 

Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 

Had i^early ceased his memory to recall. 

H;s sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 

'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 

Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 

Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 

His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 

His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 

Another chief consoled his destined bride, 

The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 

" Yet doth he live ! " exclaims the impatient heir, 

And sighs for salUs which he must not wear. 



A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grat'Oi 
The Lara's last and longest dwelling-place : 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness. 

And whence they know not, why they need not guesa 

They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train is his beyond a single page. 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed awjiy 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd bj 

time ; ^ 

His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins , 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 



V. 

And they indeed ?vere changed — 'tis quickly 
Wliate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
A high demeanor, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 



LARA. 



155 



That daits in seeming playfulness around, 

Am makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 

All these seem'd his, and something more beneath, 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breath^. 

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appear' d no more to strive, 

Yet si^em'd as lately they had been alive ; 

^nd some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

^t mon^ents lighten'd o'er his livid face. 

VI. 

Nc ;. much he loved long question of the past 
Nor told of wondrous wdlds, and deserts vast, 
In tt.ose far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And— as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean exiierience from his fellow man : 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again. 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Born of high lineage, link'd in high command^ 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land, 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
A.nd saw them smile or sigh their hours away ;. 
But still he only saAV, and did not share 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
lie did not follow what they all pursued 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd: 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain. 
Nor beauty's preference, and tuc rival's pain : 
Around him some myst^-ious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sate something of reproof. 
That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mntual fear ; 
A.nd they the wiser, friendlier few confest 
They deem'd him better than his air exprest. 

VIII. 
•Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack 'd all below. 
And found his recompense in joy or wo. 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feeliiigs sought 
In that intcnseness an escape f»om thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised; 
The rupture of his heart hath look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
4ow woke he from the wildnoss of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he di 1 awake 
I'o cur»«i the wither'd heart ti at would not break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volun-we heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he uppear'd to scan, 
/^nd oft, in sudden mood, for nuiny a day 
fron: all commuui m he wouli start away ; 



And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 
Through night's long hours would sound his huri'ed 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where nis fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd — " that must not b» 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his ovsm. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead. 
That still beside his opcn'd volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest 
Why heard no music, and receive no guest * 
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wi-ong ? 
Some knew perchance — out 'twere a tale too long : 
And such besides were too discreetly wise. 
To more than hint their knowledge in sumise ; 
But if they would — they could " — around the board 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled to their Lord. 

X.. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

Arid yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and faiiy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky , 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 

And Innocence would offer to her love : 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 

But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days, 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, heai'ts that now— 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfolt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as hi» 

XI. 
He turn'd ^^^thin his solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'Twas all they left of virtues or of orinios, 
Save vajrue traditi<m ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults 
And half a column of tlie pompous page, 
That speeds the specious talc from age to age, 
Where history's ])en its praise or blmie sup])lie» 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured iM[uyi\r, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 



156 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His bris'iiug locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
^nd the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
Glanc'd like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
Bis aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 
'Twas midnight— all was slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
^ sound-^a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A. long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
AJid snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands.. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid. 

Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 

Was Lara stretch'd : his half-drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd as it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 

And still defiance knit Kis gather 'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, 

Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 

And now was fixed in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him; — ^hush! he breathes, he 

speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolers in his cheeks. 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim. 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land, 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear ! 

XIV.. 

His page approachid, and he alone appear' d 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow, 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes. 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
And in that tongue that secm'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream; 
If di-eam it were, that thus could overthrow 
k breast that aeeded not ideal wo. 

XV. 

rhate'er his frenzy dream'd or eye beheld, 
vet remembcr'd ne'er to be reveal'd, 

/csts at his heart : the cut.tom'd morning came, 
.^Jid breathed new vigor in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he nons from priest nor leech. 
And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fiU'd the. passing hours, 
Nor less ha smiles, nor more his forehead lowers, 
Than those were wont and if the coming night 
Iprear'd less w loom? now to Lara's sight, 



B'e to his marvelling vassals show'd il not, 
'V^Tiose shuddering proved their fearwa.i less forgol 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
Th^astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall , 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze , 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals^ 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XVL 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd glooffl 

Came not again, or Lara could assume 

A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 

His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 

Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 

Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 

That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 

Was it a di-eam ? was his the voice that spoke 

Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that brokd 

Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'erlabor'd heart 

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ' 

Could he who thus had sufler'd, so forget. 

When such as saw that sufl'ering shudder yet ? 

Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 

Too deep for words, indellible, unmix'd 

In that cftrroding secrecy which gnaws 

The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ^ 

Not so in him ; hh breast had buried both. 

Nor common gamers could discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told; 

They choke the feeble words that would unfold * 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear' d 

Much to be loved and hate^t, sought and fear'd'. 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot . 

His silence forra'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would knon 

his fate.. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say. 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd, that smile if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
That smile might ireach his lip, but pass'd not by 
None e'er could tra-.ce its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as' not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seemed to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from otheirs' half withheld esteem. 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from reiti 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for hiiving loved too well. 

T-VIII. 

There was in him a viti 1 scorn of all : 

As if the worst had fall n which could befall, 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 

An erring spirit from ani >ther hmi'd ; 

A thing of dark imaginit gs, that shaped 

By choice the perils he b.' chance escaprU, 



LARA. 



157 



rut 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 

His mind would half exult and half regret : 

M/'ith more capacity for love than earth 

liestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 

His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 

A.nd troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 

With thought of years in phantom chase mis^ent, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 

And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 

In Lurried desolation o'er his path, 

A.r. i left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 

He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 

And chargf^d all faults upon the fleshly form 

She gave to clog the soul, and feast thg worm ; 

Till he at last contounded good and ill. 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good. 

But not in pity, not because he ought, 

But in some strange perversity of thought, 

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe ; 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own : 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 

His Slood in temperate seeming now would flow : 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 

But ever in that icy smoothness flowed ! 

'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 

Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 

His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 

And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 

His thoughts so forth as to ofl"end the view. 

XIX. 

With all that chilling mystery of mien. 

And seeming gladness to remain unseen. 

He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 

Of fixing memory on another's heart : 

It was not love perchance — nor hate — ^nor aught 

That words can image to express the thought ; 

But they who saw him did not see in vain, 

And once beheld, would ask of him again : 

Ard those to whom he spake reiijember'd well. 

And on the words, however light, would dwell : 

None k.iew. nor how, nor why, but he entwined . 

Himseli perforce around the hearer's mind ; 

There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 

rf greeteJ once; however brief the date 

That friendship, pity,. or aversion knew, 

Btill there within the inmost thought he grew. 

You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 

Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 

His presence haunted f^till ; and froT the breast 

He forced an all unwiLing interest : 

Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 

His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 

Ch<*'9 is a festival, where knights and dames, 
hJil aught that wealth 0|^ lofty lineage claims. 



Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest, 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest, 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to Youth. 
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth. 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair 
Whose steps of lightness woke do echo there 
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 
With folded arms and long attentive eye. 
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his— 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 
But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ; 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, 
Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could learn 

XXII. 

" 'Tis he ! " the stranger cried, and those that heard, 

Reechoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 

" 'Tis he ! " — " Tis who ? " they question far and 

near, 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look ; 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised, 
Glanced his eye round, though still the strangei 

gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, wi^ haughty sneer, 
" 'Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he 

here } " 

XXIII. 
It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and high i 
With look collected, but with accent cold, 
More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
" My name is Lara ! — wlien thine own i.s known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to retiuitc 
The unlook'd for courtesy of s\u-h a knight. 
'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst tliou mark or ask ? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
Tliy heart must answer, though thine oar would 

shun ? 
And deem'at thou me unknoAvn too ? Oaie again 
At least thy memory was not given in rain. 
Oh ! never oanst thou cancel half her debt 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 



l58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
A-nd half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
•♦ A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer, 
But as thou wast and art— nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 'tis ease to disprove the word — 
But, as thoi- wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Dittnists th; i^ileo, but shakes not at thy frown. 
kn thou n'--' \e r whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I be, 
TVords wild as these, accusers like to thee 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. • 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be exprest." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
Though like Count Lara now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth, 
I augur right of courage and of worth. 
He will, not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

' To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
" And here o\ir several worth and truth be tried. 
I gage my life , my falchion to attest 
My words, so may I mingle with the blest ' " 
What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
His soul in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were ga^ther'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 
But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
In far forgetfulness away — away — 
Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow ! " further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
Vet *uere was something fix'd in that low tone, 
Wl'.ich show'd resolve, determined, thoixgh unknown. 
He seized his cloak — ^his head he slightly bow'd, 
And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
A.ndy as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
VVith which that chieftain's brow would bear him 

down : 
It was nor smile of mirth, no struggling pride 
f hat curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
Oi gui t grown old ia desperate hardihord ? 



Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look, or speech; 
From deeds, and deeds alone may he discern, 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn 

XXY. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went hi-s way- 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star , 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's lan&. 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tores would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home 
Those accents as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
Friends', kindreds', parents', wonted voice recall. 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
A^Txat marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon his native sun had sate. 

But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shono 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would 

show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought^ 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there. 
Or if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share ; 
And pleased not him the sports that please his age 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone. 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book j 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
He seem'd like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

xxvn. 

If aught be loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 

In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 

Each wish, fulfill 'd it ere the tongue express 'd. 

Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile handfe, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surel/ not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd ,iim by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear tjhe sword; 



LARA. 



15y 



To tnne his lute, or if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle ^vith the menial train, 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

*iis soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days. 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'dwith that smooth rheek. 

But for his garb, amd something in his gaze. 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender fra;np : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast. 

But from his aspect might be r lore than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 

Anotlier ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply. 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again. 

Start to the sound as hut remember'd then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXVIII. 
He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
And when the crowd around and near him told 
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
The color of young Kaled went and came. 
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
"With heavy thoughts fr6m which reflection shrinks. 
Yes — there be things which we miist dream and dare, 
And execute ere thought be half aware : 
Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin, till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight he past ; 
Wher, Kaled saw that smile his visage fell. 
As if from something recognized right well ; 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene. 
That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
. No Piore relieves the glare of yon high torch. 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
B t long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
H •; waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; 
The courteous b ost, and all^approving guest ; 



Again to that accTistom'd couch must creey 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabor'd with his being's strife. 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cimning's goue, 
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home. 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk sttpims 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
Glad for a while to heave unconscious' breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increast, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the leas 



CANTO IT. 



-the 



I. 

vapors 



round the mount&ini 



NioifT wanes- 
curl' d 
Melt into mom, and Light awakes the world 
Man" has another day to swell the past. 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine. 
And cry, exulting inly, " they are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see ; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee ; 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

II. 

'Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proc'aun 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise giv8.l. 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not ? Such truths to bo divulged, 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

III. 

The hour is past, and TiUra too is there 
With self-confiding coldly patient air : 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow o'ercast 
know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear. 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley standi 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest hud honor gain'd, 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain 'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against tc -day ; 



160 



BYRON'S WORKS 



The wc rd 1 pledged for his I pledge again, 

Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

Ixe ceased— and Lara answer'd " I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 

Whose words already might my heart have wrung. 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 

Dr, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

[ know him not — but me it seems he knew 

[n laiTids where — but I must not trifle too : , 

Prodt.ce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew : 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
A.nd thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom. 

However near his own or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its 'grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke : 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his ^-illing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed. 

For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

A.nd from his lips those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 

Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 

He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound. 

Stretched by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 

*' Demand thy life ! " He answer'd not : and then 

From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 

For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 

Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 

Ana fiercer shook his angry falchion now 

Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 

Then all was stern coUectedness and art. 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld, 

He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those. 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 

Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had sent his victim onward to his grave. 

V. 

They raised the bleeding Otho, and tht Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighboring hall. 
And he, incensed and heedless of them all. 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
in haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed, his home^vard path he took, 
Nor cast oii. Otho's towers a single look. 

VI. 

But where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light ? 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went 
To leai e no other trace of his latent. 



He left the dome of Otho long ere mom, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded noiight 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distiest 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath ; 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne. 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale. 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
When agonized hands, that cease to guard. 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name. 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear' d, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd. 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, ■ 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 
Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 
But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd . 
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 
The friend of all who sought to work. him wo, 
And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence ? who had made him disappear. 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
The general rumor ignorantly loud. 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
The seeming friendlessness of him who strov«> 
To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray 'd, 
The skill with wliich he wielded his keen blade ; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness gro^yn upon his heart t 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 
A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
These, link'd \vith that desire which ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one who haunts him still, alive :r dead. 

VIII. 

Within that land was many a malcontent, 

Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 

That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 

Who work'd his wantonness in form of law; 

Long war without and frequent broil within 

Had made a path for blood and giant sin. 

That waited but a signal to begin 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friend* . 



LARA. 



16] 



Kix d in his feudal fortress each was lord, 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 

But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now diverted by his milder sway, 

All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 

The menials felt their usual awe alone, 

But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst, 

A.nd each long restless night, and silent mood, 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 

For thence the vsrretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 

For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 

Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high. 

The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 

Much he would speak hot, but beneath his roof. 

They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 

And they who watch'd might mark that day by day 

Rome new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 

But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, « 

He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 

Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 

Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 

Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 

With these, the people, than his fellow thanes 

If this were policy, so far 'twas sound. 

The million judged but of him as they found; 

From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 

They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 

By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot. 

And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 

With him old avarice found its hoard secure. 

With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 

Youth, present cheer, and promised recompense 

Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence : 

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 

The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

That slavery nothing which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 

Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 

Wlio dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 

Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 

Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 

A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 

Borne factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 



IX. 

Througnout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain I 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly rcign'd; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 
The Serfs cont3mn'd the one, and hated both : 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
21 



By circumstance compell'd to plunge again. 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysteris-^s fate from these 
"Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all. 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urg* 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he once had been. 
And is again ; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame. 
But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 
What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there : 
Inured to hunters, ha was found at bay ; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
But, dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke* 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 

The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 

The varying fortune of each separate field, 

The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yirld » 

The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent theii force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew hir cry was >ain. 

The captive died upon the battle-plain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possest 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain 'd to sla^ 

It was too late to check the wasting brand. 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread. 

And Carnage smiled upca her daily dead. 

XI. 

Fresh with the nerve the new-bom impulse kuuup 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, 

They form no longer to their loader's call ; ^ 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain thoir stubborn ardor he would tarn* 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flaoir 

The wary foe alone hnth turn'd their mood, 

And shown their nwhucss to that erring b'oo** 



162 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The feign'd retreat the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
The long privation, and the hoped supply, • 
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that marks the leaguer's art, 
And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 
Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
They could encounter as a veteran may; 
But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
AJid present death, to hourly suffering life : 
And famiiiT wrings, and fever sweeps away 
His nun-bei? melting fast from their array; 
[ntetcperate triumph fades to discontent, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent 
But few remain to aid his voice and hand ; 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty band 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 
And thence they may escape from native War ; 
And bear within them to the neighboring state 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate: 
Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 

XII. 
It is resolved — ^they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight ; 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! ' 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
T^ess blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIII. 
A moment's pause, 'tis but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onAvard lyess, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by the border-stream their march oppose. 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line. 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt," 
l^orth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed ; 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
H<:»w many shall but hear the voice of death. 

XIV. 

Bw blade is bared, in hum there is an air 

As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 

A something of indifference more than then 

Becom^ the bravest, if they feel for men — 

He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 

And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 

Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 

Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint exprest 

The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark'd and laid his hand on his ; 

It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 

H'8 eve alore proclaim'd, *♦ We will not part ' 



Thy band may perish, or thy friends may nee 

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driveu 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder ri^eu. 

Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel. 

And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 

Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 

Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 

And blood is mingled with the dashin^: streaip 

Which runs all redly till the morning beam 

XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend *C fali 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his ttwi^ 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 
TVTiile yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow: 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone. 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly- 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
A^d shook — Why sudden droops that plum-ed erect 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains. 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy vnth the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage . 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again • 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ' 

XVI. 
Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, . 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
And that last gagp hath burst his bloody girth t 
And nc;ir, yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd , 
And sortie too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery leath, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste. 
But yet they reach the stream and bend to taste 
They feel its freshness, and almost pai-takc — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him that strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay • 
'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away : 
His follower once, and no'^ his only guide, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And Avith his scarf would staunch the tides that rodk 
Wit^ each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 



• LARA. 



163 



A.nd ♦■ben, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

in feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow ; 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

And clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page. 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees. 

Save tLd,t damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVIIL 

The foe arrives, who long had seafch'd the field. 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not, 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot. 
And turns to Kaled ; — each remaining word. 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To .which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They speak of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone : 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To share between themselves some separate fate. 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath. 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near, 
But from his visage little could we guess. 
So unrepentant, dark and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once as Kaleds answering accents ceast. 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Where (as then the breaking sun from high 
RoU'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that 't^^as chance, or some remembcr'd scene, 
That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
As if his heart abhon'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
Yet sense seem'd left, though l)etter were its loss ; 
Foi when one near display'd the absolving cross, 
And profTer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
And smiled — Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain ; 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despiiiring view, 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
iriwns back the hand which held the aacrcd gift, 



As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, • 

Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew. 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd 

o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats ! " — away, thou dreamer ! he is gone- 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trane^ 

Bxit cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when in raising him from where he bore, 

Within his arms the form that felt no.more. 

He saw the head his breast would still sustain, 

Iloll down like earth to earth upon the plain : 

He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well 

Than ^at he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty loVe may breatbi* 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 

Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confest ; 

And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fam'^ * 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep. 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profoimd, 
Though priest nor bless'd nor marble deck'd tbc 

mound. 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief. 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last; 
She told nor whence, iM)r why she loft behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be stiU- 
Is human love the growth of human will ? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes dinceni, 
And when they love, your sniilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. j 

They wore iu»t eonuuon links, tl\at fonn'd the chail 
That bound to Lara Kalod's heart and brain, 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfild, 
And seal'd is now eaoh lip tiiat could h«Te told. 

XXIII. 
They laid him in the earth, and on his hrcn§t, 
Besides the wound that sent his s(»til to rest, 
They fo\ind the soatter'd dints of mKny a •cur, 
Which were not planted there is reo«nt war ; 



164 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Whet t er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Retvirn'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale, 
WHien Cynthia's light almost gave way to mom, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood. 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
AVrapt round some burden at his saddle-bow ; 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger' course. 
Who reach'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burden which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dashed it from the shore, 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to 

watch, 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the<stream that flow'd. 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone f 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung th?m with a more than common care. 
Meantime th« S<Jtf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest, 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again but indistinct to view. 
And left the waters of a purple hue. 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed, 
Till etb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 



Then turning, vaxlted on his pawing steed. 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
Sufch is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul! 
His un disco ver'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell, 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 



XXV. 

And Kaled — Lara — ^Ezzelin, are gone, 
Alike ^vithout their monumental stone ! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had beec 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from tlfe spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire, 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as l^he busy brain of Sorrow paints. 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints': 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair. 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And foil, and press it gently to the ground. 
As if she staunched anew some phantom's Tvound 
Herself would question, and for him reply ; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root. 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
Or trace strange characters along the sand— 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved , 
Her tale untold — ^her truth too dearly preyed. 



NOTE TO LARA 



Ihe event in section xxiv Canto II. was sug- 
gested by the description of the death or rather 
burial of the Duke of Gandia. 

The most interesting and particular account of 
this mysterious event is given by Burchard, and is 
in substance as follows : " On the eighth day of 
June, the Cardinal of Valenza, and the Duke of 
Gandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their mother, 
Vanozza, near the church of N. Pietro ad vincula ; 
several other persons being present at the entertain- 
ment A late hour approaching, and the cardinal 
having reminded his brother, that it was time to 
return to the apostolic palace, they mounted their 
horses or mules, with only a few attendants, and 
proceeded together as far as the palace of the Car- 
dinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the 
cardinal, that before he returned home, he had to 
pay a visit of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all 
his attendants except his stafficro, or footman, and 
a person in a mask, who had paid him a visit whih^t 
at supper, and who, during the space of a month or 
thereabouts, previous to this time, had called upon 
him almost daily, at the apostolic palace, he took 
this person behind him on his mule, and proceeded 
to the stroet of the Jews, where he quitted his ser- 
vant, directing him to remain there until a certain 
hour; when, if he did not return, he might repair 
to the pala/-e. The duke then seated the person in 
the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whithor ; 
out in that night he was assassinated, and thrown 
into the river. The servant, after having been 
dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally wound- 
ed ; and although he wiis attended witli great care, 
yet such was his situation, that lie could give no in- 
telligil)le account of wbat had befallen his master. 
In the morning, the duke not having returned to 
ihe palace, his servants began to be alarmed ; and 
one of them informed the pontiH" of the evening 
excursion of his sons, and that the duke had not 
vet made his appearance. This gave the pope no 
small anxiety ; but he conjectured that the duke 
had been attracted by some courtesan to pass the 
night with her, and not choosing to (piit the house 
m open* day, had waited till the following evening 
to return home. When, however, the evening ar- 
rived, and he found himself disappointed in his ex- 
iK^ctations, he became deeply al11i(;ted, and began to 
make in(iuirie8 from different persons, whom he or- 
dered to attend him for that purpose. Among 
these was a man named (Jiorgio Seliiiivoni, who, 
having discharged some timber from a bark in the 
fiver, had reuiaiiu^d on board the ves ud to watch it, 
and being interi ugated whether he had seen any 
rme thrown into the river en the night precediuK, 



he replied, that he saw two men on foot, who cauM 
diOWTL the street, and looked diligently abcrtit, to 
observe whether any person was passing. Thai 
seeing no one, they returned, and a short time af- 
terwards two others came, and looked around in the 
same manner as the former : no person still appear- 
ing, they gave a sign to their companions, when « 
man came, mounted on a white horse, having be- 
hind him a dead body, the head and arms of which 
himg on one side, and the feet on the other side ol 
the horse ; the two persons on foot supporting the 
body, to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded 
towards that part where the filth of the city is usu- 
ally discharged into the river, and turning the horse, 
with his tail towards the water, the two persons 
took the dead body by the arms and feet, and with 
all their strength flung it into the river. The per 
son on horseback tlien asked if they had thrown it 
in, to which they replied, Su/nor, si (yes. Sir.) He 
then looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle 
floating on the stream, he in(|uired what it was that 
appeared black, to which they answered, it was a 
mantle ; and one of them threw stones upon it, in 
consequence of which it sunk. The attendants of 
the pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he had 
not revealed this to the governor of the city ; to 
which he re])lied, that he had seen in his time a 
hundred dead bodies thrown into tlie river at the 
same place, without any iu(iuiry being n.ade resi>ert 
ing them, and that he had not therefore, consider 
ed it as a matter of any inijjortanee. The fisher- 
men and seamen were t)nm collected, and ordered 
to search the river, where, on the following eve- 
ning, they found the body of the duke, with his 
habit entire, and thirty ducats in his purse. ^le 
was pierced with i\ine wounds, one of w;liieli was in 
his tliroat, the others in his head, body, ami limbs 
No sooner was the ])ontitf informed of tlio death ot 
his soTi, and that he had been thrown, like filth, 
into the i-ivcr, than, giving way to his grief, he 
shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. 
The Cardinal of Segovia, and other atteiulants on 
tlie pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
spent in perstiasions and exhortations, prevailed 
ujjon him to admit them. Frouj the evening ol 
\V(>dnesday, till the following Saturday, the pope 
took no food; nor did he sleep from Tliursday morn- 
ing till the'same hour on the ensuing day. At 
leni^th, however, giving way to the entrcitii^s nf hit 
attendants, he liegan to restrain his sn: u 

consider the injury which his own heiili 
tain, by the further indulgence of hi-* •' 

coe's Leo TetUh, vol. i. pago 28d. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 



TO 



JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ, 



THIS POEM IS INSCKIBED, 
BY HIS 



January 22, 1816. 



FRIEND. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under 
the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into 
the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of 
Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in 
all that country,* thought it best in the first place 
to attack Corinth, upon which they made several 
Btorms. The garrison being weakened, and the 
governor seeing it was impossible to hold out 
against so mighty a force, thought it fit to beat 
a parley : but while they were treating about the 
articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, 
wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, 
blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred 
men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that 
they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed 
the place with so much fury, that they took it, and 
put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the 
governor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio 
Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were m'ade pris- 
f "^ers of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 

1. 
Many a vanish'd year and age, 
And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stauds 
A fortress form'd to Frc edom's hand. 



• Napcli di Romania is aol now the niott considerable place in the Morea, 
wt Tripoliiza, wticre Uie Picha rwililea, and nainUUiu hia government. 
Na|H»lii«w^r Ar^os. I visileil ull Uiree in ISKUllj ami In tlie course of 
lourHcyinp iioii^h the country from my first nrri^jil in 1«09, 1 croiwed tiie 
lMhin.u ei^tit Uniea in my wiiy from Attica to the M^rea, over tiie niounuiiiiB, 
w In the other Jirectiou, when paaiinf ftom the Gulf of AOiens to that of 
LBpaiilo. Both tfie ronu-n are picmreBiiiu' and Uaiiiilni, iliuugli very differ- 
VA: ikaX. yjj tea ha» i-iore ■a.Tieneas, but the Toyage liein«: alwiiys sviiliin 
iglit -f !u.inl, anJ olt" 1 v ly nnir It, praenU many auractive views of llt<' 
klui'lt S;ddjiij». ftlffina Poro, &c., ajid tht coast of the continent. 



The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shooh 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 

The key-stone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 

The landmark to the double tide 

That pm-pling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet. 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timolean's brother bled, 

Or baffled Persian's despot fled. 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain, 

Who perish'd there, be piled again. 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skiet 

Than yon tower-capt Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II, 

On dun Cithseron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain. 
From shore to shore of either main. 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguenng lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach t 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,* 
The sabre round his loins to gird • 



THE SIEGE OV CORINTH. 



161 



And there the vi 11 eying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
WTiich crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
1 he summons of the Infidel. 

III. 
But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall, 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and 'deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail. 
And make the foremost Mjoslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well. 
Remains as yet impregnable. 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire, 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to \vield. 
Or whii-1 around the bickering blade ; — 
"Was Alp, the Adrian renegade*! 

IV.. 

From Venice — once a race of worth 

His gentle sires — he di-ew his birth ; 

But late an exile from her shore, 

Against his countrymen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 

And here, before her walls, ■with those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes, 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel, 

Within whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory of a thousand wrongs. 

To him had Venire ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ; " 

And in the palace of St. Mark 

Unnamed accusers in the dark 

Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 

A charge against him uneffaced ; 

H« fled in time, and saved his life. 

To waste his future years in strife, 

That taught his land how great her loss 

In him who triumph 'd o'er the Cross, 

'Gainst which he rcar'd the Crescent high, 

And battled to avenge or die. 

V. 

Coumo'irgi ' — he whose closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
Wb'^n on Curlowitz' bloody plain 
The last and miii:htiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But curst the Christian's victory — 



Coumourgi — can his glory cease. 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roU'd away 
Since he refused the Moslem's sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
And proved, by many a deed cf death. 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak ; and fast and hi>t 
Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
"With unabating fury sent 
From battery to battlement ; 
•And thunder-like the pealing din 
Rose from each heated culverin ; 
And here and there some crackling domo 
W as fired before the exploding bomb : 
And as the fabric sank beneath 
The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
In red and WTeathing columns flash'd 
The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd. 
Or into countless meteors driven, 
Its earth-stars melted Into heaven ; 
Whose clouds that day grew doubly dnn. 
Impervious to the hidden sun, 
With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
To one wide sky of sulphurous hu>. 

VII. 
But not for vengeance, long delay'd. 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade. 
The Moslem warriors sternly teacli 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Within these walls a maid was pent 
His hope would win without consent 
Of that inexorable sire, 
"Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
^Vhen Alp, beneath his Christian ntune, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time. 
While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
Gayest in gondola or hall. 
He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'^l 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

VIII. 

And many dcem'd her heart was won . 
For sought by numbers, given to none. 
Had young Francesca's hand reniuiu'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
And when the Adriatic boit 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd thr maid and pole; 
More constant at confessional. 
More rare at nuiscjue and festival ; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyee. 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to priM 
With listless look she seems to gaxe, 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 
Her voice h'ss lively in the song, 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 



16% 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The paira, on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 

IX. 

bent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which Avrested from the Moslem's hand, 
Wliile Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke. 
With him his gentle daughter came. 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love. 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
1 he bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The fuU of hope, misnamed "forlorn," 
WTio hold the thought of death in scorn. 
And win their way with falchion's force, 
Or pave the path with many a corse. 
O'er which the following brave may rise. 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 

XI. 
'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
■So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining. 
And turn'd to earth without repining. 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook. 
But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
The banners droop'd along their staves. 
And, as they fell around them furling. 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep> silence was unbroke, 
Save where the watch his signrJ spoke, 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
And echo ar.swer'd from the hill, 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rOb'e the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
Ruch as \nhen winds and harp-strings meet, 



And take a long unmeasured tone. 
To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
It seem'd to those within the wall 
A cry prophetic of their fall : 
It struck even the besieger's ear 
With something ominous and drear, 
An undefined and sudden thrill. 
Which makes the heart a moment stil), 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of that strange sense its silence framed J 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knfll 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'ei ; 

The watch was set, the night-round made. 

All mandates issued and obey'd : 

'Tis but another anxious night, 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revengf and love can pay, 

In guerdon of t^eir long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 

Of slaughter ; but \vithin his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters rolL 

He- stood alone among the host ; 

Not his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved immortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel. 

The stem exaltedness of zeal. 

Profuse of blood, untiied in toil. 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone — a renegade 

Against the country he betray'd ; 

He stood alone amidst his band. 

Without a trusted heart or hand ; 

They follow'd him, for he was brave. 

And great the spoil he got and gave ; 

They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will ; 

But still his Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 

Since he, their mightiest chief had been 

In youth a bitter Nazarene. 

They did not know how pride can stoop, 

When baffled feelings withering droop ; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stem > 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

The convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them — man may rule the worst* 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey. 

Then on the vulgar yelling press, 

To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 

His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
The quick succt ssive throbs convulse ; 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



161 



Ur if he dozed, a sound, a start 

Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's, bed. 
Than now along the heaven was spread ; 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But walk'd him forth along the sand. 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand 
What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied "^U he gazed upon. 

XIV 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp— before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf ; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest. 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And lingcr'd on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh, still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token. 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays 
Which shoTic upon the Persian flying, 
And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 

Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 

And through Uiis night, as on he wander'd, 

And o'er the past and preWMit pondcr'd, 

And thought upon the glorious dead 

Who there in better cause had bled. 

He felt how faint iind feebly dim 

The fame that (lonld accrue to him, 

Who choer'd the band, and waved tbo sword, 

A traitor in a turban'd horde • 



/- 



And led them to the lawless siege. 
Whose best success were sacrilege. 
Not so had those his fancy number' 1, 
The chiefs whose dust around him slumber' d 
Their phalanx marshalled on the plain. 
Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying ; 
The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 
The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever, y 
Despite of every yoke she bears. 
That land is glory's still and theirs I 
'Tis still a watchword to the earth : 
When man would do a deed of worth. 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread. 
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom wop 

XVI. 
Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 
And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 
There shrinks no ebb in that tidcless sea,' 
Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mooa, 
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood 
And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
Heedless if she come or go : 
Calm or high, in main or bay. 
On their coin-se she hath no sway. 
The rock unworn its base doth bare, 
And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there . 
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
On the line that it left long ages ago : 
A smooth short space of yellow sand 
Between it and thewgreener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach. 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts mu 4 

cold? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball. 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown. 
That flank'd the seaward gate of tlie town; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost teJ 
The sullen words of the sentinel, 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
Gorgijig and growling o'er carcass and limb* 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the fleth, 
Ah je peel the fig wljen its friiit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiC« 

skull.* 
As t slipp'd through their jaws, when their edffC 

grew dull. 



no 



UYKON'S WORKfc. 



As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When they sctrce could rise from the spot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the 

sand, 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair : ^ 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The i* us were in the wild dog's maw, 
The h&ir was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XVII. 
Alp tum'd him from the sickening sight : 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
S.^orch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
Whate'er be the sha]^e in whic\ death may lower ; 
For Fame is there to say who bleeds. 
And Honor's eye on daring deeds ! 
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
And see worms of the earth and fowls of the air, 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
All regarding man as their prey>. 
All rejoicing at his decay, 

xviii. 

There is a temple in ruin stands. 

Fashion 'd by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and n^ny a stone. 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which 

must be : 
What we have seen our sons shall see ; 
Renmants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay , 

XIX. 

He aate him down at a pillar's base, 

AnJ pass'd his hand athwai't his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and opprest ; 

And o'er his brow, so do%vnward benl^ 

Oft his beating fingers went, 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over tlie ivory key, 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily, 

A.8 he heard the night- wind sigh. 



Was it the wind, through some hollow stoae^^ 

Sent than soft and tender moan ? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the saa, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithajron's hill. 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek 

"What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He tum'd to the left — is he sure of sight t 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ? 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! Avhat is here? 

WTio art 'thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament ? 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour. 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side. 

The maid who might have been his bride • 

The rose was yet upon her cheek. 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streaK : 

Where was the play of her soft lips flea > 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their view, 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that cold wave it stood still. 

And its glance, though clear, was chill; 

Around her form a thin robe twining. 

Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her haii-. 

Floating darkly downward there. 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high : 

It was so wan and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI 

" I come from my rest to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall, 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, that can shield th e good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 

I come — and if I come in vain. 

Never, oh never, we meet again ! 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

In falling away from thy father's creed : 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine 

Wring the black drop from thy heart. 

And to-mon-ow unites us no more to part." 

And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



17^ 



For to-inorrow we give to the slaughter and flame, 

I he sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Bhall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot. 

Where our hands shpU be joined, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
When once again I've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase, 
Scot-rge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice ai ^ envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white, 

Froze through his blood by their touch *hat night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone. 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue 

So deeply changed from what he knew ; 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death. 

And her words came forth without her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell, 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd. 

And the glarce that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem. 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Btirr'd by the breath of the wintry air. 

Bo seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 

down 
From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 



• If not for love of me be given 
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 
Again I say — that turban tear 
From off" thy faithless brow, and swear 
Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
O: thou art lost ; and never shult see 
IJot earth — tliat's past — but heaven or me. 
It this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavj doom 'tis thine to meet, 
Tnat doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
And mercy's gate may receive thee within 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shiit from thee. 
There is a light cloud by tlie moon — ' 
'Tis passing, and will pass full ooon — 

If, by the time its vapory sail 
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veiJ» 



Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside 

By deep, interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breaet 

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By ^vild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's woTCt^ 

And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly. 
Without an accent of reply ; 
He watch'd it passing ; it is flown . 
Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 
I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 
The reed in storms may bow and quiver. 
Then rise again ; the tree must shiver 
What Venice made me, I must be, 
Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
But thou art safe : oh, fly with me I " 
He turn'd, but she is gone ! * 
Nothing is there but the column stone. 
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in ulr r 
He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is thew 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly and brightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray. 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
And the mom-nful sound of the barbarous horn, 
And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
And the clash, and the shout, " they come, they 

come ! " 
The horsetails 8 are pluck'd from the ground, and 

the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait foc 
the word. 



trtar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
■i 



ike your tents, and throng to the viu4 , 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
When jy breaks from the town ; and none e9C4r 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows uu fool, in a fiery mass, 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pa»*. 
The steeds are all l)ridled, and snort to the reui \ 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are \iplifted ; the njatches are lit ; 
The cannon ore pointed, and ready to n>ar, 
And crush the wall tliey have crumbled before: 
Forms in his phalanx each Juuizar; 
Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar; 
The khan and the parhaa are all at their po«t| 
The visier himself at the head of the host. 



152 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail ? 
He wlio first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! " 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
Tlie reply was the brandish of sa])re and spear. 
And tie shout of lierce thousands in joyous ire; 
Silence— hark to the signal — fire! 

XXIII. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On t'le stately buftalo. 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar. 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength uat to die. 

Thus against the wall they went. 

Thus the first were backward bent ; 

Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, 

Sti-ew'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more ; 

Even as they fell, in files they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 

WTien his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, \Aith heavy plash, 

From the cliffs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 

Till white and thundering down they go, 

Like the avalanche's snow, 

On the Alpine vales b(»tow ; 

Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 

Corinth*s sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 

Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory. 

Mingle tliere with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

H'ow the sounding battle goes, • '^ 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice. 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

Yo I might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
Sabres aud sworda with blood were gilt ; 



But the rampart is won, and the spoil bcgtca^ 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From vrithin the plunder' d dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet. 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street i 

But here and there, where 'vantage grounf* 

Against the foe may still be found, 

Desperate groups, of tAvelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against the wall. 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs were white* 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day, 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded. 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 

But every wound his body bore,. 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, Lo was so iron of limb. 

Few of our youth could cope wdth him ; • 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay . 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 

His weapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ii-e : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe i 

And since the day, when in the strait* 

His only boy had met his fate. 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a hiiman hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son who died 

^Vhere Asia's bounds and o\irs divide. 

Buried he lay where, thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their gravefl 
But they live in the verse that immortality saves. 

XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand 
Their leader's nervous arm is bare. 
Swifter to smite, ai.d never to spare- 
Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
Thus in the fight is he ever known ; 
Others a gaudier garb may show. 
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe i 
Many a hand's on a richer hilt. 
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt \ 
Many a loftier turban may wear. 
Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis then : 
There is not a standard on that shore 
So well advanced the reuks before ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



173 



There is not a banner in Moslem war 
Will lure the Delhis haif so far ; 
It glances like a falling star ! 
Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
The bravest be, or late have been ; 
There the craven cries for quarter 
Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
Or the hero, silent lying. 
Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
Mustering his last feeble blow 
'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 
Though faint beneath the mutual wound 
Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
*' Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

" Never, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 

" Francesca ! — Oh my promised bride ! 
Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

■•She is safe." — " Where ? where ?" — " In heaven 

From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and un defiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled. 

As he "law Alp staggering bow 

Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she ? " — " Yesternight — 

Nor weeji I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — * 

Come on ! " — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp's already with the slain ! 

"While Minotti's words were wreaking 

i^Iore revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 

From within the neighboring porch 

Of a long defended church, 

■Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew, 

The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk • 

Through all the palpitating trunk ; 

N mght of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

4nd brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb. 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death : 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unanell'd he pass'd away. 

Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 

To the last a renegade. 



XXVIII 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers and his foes 

These m joy, in fury those ; 

Then again in conflict mixing. 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust 

Hurling wan-iors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command ; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable, 
WTience issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall, 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back. 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And, \rita their faces to the foe, 

Dealing wounds with every blow. 

The chief, and his retreating train. 

Join to those within the fane ; 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time I the turbau'a hos. 

AVith adding ranks and raging boast, 

Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not ; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the glassy column to turn and fly ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughtered still; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still renew'd attacks : 

And now the Othman's gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurotis shower : 

But the portal wavering grows and weak^ 

The iron yields, the hinges creaw — 

It bends-^t falls — and all is o'er ; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 



XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
Madonna's face upon him shone, 
Painted in heavenly hues above, 
With eyes of light and looks of loTe ; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee, * 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
Still she smiled : even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Milictti lifted his aged eye, 
A.nd made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible mth gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues, 

The varied marble's veins difluse, 

Werp smear'd, and slipi>ery — stain'd, and strewn 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin 'd row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 

The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late-form'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhelming force 

XXXII. 

The foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain : 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake. 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead. 

And lop the already lifeless head. 

And fell the statiies from their niche. 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich. 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 

That morn it held the holy wine, 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of day 

To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 

Still a few drops within it lay ; 

And round the sacred table glow a 

Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 

From the purest metal cast ; 

A spoil — the richest, and the last. 

XXXTII. 
So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hani 
Touch'd with the torch the train— 

•Tis fired ! 
Spir; vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain. 



The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 

All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane. 

In one wild roar expired 1 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown do\n» • 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast— 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprickles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay. 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deean'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment feft no trace 
More of human form or face, 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay. 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd ; 
* The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bullfrog's note, from out the mars^i, 
Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, 
Where echo roU'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,'* 
Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
With a mix'd and mouraful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast. 
The eagle left his rocky nest. 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dnn 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek- 
Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



The Turcoman hath left his herd. 

Page 166, line 38. 

The life of the Turcomans is wandering and pa- 
tnarrV &l : they dwell in tents- 



Coumourgi — he whose closing scene. 

Page 167, line 57. 

Ali Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and 
Grand Vizier to Achraet III. after recovering Pelo- 
ponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was 
mortally wounded in the next, against the Ger- 
mans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain 
of Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavoring to rally his 
guards. He died of his wounds, next day. His 
last order was the decapitation of General Breuner, 
and some other German prisoners : and his last 
words, " Oh that I could thus serve all the Chris- 
tian dogs ! " a speech and act not unlike one of 
Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition 
and unbounded presumption: on being told that 
Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a great 
general," he said, " I shall become a greater, and 
at his expense." 



There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 

Page 169, line 91. 

I'he reader need hardly be reminded that there 
are no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 



And their white txuhi crawich'd o'er the tphiter $ktill. 
Page 170, line 8. 

This spfctaole I have seen, such as described, be- 
ne.ath the w.all of the Seraglio at Constantinople, 
In the littlp cavities worn bv the Bosphorus in the 
rcjk, a narrow terrace of wliich projects between 
the i^all and the water. I think the fact is also 
mfntionod in Hol)house's Travels. The bodies 
Tere probably those of some refractory .Janizaries. 

6. 

And each at alp nod a nngle long tuft of hair. 
Page l70, line 60. 

This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition 
at Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 



Wa^ it the wind, through some hollow sfcme. 
Page 169, line 37 
I must here acknowledge a close, though unin- 
tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to • 
passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge,, 
called *' Christabel." It was not till after ftiesc 
lines were wTitten that I heard that wild and singu- 
larly original and beautiful poem recited ; and the 
MS. of that production I never saw till very recent- 
ly, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, 
I hope, is convinced that I have not been a •wilful 
plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains 
to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed 
above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope 
that he will not longer delay the publication of a 
production, of which I can only add my mite of ap- 
probation to the applause of 'far more competent 
judges. 

7. 
There is a light cloud by the moon. 

Page 171, line 61. 
I have been told that the idea expressed from 
lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose 
approbation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is 
not orignal — at least not mine ; it may be f )und 
much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 of the fiug 
lish version of " Vathek," (I forget the precise pag« 
of the French,) a work to which I have before re- 
ferred, and never recur to, or read, without a r«»- 
newal of gratification. 

8. 
The horsetails are plucked from the ground, arid th» 
sword. Page' 171. line 106. 

The horsetail fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's stand 
ard. 

9. 

Attd since the day when in the strait. 

Page 172, line 98. 

In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dard% 
nelloH })etwocii the Venetians and the Turks 

10. 

ThejackaVa trSop, in gathered cry. 

Page 174, line 109. 

I believe I have taken a poetical license to trans 
plant the jackal from Asia. In (Jreece I never saw 
nor heard these animals ; but among the ruins ol 
Epheaus I have heard them by hundreds. Thef 
I haunt ruins, and follow ar"\ie8 



PARISINA. 



TO 

SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCKIBED, 
BT ONE '^^O HAS LONG ADMIBED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FBIENDSHIT 



January 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The fDllowing poem is grounded on a circum- 
stance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the 
House of Brunswick." — I am aware, that in modern 
times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader 
may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of 
ooetrj-. The Greek dramatists, and some of the 
>est of our old English T\Titers, were of a different 
opinion : as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, 
more recently, upon the continent. The following 
extract will explain the facts on which the story is 
founded. The name of Azo is substituted for 
Nicholas, as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was 
polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony 
of an attendant, and his own observation, the Mar- 
quis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his 
wife Parisini, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful 
and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the 
•astle by the sentence of a father and husband, who 
published his shame, and survived their execution. 
He was unfortunate, if they were guilty ; if the> 
were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor 
is there any possible situation in which I can sin 
eerely approve the last act of justice of a parent." — 
Gibbon's Miscellaneoxie Works^ vol. iii. p. 470, new 
edition. 



It is the hotir when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word : 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear 



Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue. 

And on the leaf a browner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 



II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall. 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 

She listens — ^but not for the nightingale- 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats 

quick. 
There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves. 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves ; 
A moment more — and they shall meet • 
'Tis past — ^her lover's at her feet 



III. 
And what unto them is the world beside, 
"With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky- 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath j 
As if all else had passed away, 

They only for each other breath« , 



FARISINA. 



177 



I'heir very sighs are full of joj 

So deep, that did it not decay, 
Thai happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
Of guilt, ot peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused or fear'd in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already past ! 
Alas ! we must awake before 
We I'now such vision comes no more. 

IV. 

With many a lingering look they^leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they gi'.jra 

As if that parting were the last. 
The freqx'ent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
Wh^le gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her; 
As if each calmly conscinrj? star 
Beheld her frailty from afar— 
The frequent sigh, the long emlrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place ; 
But it must come, and th^y must part 
In fearful heaviness of hf art, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 

V. 

And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscioiis heal 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 
And red her cheek with troubled dreama. 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And elasps her lord unto the bieast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes. 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 

And listen'd to each broken word: 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start. 

As if the Archangel's voice he heard r 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease : 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his^ pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breakinpr billow. 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more,— 

Sc came upon his soul the slock. 
28 



And whose that name ? tis Hugo's, 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betrayed Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheath'd it ere the point was bare 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there- 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
"WTiich, had she roused her from her tranoe 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd^- 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd 

VIII. 
And with the mom he soug^^t, and found. 
In many a tale from those around, 
The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
Their present guilt, his future wo • 
The long-conniving damsels seek 
To save themselves, and would transfer 
The giiilt — the shame — the doom — to her 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell : 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook 'd delay . 

Within the chamber of his state. 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sale; 
His nobles and his guards are there, • 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand, 
Oh, Christ ! that such a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire. 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 
The tale of his disgrace ! 
And yet he seems not overcome. 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

X. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering room 
Where high-born men were proud to wail— 
Wliere Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 
The graces of its queen : 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wepl, 
A thousand warriorH forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords hud shenthless thoiMk 
And made her quarrel all their own 



\78 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Now,— what is she ? and what are they ? 

Can sht command, or these obey ? 

AH silent and unheeding now, 

With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 

And folded arms, and freezing air, 

And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 

Her knights, and dames, her court — is there. 

And he, th^ chosen one, whose lance 

Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 

Who — were his arm a moment free — 

Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 

The minion of his father's bride, — 

He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 

Nor sees her swollen and full eye swim 

Less for her own despair than him : 

Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 

Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 

Shining through the smoothest white 

That e'er did softest kiss invite — 

Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 

To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 

Which glance so heavily, and fill. 

As tear on tear grows gathering still. 



XI. 

And he for her had also wept. 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 
He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And her's, oh, her's ! — ^he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 



XII. 

And Azo spake :— " But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
'Ihat dream this morning pass'd away, 

Ere day delines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ! 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too pass ; — The doom's prepared ! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 

And then — thy crime's reward ! 
Away !" address thy prayers to Heaven, 

Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath. 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 

Farewell ! I will not see thee die- 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head- 
Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 

Go ! woman of the wanton breast. 
Not 1, but thou his blood dost shed : 
C*o ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
4nd joy thee in the* life I give " 



XIII. 

And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back up m his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again f 

And therefore bow'd be for a space, 

And pass'd his shaking hand along 

His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 

While Hugo raised his chained hands. 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear : the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 

" It is not that I dread the death— 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride, 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wi-ested from my hand, 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, * 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Theu gav'st, and may'st resume my breath. 
A gift for which I thank thee not : 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
Her slighicd love and ruin'd name, 
Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 
But she is in the grave, where he, 
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be, 
Her broken heart — my sever'd head- 
Shall witness for thee from the dead 
How trusty and how tender were 
Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
'Tis true, that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy bride 

The other victim of thy pride, 
Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms— 

And with thy very crime — ^my birth, 

Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
A match ignoble for her arms. 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine, 

My name should more than Este's shine 
With honors all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught* a crest 
As ever waved along the line 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born ; 
And mine have lanced my coxirser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank. 
When charging to the cheering cry 
Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' 
I will not plead the cause of crime, 
Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ,— 
Such maddening moments as my past. 
They could not and they did not, last^ 
Albeit my birth and name be base, 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me — 

Yet in my lineaments they trace 

Some features of my father's face, 
And in my spirit — all of thee. 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart— 
From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ?- 



PARISINA. 



179 



Fiooi thee in all their vigor came 

My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
Fo tha*, like thine, abhorr'd control ; 
And {Z7 my breath, that hasty boon 
Thoi gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou, 
When rose thy casque above thy brow^ 
And we, all side by side, have striven. 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died : 

For though th©u work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view, 
But God must judge between us too ! " 



XIV. 

He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sotmded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded. 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd, 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die^! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close. 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat. 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne'er had life— 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting, 
Wliich urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guil"<< detefti.m and despair. 



But yet she lived — and all too g.on 

Recover'd from that death-like swoon- 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
Ai^d each frail fibre of her brain 
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain. 
The erring arrows launch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide- 
The past a blank, the future black. 
With glimpses of a dreary track. 
Like lightning on the desert path. 
When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
Lay on her soul, so deep a.v ^1 chill — 
That there was sin and shame she knew: 
That some one was to die — but who ? 
She had forgotten ; — d\ 1 she breathe ? 
Could this be still the earth beneath, 
The sky above, and men around ; 
Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
On one, before whose eyes each eye 
Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
All was confused and undefined 
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
And now in laughter, now in tears. 
But madly still in each extreme. 
She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
For so it seem'd on her to break ; 
Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

XV. 

The Convent bells are ringing. 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret s^^^nging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark ! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll 
He is near his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
Sad to heai- — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
With the block before and the guards aroanu 
And the headsman with liis bare arm leady, 
That the blow may be' both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd in a speechless circle gathei 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father . 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the summer sun shall set, 

Wliich rose upon that heavy day, 

And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 

And his evening beams iire shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As his last confession pouring 

To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends to he;ir his accents blesa 

With absolution such as may 

Wijjc tmr mortal stains iiwuy. 

That high sun on his head did glisten 

As he there did bow and listen'^ 



80 

And the rings of «'Lf^tnut hair 
Curi'd half dovm his neck so bare ; 
But brighter still the beam was thrown 
Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law- 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 

XYII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted, 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd : 

'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renew'd, 

"When headsman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind : 

As if they dared not look on death. 

♦• No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are chain'd — ^but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike : " — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke — 

" Strike " — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died as erring man should die, 

Without display, without parade ; 

Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the Prior kneeling. 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
WTiat were they in such an hour ? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayers- 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the headsman "s stroke, 
He claim'd to die ^nth eyes unbound, 
Hia sole adieu to those around. 

XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his breath ; 
But yet, afar, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver rtin, 
A« dovm the deadly blow descended 
On him whose life and love thus ended, 
And with a hushing sound comprest, 
A Bigh shrunk back on every breast ; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But no more thrilling noise rose there 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and suUea shock 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill, so passing wild ? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go. 

Like a soul's in endless wo. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it past, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been— 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like w orl? of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb^ — ^no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day, 

But Parisina' s fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode. 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tean 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headsman's shoe 

In quicken'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever knovf : 

But whatsoe'er its end below. 

Her life began and closed in wo ! * 

XX. 

And Azo found another bride, 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither'd in the grave ; 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a sraother'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended. 

And never smile his brow unbended, 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was pass'd all mirth or wo : 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to soam or praise* 



NOTES TO PARISINA. 



181 



A. heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 
That would not yield — nor could forget, 
Which when it least appear'd to melt, 
Intensely thought — intensely felt : 
The deepest ice which ever froze 
Can only o'er the surface close — 
The living stream lies quick below, 
And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 
By thoughts which ^ature hath implanted , 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Howe'er our stifled tears we banish : 
WTien, struggling as they rise to start, 
We check those waters of the heart. 
They are not dried — those tears unshed 
But flow back to the fountain head, 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
For ever in its depth endure, 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 



And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
With inward starts of feeling left, 
To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
Without the power to fill again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
United souls shall gladness share, 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree, 
If lopp'd with care a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and livo 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 



NOTES TO PARISINA 



I. 

Aa twthght melts beneath the moon atoay. 

Page 176. lir.e 14. 

The lines contained in Section I. were printed 
ifl set to miisic some time since ; but belonged to 
the poem where they now appear, the greater part 
of which was composed prior to " Lara," and other 
compositions since published. 



2. 

That should have toon as haiKfhi a crest. • 

Page 178, line 108. 

Haught — haughty—" Away, hau<iht man, thou 
%rt insulting me " — HJuikspearey Richard II 



Her life began and closed in wo 

Page 180, line 109. 

♦ This turned out a calamitous year for the people 
•f Fcrrara, for there oc(nirrod a very tragical event 
in the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both 
printed and in rnanusnipt, with the exception of 
the unpolished and nofiligont work of Sardi, iiiul 
one other, have given the following relation of it, 
from which, however, are rejected many details, and 
especially the narrative of* Bandclli, who wote a 
eentury afterwards, and who does not accord with 
the contciniiorarv historians. 

♦' By the ahove-incuitioned Stella* dell' Assassino. 
thi Marquis in the year 1405, had a son called Uro, 



a beautiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malate* 
ta, second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of 
step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, to 
the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded 
him with fond partialitv. One day she asked leave 
of her husband to undertake a certain journey, to 
which he consented, but upon conditiow that UgO 
should bear her company ; for he hoped b\' these 
means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the 
obstinate aversion which she had conceived against 
him. And indeed his inti-iit was accomplished but 
too well, since, during the journey, she not only di- 
vested herself of all her hatred,' but fell into the 
opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis 
had no lon'j;er any oc(>asion to renew his fiumer re- 
proofs. It ha])nened one day that a servant of the 
Marquis, named Zoese. or, as some call him, Oior- 
gio, passing before the aiiartments of Parisina, saw 
going out from them otu" of her chamliermaids, nil 
terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, slie told 
him that her unstress, for s(ime slight ollenco. had 
been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she 
added, that she could easily be reveni^ed, if she 
chose to make known the criminal fan\iliarity which 
stibaisted between Parisina and her step-son. The 
s.-rvant look lu^te of the words, and related thf^m to 
his master, lie was astoiiuded thereat, but scurco- 
ly believing his ears, he assureil himself of the 
fact, alas' too clearly, .on the ISih of May, b1 
looking through a hole n'uule in the ceiling uf his 
wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a furicujn 
rage, and nnested both of them, togetluT with Al 
dohrandino ltani;oni. i)f Modena, hei centlemnn, 
and also, as sonte sav. two of iho wm»ou of hei 



I8!2 



BrKON'S WORKS. 



chamber, as abettors of ttis sinful act. He ordered 
them to be brought to a hasty '.rial, desiring the 
judges to pronounce sentence, in the accustomed 
forms, upon the culprits. This sentence was death. 
Some there were that bestirred themselves in favor 
of the delinquents, and, among others, Ugoccion 
Contrario, who was all powerful with Niccolo, and 
also his aged and much deserving minister, Alberto 
dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down 
their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him 
for mercy : adducing whatever reasons they could 
suggest for sparing "the offenders, besides those mo- 
tives of honor and decency which might persuade 
him to coftceal from the public so scandalous a deed. 
But his rage made him inflexible, and, on the in- 
stant, he commanded that the sentence should be 
put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and 
exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen 
at this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, 
at the foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the 
street Giovecca, that on the night of the 21st of 
May were beheaded, first Ugo, and afterwards Pari- 
sina. Zoese, he that accused her, conducted the 
latter under his arm to the place of punishment. 
She, all along, fancied that she was to be throwi 
mto a pit, and asked at every step, whether 
she was yet come to the spot? She was told 
that her punishment was the axe. She inquired 
«vhat was become of Ugo, and received for answer, 
that he was already dead; at the which, sighing 
grievously, she exclaimed, 'Now, then, I wish not 
myself to live ; ' and, being come to the block, she 
stripped herself with her own hands of all her orna- 
ments, and Avrapping a cloth around her head, sub- 
mitted to the fatal stroke, which terminated the 
crud scene. The same was done with Rangoni, 
who, together with the others, according to two 
calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried 
In the cemetery of that convent Nothing else is 
mown respectiug tke womeo. 



"The Marqi-iis V^pt watch the whole of tha 

dreadful nigut, p^d, as he was walking backwards 
and forwards, inquired of the captain of the castle 
if Ugo was dead yet ? who answered him. Yes. He 
then gave himself up to the most desperate lamen- 
tations, exclaiming, ' Oh ! that I too were dead, 
since I have been hurried on to resolve thus against 
my o-wn Ugo ! ' And then, gnawing with his teeth 
a cane which he had in his hand, he passed the rest 
of the night in sighs and in tears, calling frequently 
upon his own dear Ugo. .On the following day, 
calling to mind that it would be necessary to make 
public his justification, seeing that the transaction 
could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative 
to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the 
courts of Italy. 

'* On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, 
Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without pub- 
lishing his reasons, that stop should be put to the 
preparations for a tournament, which, under the 
auspices of the Marquis, and at the expense of the 
city of Padua, was about to take place, in the 
square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate his ad- 
vancement to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had already 
done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, 
commanded that as many of the married women as 
were well known to him to be faithless, like his 
Parisina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst 
others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia 
Romei, wife of the court judge, underwent this sen- 
tence, at the usual place of execution, that is to 
sav, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the 
present fortress, beyond St. Paul's. It cannot b* 
told how strange appeared this proceeding in a 
prince, Avho, considering his o'wn disposition, should, 
as it seemed, have been in such cases most indul 
gent. Some, however, there were, who did not faif 
to commend him." * 



THE PllISONER OF CHILLON ; 

A FABLE. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

0TEIINAL spirit of the chainless mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Libertjfc! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
. he heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
Ajid when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
A-nd Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind, 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard ! ' — May nonA those marks eflFace ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



My ha-iT IS gray, but not with years, 
Noi ^rew it -svhite 
In "i single night,' 
As men's hav<^ gro\v'n from sudden fears : 
M> Hmbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufFcr'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish 'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proiid of Persecution's rage ; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd : 
Dying as tlioiv father died. 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck ia left the Utt. 



II. 

There are seven pillars of gothic mould* 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and graj 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the clelt 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eye«, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother droop'd and die«< 
And I lay living by his side. 



III. 
They chain'd us each to a column sUtUL, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face. 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight, 
And thus together — yet a])art, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Onr voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
A grating sound — not full and fret 
As they of yore were vont to bo; 
It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our owik. 



184 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



IV. 



I w&s the eldest cf the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best— 

And each did well in his degree. 
The youngest, whom my father loved, 

Because our mother's brow was given 

Co him— wl*h eyes as blue as heaven, 
Tor him my htul was sorely moved; 

Ajid truly might it be distrest 

To see such bird in such a nest ; 

For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 

A sunset till its summer's gone, 
Its sleepless summer of long light, 

The snow-clad offspring of the sun ; 
And thus he was as pure and bright, 

And in his natural spirit gay. 

With tears for nought but others' ills, 

And then they flow'd like mountain rills. 

Unless he could assuage the wo 

Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

V. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strnng in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood. 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine ; . 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls ; 
A tho7iwand feet in depth below 
1 ts massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillnn's snow-white battlement,' 

Which round about the wave enthralls ; 

' A. double dungeon wall and wave ^ 

^ Have made — and like a living grave.' 

Below the surface of the lake 

flie dark vault lies wherein we lay. 

We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Soi'nding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high. 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
the death that would have set me free. 

TIT. 
I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
Hq loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coaise and rude. 



For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den : 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb, 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold. 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vaiOi 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in d*eath his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer— 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him theiB . 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant. 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 
i 

VIII. 
But he, the favorite and the flower. 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face. 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untired 
A spirit natural and inspired — 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
To see the human soul take wing 
In any shape, in any mood : — 
I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion. 
I've seen the aick and ghastly bed 
Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
But these were hon'ors — this was wo 
Unmix'd with such — b\it sure and slow ; 
He faded, and so calm and meek. 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind : 
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mocker}' of the tomb, 
Whose tints as gently sunk away 
As a departing rainbow's ray — 
An ey-e of most transparent light, 
That almost made the dungeon brijrht. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 185 


A^nd not a word of murmur — ^not 


I saw the dungeon walls and floor 


A groan o'er his untimely lot,— 


Close slowly round me as before, 


A little talk of better days, 


I saw the glimmer of the sun 


A little hope my owti to raise. 


Creeping as it before had done, 


For I was sunk in silence — lost 


But through the cre\dce where it came 


In this last loss, of all the most ; 


That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 


And then the sighs he would suppress 


And tamer than upon the tree ; 


Of fainting nature's feebleness. 


A lovely bird, with azure wings, 


More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 


And song that said a thousand things, 


I listen'd, but I could not hear — 


And seem'd to say them all for me ! 


I call'd, for I was wild with fear : 


I never saw its like before, 


I knew 'twas hopeless, bnt my dread 


I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 


Would not be thus admonished ; 


It seem'd like me to want a mate, 


I caJ'd, and thought I heard a sound — 


But was not half so desolate. 


1 burst my chain with one strong bound, 


And it was come to love me when 


And rush'd to him ; — I found him not, 


None lived to love me so again. 


/ only stirr'd in this black spot. 


And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 


I only lived—/ only drew 


Had brought me back to feel and think . 


The accursed breath of dungeon-dew : 


I know not if it late were free. 


The last — the sole — the dearest link 


Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 


Between me and the eternal brink, 


But knowing well captivity, ' 


Which bound me to my failing race, 


Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ; 


Was broken in this fatal place. 


Or if it were, in winged guise. 


One on the earth, and one beneath — 


A visitant from Paradise ; 


My brothers — both had ceased to breathe ; 


For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the whil» 


I took that hand which lay so still. 


Which made me both to weep and smile • 


Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 


I sometimes deem'd that it might be 


^ I had not strength to stir, or strive, 


My brothers soul come down to me • 


But felt that I was still alive — 


But then at last away it flew. 


A frantic feeling, when we know 


And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 


That what we love shall ne'er be so. 


For he would never thus have flo^vn, 


I know not why 


And left me twice so doubly lone,— 


I could not die. 


Lone — as the corse within its shioud. 


1 had no earthly hope — ^but faith, 


Lone — as a solitary cloud, 


And that forbade a selfish death. 


A single cloud on a sunny day. 




While all the rest of heaven is clear, 


IX. 


A frown upon the atmosphere. 


What next befel me then and there 


That hath no business to appear 


I know not well — I never knew — 


When skies are blue, and earth is gar 


First came the loss of light, and air, 




And then of darkness too : 


XI. 


I had no thought, no feeling — none— 


A kind of change came iji my fate, 


Among the stones I stood a stone. 


My keepers grew compassionate, 


And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 


I know not what had made them so, 


As shrubless crags within the mist ; 


They were inured to sights of wo, 


-For all was blank, and bkak, and gray : 


But so it was : — my broken chain 


It was not night — it was not day, 


With links unfasten'd did remain. 


It was not even the du'igeon-light, 


And it was liberty to stride 


So hateful to my heavy sight, 


Along my cell from side to side, 


But vacancy absorbing space, 


And up and down, and then athwart. 


And fixedness — without a place ; 


And tread it over every part ; 


There were no stars — no earth — no time — 


And round the pillars one by one, 


No check — no change — no good — no crime- 


Returning where my walk begun. 


But silence, and a stirless breath 


Avoiding only, as I trod, 


Which neither was of life nor death ; 


My brothers' graves without a sod ; 


A sea of stagnant idleness, 


For if I thought with heedless tread 


Blind, boundless mute, and motionless ! 


My step profaned their lowly bed, 




My breath came gaspingly and thick. 


X. 


■ And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick. 


A light broke in upon my brain,— 




1 It was the carol of a bird ; 

It ceased, and then it came again. 


XII. 


T made a footing in the wall, 


The sweetest song ear ever lieard, 


It was not therefrom to escape, 


And mine was thankful till my eyes 


For I had buried one and all, 


Ran over with the glad surprise, * 


Who loved me in a human shape ; 


And they that moment could not see 


And the wljole earth wouUl henceforth W 


I was the mate of niisci^ ; 


A wider prison unto me ; 


But then by dull degrees came back 


No child — no sire — :io kin had I, 


My serses to their wonted track 
24 


No partner in uiy misery ; 



186 



BYflON'S WORKS 



1 thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my b^^rr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high, 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XTTT. 
[ saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in framr, ; 
( saw their thousand years of snow 
Oi. high— their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock ard broken bush ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle,* 
Which iu my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more. 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing. 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by tlie castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all; 
The eagle rode the risin"- blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly. 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 



The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load : 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
And yet my glance, too mucn opprest, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or day» 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope mj eyes to raise, 

And clear them of their dreary r.^.)** ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where. 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despau-. 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast. 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race. 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
My very chains and I greAv friends, 
So much a long communion tenxi^ 
To make us wha.t we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONEE, OF CHILLON. 



hy Bonnivard ! — may none those marks efface ! 
Page 183, Une 13. 

Francois de Bonnivard, fils de Louis de Bonni- 
rard, originaire de Seyssel et Seigneur de Lunes, 
Aaquit en 1496; il fit "ses etudes a Turin : en 1510 
Jean Ain\c de Bonnivard, son oncle, lui resigna le 
Prieurc de St. Victor, qui aboutissoit aux murs de 
Geneve, et qui formoit un bem fice considi rable. 

C« grand homme (Bonnivard m<rite ce titre par 
la force de eon ame, la di-oiture de son coeur, la no- 
blesse de ses intentions, la sagesse de ses conseils, 
le courage de ses d' marches, I'ctendue de ses con- 
naissances et la vivacit'- de son esprit,) ce grand 
homme, qui excitera r?.dmiration de tons ceux 
^u'uue vertu herolque per.t encore emouvoir, inspi- 



rera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans le« 
cceurs des Genevois qui aiment Gentve. Bonnivard 
en fut toujours un des plus fermes appuis : pour as- 
surer la hbertP de notre Rcpublique, il ne craignit 
pas de perdre souvent la sienne ; il oublia son niposf 
il mcprisa ses richesses ; il ne ntgligea rien pom 
affermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il honora de sou 
choix : d( 6 ce moment il la cherit comme le plaa 
zclee, de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec Tintrcpiditi- 
d'un hiros, et il < crivit son Histoire avec la nalvet€ 
d'un philosophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

II dit dans 1^ commencement de son histoire de 
Gen< ve, que, des qu'il etit commence de lire I'/iistoire 
des nations, il se sentit entrain'- par so7i yout pour le 
Repubtiques, dont il ppotusa toujours les int^r^'ts . 
c'cst ce gout pour la liberte que lui fit sans dout« 
adopter Geneve pour sa pa^e. 



NOTES TO THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 



187 



Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annon9a hautement 
«omme le dcfenseur de Gent^ve contre le Due de 
fiavoye et rEvfique. 

En 1519, Bonnivard devient le martyr de sa 
patrie. Le Due de Savoye etant entre dans Genove 
avec cino cent homraes, Bonnivard craint le ressenti- 
ment du Due ; il voulut se retirer a Fribourg pour 
en eviter les suites ; mais il fut trahi par deux hom- 
ines qui I'accompagnoient, et conduit par ordre du 
Prince a GroLe oii il resta prisonnier pendant deux 
ans. Bonnivard titoit malheureux dans ses voyages : 
comme ses malheurs n'avoient point aalenti son z'le 
pour Genive, il etoit toujours un ennemi redoutable 
pour ceux qui la menacoient, et par const^quent il 
levoit etre expos" a leurs coups. II fut rencontre 
en 1530 sur le Jura par des voleurs, qui le d( pouil- 
I'jrent, et qui le mirent encore entre les mains du 
Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans le 
Chateau de Chillon, on il resta sans etre interrog;^ 
jusques en 1536 ; il fut alors delivrc par les Ber- 
nois, qui s'emparerent du Pays de Vaud. 

Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivit", eut le plaisir 
de trouver Geneve libre et reform'^e ; la R^'publique 
s'empressa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance et de 
le d-'dommager des maux qu'il avoit soufferts ; elle 
le recut Bourgeois de la ville au mois de Juin 1536 ; 
?.lle lui donna la maison habitee autrefois par le 
Vicaire-G'n ral, et elle lui assigna une pension de 
200 ecus d'or tant qu'il sejourneroit a Geneve. II 
fut admis dans le Con.seil de Deux-Cent en 1537. 

Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : appres avoir 
travaille a rendre Geneve libre, il r^ussit a la rendre 
tolerante. Bonnivard engagea le Conseil a accorder 
aux Ecclesiastiques et aux paysans un terns suffi- 
Bant pour examiner les propositions qu'on leur 
faisoit : il reussit par sa douceur : on pr^che tou- 
jours le Christianisme avec succes quand on le 
preche avec charite. 

Bonnivard fut savant; ses manuscrits, qui sont 
dans la Bibloth -que publique, prouvent qu'il avoit 
bien lu les auteurs elassiques latins, et qu'il avoit 
approfondi la theologie et I'histoire. Ce grand 
homme aimoit les sciences, et il croyoit qu'elles 
pouvoient faire la gloire de Geneve ; aussi 11 ne 
n<-gligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville nais- 
sante ; en 1551 il donna sa biblioth- que au public ; 
elle fut le commencement de notre biblioth. que pub- 
lique ; et ces livres sont en partie les rares et belles 
ffditions du quinzi;^me sif'ele qu'on voit dans notre 
collection. Enfin, pendant la m^me annee, ce bon 

Satriote institua la Rrpublique son hcritiere a con- 
ition qu'elle employ eroit ses biens a entretnir le 
colli'ge dont on projettoit la fondation. 

II paroit que Bonnivard mourut en 1570 ; mais 
on ne peut I'assurer, parce qu'il y a une lacune dans 
le N'crologe depuis le mois de Juillet 1570 jusques 
m 1571. 

2. 

In a single night. 

Page 183, line 17. 



Ludovico Sforza, and others. — Tne same is as- 
serted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis XVI. 
though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said 
to have the same effect : to such, and not to feair 
this change in hers was to be attributed. 



From Chillon' s snow-white Mttlement. 

Page 184, line 43. 

The Chateau de Chillon is situated between 
Clarens and Yilleneuve, which last is at one ex- 
tremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the 
entrances of the Rhone, and opposite are the heights 
of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret 
and St. Gingo. 

Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, 
washing its walls, the lake has been fathomed to 
the depth of eight hundi-ed feet, (French measure ;) 
within it are a range of dungeons, in which the 
early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, 
were confined. Across one of the vaults is a beam 
black with age, on which we were informed that 
the condemned were formerly executed. In the 
cells are seven pillars, or rather, eight, one being 
half merged in the wall , in some of these are rings 
for the fetters and the fettered : in the pavement 
the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces — he 
was confined here several years. 

It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the 
catastrophe of his Heloise, in the rescue of one of 
her children by Julie from the water; the shock of 
which, and the illness produced by the immersion 
is the catise of her death. 

The chateau is large, and seen along the lake foi 
a great distance. The walls ai"e white. 



And then there was a little isle. 

Page 186, line 10 

Between the entrances of the Rhone and Ville 
neuve, not far from Chillon, is a very snuill island ; 
the only one 1 could perceive, in my voyage round 
and over the lake, within its circumference. It 
contains a few trees, (I think not above three,) and 
from its singleness and diminutive size has a pecu- 
liar effect upon the view. 

When the foregoing poem was composed I was 
not sufficiently aware of the history of Bonnivard, 
or I should have endeavored to digniij- the subject 
by an attempt to celebrate his couraj?e and his vir 
tues. Some account of his life wiii be found in % 
note appended to the ** Sonnet on Chillon," with 
which I have been furnished by the kindness of ■ 
citizen of that Republic, which is still proud of th« 
memory of a man worthy of the best age of ancieni 
freedom." 



BEPPO ; 

A VENETIAN STORY, 



Farewell, Monsieur Traveller ; Look you lisp, and wear strani^e suits : diiable all the fceneft* of yw3 
own Monoy ; be oui of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you tie { or I 
will tutco think that you have swam in a Gondola.— A$ You Like It, Act IV. Sc. I. 

Annotation of the CommenUUorg. 
Tfcat is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young EugUsh gentlemen of those times, and was the* what 
Pmrit is ivw— the seat of all dissoluteness.— S. A. 



I. 

Ti8 known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Borne weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about. 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buyrepentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their station. 

With fiddling, feasting, dancing, di-inking, masking, 

And other things which may bt, nad for asking. 

II. 

The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 

The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 

And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 
Giggling with all the gallants who beset her ; 

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, ^\•ith feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 

AJl kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 

But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 
You'd better walk about begirt with briers. 

Instead of coat and small-clothes, than put on 
k single stitch reflecting upon friars, 

Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 

Of Phlegethon with every mother's son. 
NoJ say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 
rhxt boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double, 



V. 

But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are, 
With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Co vent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's call'd " Piazzi" in Great Britaia< 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies *' farewell to flesh : " 

So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing, 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh 

But why they usher Lent with so much glee in. 
Is more than I can tell, although I guess 

'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stage-coach or packet just at starting. 

VII. 
And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 

And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts. 
To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes. 

Because they have no sauces to their stews, 
A thing which causes many " poohs " and " pishes,'* 

And several oaths Twhich wo^ild not suit the Muses 
From travellers accustomed from a boy 
To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIII. 
And therefore humbly I would recommend 

" The curious in fish-sauce," before they CTOM 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross,* 
(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss,) 
Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye. 



BEPi'o. 



189 



IX. 
rhat is to say, if your religion's Roman, 

^ad you at Rome would do as Rouians do, 
According to the proverb, — although no man, 

If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 

Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 
But that^ the penalty, to say no worse. 



Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore. 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. 
And masque, and mine, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, 

And at the moment when I fix my story 

That seaborn city was in all her glory. 

XI. 

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Blark eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions 
still ; 
Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 

In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 
And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 

^(The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 
They look when leaning over tlie balcony, 
Or stepp'd from out a picture by '^iorgione, 

XII. 
Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go. 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to ywir zest, 

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
Tis but the portait of his son, and wife. 
And self; but such a woman ! love in life. 

XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal. 
No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. 

But something better still, so very real. 
That the sweet model must have been the same ; 

A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
Wer't not impossible, besides a shame : 

The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, 

you once have seen but ne'er will see again ; 

XIV. 

OAe of those forms which flit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 

And, Oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace. 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
In many a nameless being we retrace. 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 

Like the lost Pleiad ' seen no more below. 

XV. 

I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
Venetian women were, and so they are^ 

Particularly seen from a balcony, 
(For beailty's sometimes best set off afar,) 

Md there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 
They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

A.nd truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 

And rath"j like to show it, more's the pity ! 



XVI 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 

Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries 
Who do such things because they know no bettei 

And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 
When love links two young people in one fetter. 

Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 

Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heada. 

XVII. 
Shakspeare described the sex in Desaemona 

As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. 
And to this day from Venice to Verona 

Such matters may be probably the same, ( 

Except that since those times was never known & 

Husband whom mere suspicion could inf "me 
To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
Because she had a " cavalier servente." 

XVIII. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's, 

Which smothers women in a bed of feathei. 
But worthier of these much more jolly ft 1 lows 

When weary of the matrimonial tether. 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers 
But takes at once another, or another's 

XIX. 
Didst ever see a gondola ? For fear 

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 
'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here. 

Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly 
Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier/' 

It glides along the water looking blackly, 
Just like a coflan clapt in a canoe. 
Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto shoot along. 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 

And round the theatres, a sable throng. 
They wait in. their dusk livery of wo. 

But not to them do woful things belong. 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral's done 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 

It may be thirty, forty, more cr less. 
The carnival was at its height, and sc 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress , 
A certain lady went to sec the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 
Because it slips into my verse with ea«* 

XXII. 
She was not old, nor young, nor at the yeaic 

^Vhich certain people call a " certain age,' 
Which yet the most uncertain atro appears, 

Because I never heard, nor could engage 
A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 

i'o name, define by speech, or write on pag« 
The period meant precisely by that word - 
Whi«h surely is exceedingly absurd. 



190 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXIII. 
Laura was blooming stiil. had made the best 

Of time, aiid time return'd the compliment, 
Ajid treated her genteelly, so that, drest. 

She look'd extremely well where'er she went: 
A. pretty woman is a welcome guest, 

And Laura's brow a fro^^'n had rarely bent, 
Indeed she shone all smiles, and scem'd to flatter 
Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her 

XXIV. 
She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 

Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 
To view their little slips with eyes more lenient, 

Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 
(Un>ess ivithin the period intervenient 

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool) 
I don't know how they ever can get ovea" it, 
Except they manage "never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
And made some voyages, too, in othei seas, 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
^A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 

His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with ease . 

He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo.^ 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt wth travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though color'd, as it were, %\ithin a tanyard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigor — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard : 
And she, although her manners show'd no rigor. 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXVII. 
But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder' d into debt. 

And did not like the thought of steering home ; 
And there were several offer'd any bet. 

Or that he would, or that he would not come, 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 

*Ti3 sa.i that their last parting was pathetic, 
A.8 paitiiig^-. often are, or ought to be, 

4jid their presentiment was quite prophetic 
That they should never more each other see, 

I A. sort of morbid feeling, half poetic. 
Which I have kno^^•n occur in two or three,) 

^riitn kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee. 

He left his Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 
A.na L&U7A jraited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might; 
She almost lost all appetite for victual, 

And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 
She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 

Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
And 80 she thought it prudent to connect her 
^ith a T'.ce-husband, chiefly to protact her. 



XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose 
If only you will but oppose their choice ? ) 

Till Beppo should return from his long ciiiise, 
And bid once more her faithful heai't rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 

A count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a count, and then he knew 
Music, and dancing, fiddling, French, and Tuscan 

The last, not easy, be it kno\%Ti to you. 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too, 
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin , 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura " 

XXXII. 
His " bravo " was decisive, for that sound 

Hush'd '* academie " sigh'd in silent awe ; 
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around. 

For fear of some false note's detected flaw ; 
The " prima donna's " tuneful heart would bounds 

Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah ! ■* 
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 

XXXIII. 
He patronized the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance 9& 
Italians can be, though in this their glory [has • 

Must surely yield the palm to that which Franc* 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as amorous , 
So that no sort of female could complain, 

Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 
He Tiever put the pretty souls in pain ; 

His heart was one of those which most enamour us 
Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 

He was a lover of the good old school. 

Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such an accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return. 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concent 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he's alive, he's d^ead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although^ God knows, it is a grievous sin,'* 

'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in. 

But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite common^ 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst)» 

A tecond marriage ,which corrupts ih^Jint. 



BEPPO. 



191 



XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a "Cortejo,"^ [recent; 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though 

In short it reaches from the Fo to Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven presei-ve Old England from such 
courses ! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 
However, 1 still think, with all due deference 

To the fair single part of the creation, 
That married ladies should preserve the preference 

In tf-te-a-tete or general conversation — 
And this I say without peculiar reference 

To England, France, or any other nation — 
Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

"Tis true your budding Miss is very charming, 
But shy and %wkward at first coming out. 

So much alarm'd that she is quite alarming, 
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout; 

And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 
What you, she, it, or they may be about, 

The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But " Cavalier Servente " is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the o-uly law which he obeys. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 
With all its sinful doings, I must say, 

That Italy's a pleasant place to me, 
Who love to pee the Sun shine every day, 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play. 

Or mclodrame, which people flock to see. 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, 

Because che skies are not the most secure; 
i know too that, if stopp'd upon my route. 

Where the green alleys windingly allure. 
Reeling with c/rapes red wagons choke the way, — 
In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 
I alHO like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
Not tnrough a misty morning twinkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking Loud^u'a smoky caldron siminerB. 



XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female moutk, 

And sounds as if it should be ivrit on satin. 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet S&aUii 

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
That not a single accent seems uncouth. 

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting gvltural, 

Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter ali 

XLV. 

Hike the women too, (forgive r^v folly,) 
From the rich neasan*- '■littK ol rudd/ bronat. 

And large black eyt-s tr^at flash on you a voiley 
Of rays that saj^ a thousand things at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XLVI. . 

Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,^ who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what guis* 

Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre. 
Would word^ describe thy past and present glow 
While yet Canova can create below ? ♦ 

XLVII. 

" England ! with all thy faults I love "thee stil^ *" 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 

I like to speak and lucubate my fill ; 

I like the government, (but that is not it ;) 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we've got it 

I like a parliamentary debate. 

Particularly when 'tis not too late : 

XLVIII. 
I like the taxes, when they're n&i too many , 

I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear ; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 

That is, I like two months of every yeai. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King 
^Vhich means that I like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 
Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 

Poor's rate. Reform, my own, the nation's debt^ 
Oiu- little riots just to show we are free men, 

Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
Our cloudy climate, ami our chilly women, 

All these I can forgive, and tluise forget, 
And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
And wish the/wcie not owing the Tories. 



• Nott. 
(In mlkliig Oiiw, the wnrilt-r, morr mpMnlly 

01 wmiirri, wcmlil W imtlcmtiiixl to »ay, 
Hf «pi'iik» iw R nvftitor, niic ortu-Jiilly, 

Anil (vlwnys, n>iktli<r, In k niiMlrai way ; 
Perlm)*, (i»i, In mi vrry frruK iKr^tvf (halt ha 

Ap)Viir lo hB»r utfcnilml hi this Uy, 
Blnox, u nil jtnnw, wHJkmii thf »rr, (K.r conaMi 
Would aMin unflnWiM 'ike Otrlr unlrinun'iJ beoMl 
(^41«ll*«) i*>iMMr • i 



192 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But to my tale of Laura,— for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 

And, therefore, may the reader too displ 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 

And caring little for the author's ease, 
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

"What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

PaiTiassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems, never known to fail. 

How quickly would I print, (the world delighting,) 
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assp-ian tale : 

And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 
.Seme samples of the first Orientalism. 

LII. 
But I am but a nameless sort of person, 

(A broken Dandy lately on my travels,) 
And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 

The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels. 
And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 

Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
I've a half mind to tumble down to prose, 
But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIIL 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, 

For half a dozen years Avithout estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant : 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble. 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 
Theii chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to 
break them : 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wsh'd " the devil take them ! " 

He took them not ; he ver}' often waits, 

And leaves old sinners to be young one's baits. 

LV. 

But they were young ; Oh ! what without our youth 
Would love be ! What would youth be without love ! 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth. 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
'One of few things experience don't improve, 

Wliich is, perhaps, the reason why .-vld fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 
Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 

Laura the usual preparations made, 
Which you do when your mind's made up to go 

ro-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade. 
Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 

The only flifference known between the cases 

I»— A#re, we have six wieks of " vamish'd faces." 



LVII. 

Laura, when drest, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wor« 

Color'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts rf dreM 

LVIIi. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again} 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball, 
Bui that's of no importance to my strain ; 

'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Yauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is "mix'd," (the phrase I quote w 

As much as saving, they're below your notice ;) 

LIX. 
For a ** mix'd company " implies that, save 

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more 
Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 

The rest are' but a vulgar set, the bore 
Of public places, where they basely brave 

The fashionable stare of twenty score 
Of well-bred persons, call'd '■'■the World; " but 1 
Altht)ugh I know*them, really don't know why 

LX. 

This is the case in England ; at least was 
During the dynasty of Dandies, now 

Perchance succeeded by some other class 
Of imitated imitators : — how 

Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion : all below 

Is frail ; how easily the world- is lost 

By love, or war, and now and then by host! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock'd his army down with icy hamn^.er, 

Stopp'd by the demmts, like a whaler, or 
A blundering nonce in his new Frencn gr'immai 

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war. 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — \l her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity, 

The more I should believe in her divinit". 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet. 

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage, 

I cannot say that she's done much ^or me yet ; 
Nor that I mean her bounties to disparage, 

We've not yet closed accounts, 'ind we shall see yeit 
How much she'll make ame^xds for past miscar- 
riage ; 

Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune, 

Unless to thank her when s'ae's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 
To turn,— and to return ;— the devil take it ! 

This story slips for ever through my finger«, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it, 

But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I'll take anouler when I'm next at leisure. 



BEFPO. 



193 



LXIV. 
I'hey went to the Ridotto, ('tis a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 
Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 

Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
Borne spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask, and as my sorrow 
Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, 
Son o.thing shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips. 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being drest so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 
A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth 8 so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 

And lo ! an eight-S appears, — " I'll see no more ! " 

Foi fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 
Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 

Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 

And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 
The women only thought it quite amazing 

That at her time of life so many were 
Admirers still, — ^but men are so debased. 
Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 
P'or my part, now, I ne'er could understand 

Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
\ thing which is a scandal to the land, 

I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
And if I were but in a gown and band. 

Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 
Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling. 
Talking, she knew not why and cared not what, 

So that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

A.nd well drest males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 

With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 
He was a 1 urk, the color of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyry, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
*Tis said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad : 
They have a number, though they nt'cr exhibit 'em, 
Foui wives by law, and concubines ** ad libitiun." 
25 



LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and gnajta them daii) 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 

Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely 
And as the Turks aohor long conversations. 

Their days are either past in doing nothing, 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothirg. 

LXXII. 
They cannot read, and so don' t lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or ^^'itticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,— 
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schis'A 

But luckily these beauties are no "blues," 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
'• That charming passage in the last new poem " 

LXXIII. 
No solemn, antique gentleman of rh}Tne, 

Who having angled all his life for fame, 
And getting but a nibble at a time, 

Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 

Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 
The echo's echo, usher of the school 
Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ' 

LXXIV. 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase, paw a 

The approving "Good!" (by no means good in 

Humming like flies around the newest blaze. 
The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 

Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 

Translating tongues he knows not even by Icttei, 

And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up \vith ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 

One don't know what to say to them, or think. 

Unless to pufl" them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombry's worst coxcombry e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 

These unquench'd snuflings of the midnight taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of others. 
Men of the world, who know the world like mei 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brother*, 
Who think of something else besides the penj 

But for the children of the "mighty mother's/* 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is ready." 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 

LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomcn whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant peopte 

And one would soem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 

I think 'twould almost be worth while to pensiou 
(Though bo8t-80\m projects very often reap ill 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 



194 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVIIL 

No ckemistry for them unfolds her gasses, 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 

No circulating library amasses 
Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

VThy I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose. 

And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 

I f< ar I have a little turn for satire, 
And yet methinks the older that one grows 

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

Lervps us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 

Yo happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime T drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way. 

Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honor, 
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay." 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 
But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 

Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise. 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 

Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 

His blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 
I've seen some balls and revels in my time. 

And stayed them over for some silly reason. 
And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 

To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime. 

Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
I never saw but one, (the stars withdi-awn,) 
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIV. 
The name of this Aurora I'll not mention. 

Although I might, for she was nought to me 
More than that patent work of God's invention, 

A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
But writing names would merit reprehension, 

Y*»t if you like to find out this fair she, 
\.*. tne next ^jondon or Parisian ball 
you Btill may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 



LXXXV. 

Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball, 
To make her curteey thought it right and fitting 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
And they the room were on the point of quitting 

When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling , hauling. 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws. 
They make a never intermittent bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing. 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing 

LXXXVII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scarfdals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXVIII. 
*< Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave 

*' Your unexpected presence here will make 
It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
I hope it is so ; and at once to wave 

All compliment, I hope so for your sake ; 
You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
" Sir," (quoth the Turk,) " 'tis no mistake at all 

LXXXIX. 

** That lady is my wife ! " Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes famts, 
Italian females don't do so outright ; 

They only call a little on their saints. 
And then come to themselves, almost or quite , 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkliny 
faces, 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 

She said, — what could she say ? Why not a word • 
But the Count courteously invited in 

The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
" Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within,' 

Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din. 

For then the chief and only satisfaction 

Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

XCI. 
They enter'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 

A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
Although the way they make it's no"^ the same. 

Now Laura, much recover'd, oi less loth 
To speak, cries " Beppo ! what's your pagan name 

Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth . 
And how came you to keep away so long ? 
Are fou not senpible 'twas very wrong ? 



NOTES TO BEPPO 



1 9c 



XCII. 

' And ai b you really, truly, now a Turk ? 

"With any other women did you wive ? 
Is *t true tlxey use their fingers for a fork ? 

"Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive ! 
Vou'll give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No, I never 
'law a man grown so yellow I How's your liver ? 

XCIII. 
" Beppo ! that beard of your's becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder ? 
How do I look ? You shan't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it's grown ! " 

XCIV. 

What answer Beppo made to these demands 
Is more than I know. He was cast away 

About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
Became a slave of course, and for his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighboring bay, 

He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 

A renegade of indifferent fame. 

XCV. 

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again. 

He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
And not be always thieving on the main ; 

Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 

Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 

m&nn'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 



XCVI. 

Himself, and much (heaven knows how gotten) cash 
He then embark 'd with risk of life and limb, 

And got clear off, although the attempt was rash • 
He said that Providence protected him — 

For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
In oiir opinions : well, the ship was trim 

Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on 

Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

XCVII. 

They reach'd the island, ne transferr'd his lading 
And self and live-stock, to another bottom, 

And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em 

However, he got off by this evading. 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him , 

And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

XCVIII. 

His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
(He made the church a present by the w'ay ;) 

He then threw off the garments which disguised him. 
And borrow'dthe Count's small-clothes for a day; 

His friends the more for his long absence prized him. 
Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay 

With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of thun* 

For stories — but / don't believe the half of them 

XCIX. 

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 
With wealth and talking made him some amends j 

Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 

I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 

My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 

'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 

But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



NOTES TO BEPrO. 



1. 

Like the lost Pleiad, seen no more below. 

Page 189, line 48. 
Uutc astern dici aex tamcn esse solent." — Ovid. 

2. 
His name Oiiiaeppe, called more brief y, Beppo. 
Page l9'0, line 24. 
Beppo is the Joe of the Italian Joseph. 
3. 
fTie Spaniards oall the person a " Cortcjo." 
Pa«o 191. line 8. 



" Cortejo" is pronounced ** CortpAo," with an aspi 
rate, according io the Arabesque guttural. It meani 
what there is as yet no precise name for in England 
though the practice is tm common as in any tramon- 
tane country whatever. 

4. 

Raphael, %oho died in thy emhrnct. 

l*agc I5)l.line 19 

For the received nocour.ta '>f the cause of Rapbd 
el'a death, see his Lives 



MAZEPPA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

"Cbltti qui remplissait alors cette place etait un 
gfsntilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans 
It- palatinat de Padolie ; il avait ete eleve page de 
Jean Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture 
des belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa 
jeunesse avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonais, 
ayant f te d('couverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un 
cheval farouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le 
cheval, qui etait du pays de 1' Ukraine, y retouma 
et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de 
ifaim. Quelques paysans le secoururent: il resta 
ongtems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieiirs 
courses contre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses 
lumifres lui donna une grande consideration parmi 
les Cosaques : sa r'^putation s'augmentant de jour en 
jour, obligea le Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." 
—Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. p. 196. 

" Le roi fuyant et poursuivi eut son cheval tu6 
sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout 
son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux 
fois a cheval, dans la fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait 
pu y monter pendant la bataille." — Voltaire, 
Hist, de Charles XII. p. 216. 

" Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques 
cavaliers, ^le carrosse, ou il etait, rompit dans la 
marche ; on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de dis- 
grace, il s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois; la, 
son courage ne pouvant plus suppK er ^ ses forces 
^puissoes, les douleurs de sa blessure devenues plus 
insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval etant 
tombe de lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au 
pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre surpris a tout 
moment par les vainqueurs qui le cherchaient de 
tous c6tes." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. 
p 218. 



I. 
"TwAS after dread Pultowa's day. 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughtcr'd army lay. 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
Ihe power and glory of the war. 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Mobcodf'b w^IIb were safe again, 



Until a day more daik and drei^. 

And a more memorable year. 

Should give to slaughter and to shame 

A mightier host and haughtier name ; 

A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 

A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 



II. 

Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night through field and flood, 

Stain'dmth his own and subjects blood; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When truth had nought to dread from power 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well sustained, but vain fatigue ; 

And in the depth of forests, darkling 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkiinar- 

The beacons of surrounding foes— 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ! 
They laid him by a savage tree. 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff" — ^his limbs were stark' 
The heavy hoiir was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid. 
And thxis it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill. 
His pangs the vassals of his will ; 
All silent and subdued were they. 
As once the nations round him lay. 

III. 

A band of chiefs ! alas ! how few. 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed. 
For danger levels man and brute. 

And all are fellows in their need. 



MAZEPPA. 



hi' 



Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold; 
But first, outspent with this long course, 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
And made for hira a leafy bed, 

And smoothed his fetlocks and his name. 
And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
But he was hardy as his lord. 
And little cared for bed and board ; 
But spirited and docile too ; 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call. 
And knew him in the midst of all ; 
Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 

IV. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 

And laid his lance beneath his oak, 

Felt if his arms in order good 

The long day's march had well withstood— 

If atill the powder fill'd the pan. 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man. 
From out his ha\Tesack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offer'd them, 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
A.nd Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there. 
To force of cheer a greater show, 
A.nd seem a'ove both wounds and wo ; — 
A.nd then he said— ^' Of all our baud, 
Tiiough firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa aiiswer'd — '* 111 betide 
The school wherein I Icarn'd to ride ! " 
Quoth Charles—" Old Hetman, wherefore so, 
rfince tliou hast learn'd the art^so well ? " 
Mazeppa said—" 'Twere long to tell : 
And we have many a Icagiie to go, 
With every now and then a blow, 
And ten to one at least the foe. 
Before our steeds may graze at caje 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, yonr limbs have need of rest. 
And I will be the sentinel 
Of thin J our troop."—" But I request," 



Said Sweden's monarch, •* thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep, 
For at this moment from my eyes " 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

" Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 'twas in my twentieth spring,-- 
Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king- 
John Casimir, — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age ; 
A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reigned in most unseemly quiet ; 
Not that he had no cares to vex. 
He loved the muses and the sex ; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
• They made him wish himself at war. 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book : 
And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court. 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port; 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one. 
Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
And boasted that he could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses, 
And sign'd my odes Despairing Thirsia. 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent. 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ; * 
And he was proud ye may divine. 

As if from heaven he had been sent ; 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store, 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led, 
Which almost look'd like want of head. 

He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and danoea. 
Awaited but the \isual chances, 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
Biit, stranifc to say, they rarely boast 
Of these who have deserved them moBt 

V 

♦* I was a goodly stripling then ; 
At seventy years I so may say, 



Thli eoinpnrlaon of • " mli miM " may |wi*«|» k# »(1mlUi4 ( 
Im wml'O) oI Dm country oonaMa in«*UT '■> ^ "^ mirwk 



198 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That there were few, or boys or men, 

"Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 
But smooth, as all is rugged now : 

For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
"With years ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hoiu- 1 should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough. 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And yet 1 find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood. 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light. 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
"Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
All love, half languor, and half fire. 
Like saints that at the stake expire. 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 

Iransparent with the sun therein, 
"When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within. 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love ^er still ; 
A.v.-\ -^-ich as I am, love indeed 

In tierce extremes — l:i g- ^od and ill. 
Eut still we love even in our rage. 
And hauntc;.1 to r,nr vory fip;c 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Iu..z':^r'patc the last. 

VI. 

• We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd. 



Sho did not 



and yet replied ; 



There are ten thousand tones ;; ". signs 

We hear and see, but none- defines — 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

W^ ich strike from out the heart o'erwrougnt, 

A] .. :'o;:ri a s^-ranse intelliffence, 

Alike mysterious r,r>d intense, 

Wliich link the burning chain that binds, 

Witho"* liieir will, young hearts aiid ailads ; 

C'.avcying, as the electric wire. 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 

And still reluctant distance kept, 

Until T was made kno\\'n to her, 

^bon and there confer 
Without susu ,* ben even theu 



I long'd, and was resolved to speak , 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, . 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play. 

Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems, were set. 
By some strange chance, which I forget . 
I reck'd not if I won or lost. 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well f) 
"Until I saw, and thus it was, 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Piay'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 
Then through my brain the thought did pa«i 
Even as a flash of lightning there. 
That there was something in her air 
T^'Tiich would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth. 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listened — 'tis enough— 

"Who listens once will : ' 

Her heart, be sure, is not of . jh, 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, Sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 
But all men are not born to reign. 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather was — a prince, 
A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Tb.fm on wher^ earh wuuxa foremost blee<i 
But coula net "^'er myself evince 
The like conti'ol — But tu rosv,TT).e : 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sOoth, :* '!•« a bannv doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in pain — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
"WTiich led nle to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour, which doth recall, 
In th? l;;a:; l;i;/se from vonth to age, 
.No otuer like itself — I'd give 
The Ukraine back again to live 
I* o'er once more — and be a page. 
The h;nny page, who was the lord 
Of one suit :>»:urt, and {jis own sword, 
And hau uc other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift u'' "outh and health.—- 
We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would h^-'f ' ^ -> 
Mv life but to V ~.^ - , _^ ^mue 
L.\.uQ full view of eartn and heaven; 



MAZEPPA. 



199 



For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth. 

VIII. 
' For lovers there are many eyes, 

And such there were on us ; — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 

It might be some untoward saint, 
Who would not be at rest too long, 

B-at to his pious bile gave vent — 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Count was something more than wroth : 
I wa3 unarm'd; but if in steel. 
All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
What 'gainst their numbers could I do ?— 
'Twas near his castle, far away 

From city or from succor near, 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not thjnk to see another, 

My moments seera'd reduced to few ; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resign'd me to my fate. 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew. 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine. 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
And he had reason good to be, 

But he was most enraged lest such 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigreft ; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
While he was highest of his line ; 

Because unto himself he seem'd 

The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. « 
'Sdeath ! with d^page — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 

IX. 
" * Bring forth the horse !' — the horse was brought ; 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane. 
And struggling fio'-cely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led ; 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 
Then loscd him with a sudden lash-*- 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Ton'cnts less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

" Away ! — away ! — my breath was gone— 
I saw not wliere he hurried on : 
Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 
And on he foam d— away ! — away — 



The last of human sounds whicn rose, 
As I was darted from my foes, 
Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
"^Vliich on the wind came roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout : 
With sudden wrath I wrenched my head 

And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
And, writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my cmse ; but 'midst the tread 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight. 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall. 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was : 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleii, 

And the hot lead pour down like raic 
From off the scorch 'd and blackening roof. 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
"When launch' d, as on the lightning's flashy 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again. 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank i 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide 
They bound me to his foaming flank : 
At length I play'd them one as fiank- 
For time at last sets all things even- y 

And if we do but watch the hour, / 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. , 

XI. 

•' Away, away, my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the Avind, 
All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky, 
When >vith its crackling sound the nigh 
Is checker'd with the northern light : 
Town — village none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 
And bounded by a forest. black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hcii 
Against the Tartar's built of old, 
No trace of man, — the year before * 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er , 
And where the Spuhi's hoof hath trod 
The verdm-e flics the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 
And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
I could have answer'd with a sigh- 
But fast we flod, away, awuy — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like ralu 
Upon the courser's bristlinK niai.e: 



200 



BYRON'S WORRIS. 



But, snorting still with rage and feaX; 
He flew upon his far career ; 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slacken'd in his speed; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 
[ tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow : 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 
" We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wide, 
I saw no bounds on either side ; 
*Twas studded ^vith old sturdy trees, 
That bent not to the roughest breeze 
Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 
And strips the forest in its haste, — 
But \hese were few, and far between, 
Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 
Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
Discolor'dAvith a lifeless red, 
WJ^ich stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 
Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 
And some long winter's night hath shed 
Its frost o'er every tombless head, 
So cold and stark the raven's beak 
May peck uupiarced each frozen cheek ; 
Twas a wild waste of underwood, 
And here and there a chestnut stood, 
The strong oak, and the hardy pine ! 

iiut tar apart — and well it were, 
Or else a diiferent lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limb? ; and I found strength to bear 
My wuuuds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forba<le to loose my hold. 
AVe rustled thmugh the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
W ith their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter'a fire ; 
Where'er we flew they follow'd on, 
Nur left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
\\ day-break winding through the wood. 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword. 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Mor faster falls the blinding snow 



Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
TLan through the forest-paths he past— 
Untu-ed, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
All furious as a favor' d child 
Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 

XIII. 
The wood was past ; 'twas more than noon 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 
And I was then not what I seem, 
But headlong as a wintry stream, 
And wore my feelings out before 
I well could count their causes o'er ; 
And what with fui-y, fear, and wrath. 
The tortures which beset my path, 
Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 
Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 
And trodden hard upon, is like 
The rattlesnake's, in act to strike, 
WTiat marvel if this worn-out trunk 
Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 
I seem'd to sink upon the ground 
But err'd, ror 1 was lastly bound. 
My heart tm-n'd sick, my brain grew sore. 
And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more: 
The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 
And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes. 
Which saw no farther : he who dies 
Can die no more than then I died. 
O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
I felt the l^ackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea, 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm, 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the bjain ; 
But soon it pass"d, with little pain, 

But a confusion worse than such ; 

I own that I should deem it much. 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter ; I have bared my brow 
Full in death's face — before — an,d now. 

XIV. 
" My thoughts came back ; where was I? Cold 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
Life rcassumed its lingering hold, 
And throb by throb : till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse. 

My blood reflow'd though thick and chill ; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 




'THE SOLITARY WORLD." — Pase 201. 



MAZEPPA. 201 


Ana thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 


The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 


Methouglit the dash of waves was nigh ; 


Although no goal was nearly won . 


There was a gleam too of the sky, 


Some streaks announced the comii.g 6\U»— 


Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 


How slow, alas ! he came ! 


The wild horse s^vims the wilder stream ! 


Methought that mist of dawning gray 


The bright broad river's gushing tide 


Would never dapple into day ; 


Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 


How heavily it roll'd away 


And we are half-way, struggling o'er 


Before the eastejT flame 


Ty yon unknown and silent shore. 


Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 


The waters broke my hollow trance, 


And call'd the radiance from their cars, 


And with a temporary strength 


And fill'd the earth from his deep throne, 


My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 


With lonely lustre, all his own 


My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 




Ae i dashes off the ascending waves, 




And onward we advance ! 


^XVll. 


We reach the slippery shore at length, 


** Up rose the sun ; the mists were curl'd 


A haven I but little prized. 


Back from the solitary world 


For iil behind was dark and drear. 


Which lay around— behind — ^before ; 


And all before was night and fear. 


What booted it to tri-verse o'er 


How many hours of night or day 


Plain, forest, river ! Man nor brute. 


In those suspended pangs I lay. 


Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 


I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 


Lay in the vsdld luxuriant soil ; 


If this were human breath I drew. 


No sign of travel — none of toil ; 




The very air was mute ; 




And not an insect's shrill small horn, 


XV. 


Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 


* With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 


From herb nor thicket. Many a werstt 


And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 


Panting as if his heart would burst, 


The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 


The weary brute still ^tagger'd on ; 


Up the repelling bank. 


And still we were— or seem'd — alone : 


We gain the top : a boundless plain 


At length, while reeling on our way. 


Spreads through the shadow of the night. 


Methought I heard -a. courser neigh, 


And onward, onward, onward, seems. 


From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 


Like precipices in our dreams. 


Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 


To stretch beyond the sight ; 


No, no ! from out the forest prance 


And here and there a speck of white. 


A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 


Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 


In one vast squadron they advance ! 


In masses broke into the Mght, 


I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 


i As rose the mcon upon my right. 


The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 


But nought distinctly seen 


But where are they the reins to guide ? 


In the dim waste would indicate 


A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 


The omen of a cottage gate ; 


With flowing tail, and flying mane, 


No twinkling taper from afar 


Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 


Stood like a hospitable star ; 


Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 


Not even an ignis fatuQs rose 


And feet that iron never shod, 


To make him merry with my woes : 


And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod. 


Tha|; very cheat had cheer'd me then S 


A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 


Although detected, welcome still, 


Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 


Reminding me, through every ill, 


Came thickly thundering on. 


Of the abodes of men. 


As if our faint approach to meet ; 




The sight renerved my courser's feet, 




A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 


XVI. 


A moment, with k faint low neigh. 


O.Tiwa d we went — but slack and slow ; 


He answer'd, and then fell ; 


11 H sa.-'age force at length o'erspent. 


With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 


1 he drooping courser, faint and low, 


And reeking limbs immoveable, 


A'l feebly foaming went. 


His first and last career is done ! 


A sickly infant had had power 


On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 


To guide him forward in that hour ; 


They saw me strangely bound along 


But useless all to me. 


/ His back with many a bloody thong ; 
They stop— they start — they snuff the air, 


His ne-v-born tamenessinought avail'd, 


My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 


Gallop a moment here and there, 


PcTf^hance, had they been free. 


Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 


With feeble effort still I tried 


Then plunging back with sudden bound, 


To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 


Headed by one black mighty steed, 


But still it was in vain ; 


\ WTio seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 


My limns were only wrung the more. 


Without a single speck or hair 


And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 


Of white upon his shaggy hide; 


Which but prolong'd their pain • 


They snort — tney foam— neigh— «wer7e aside 



202 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 




And backward to the forest fly, 


He flew, and perch'd, then flew once mQind* 




By instinct, fmm a human eye. — 


And each time nearer than before ; 




TLey left me there, to my despair, 


I saw his wing through twilight flit, 




Link'd to the dead and stiffening •wretch, 


And once so near me he alit 




WTiose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 


I could have smote, but lack'd tilt strength 




Relie7ed from that unwonted weight, 


But the slight motion of my hand, 




From whence I could not extricate 


And feeble scratching of the sand. 




Nor him nor me— and there we lay, 


The exerted throat's faint struggling noiso 




The dying on the dead ! 


Which scarcely could be called a voice. 




I little deem'd another day 


Together scared him off at length. — 




Would see my houseless^ helpless head. 


I know no more— my latest dream 
Is something of a lovely star 




«* And there from morn till twilight bound, 


Which fix'd my dull eyes from afai. 




I felt the heavy hours toil round. 


And went and came with wandering beam. 




With just enough of life to see 


And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 




My last of suns g(^ doAvn on me, 


Sensation of recurring sense, 




In hopeless certainty of mind, 


And then subsiding back to death. 




That makes us feel at length resign'd 


And then again a little breath. 




To that which our foreboding years 


A little thrill, a short suspense. 




Presents the worst and last of fears 


An icy sickness curdling o'er 




r^ievitable — even a boon. 


My heart, and sparks that cross'd my brain— 




Nc«- mc-e unkind for coming soon ; 


A gasp, a throb, a start of pain. 




Yet shunn u and dreaded with such care. 


A sigh, and nothing more. 




As if it only wei ? a snare 






That prudence mi,:ht escape : 


XIX. 




At times both wish'd tc- and implored. 


" I woke— Where was I ?— Do I see ? 




At times sought with sell-pointed sword, 


A human ffece look down on me ? 




Yet still a dark and hideous ?lose 


And doth a roof above me close ? 




To even intolerable woes, 


Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 




And welcome in no shape. 


Is this a chamber where I lie ? 




And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 


And is it mortal yon bright eye. 




They who have revell'd beyond me;; sure 


That watches me with gentle glance ? 




In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 


I closed my own again once morr. 




Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 


As doubtful that the former trance 




Whose heritage was misery : 


Could not as vet be o'er. 




For he who hath in turn run through 


A slender girl, lOng-hair'd, and tall. 




All that was beautiful and new, 


Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 




Hath nought to hope, and nought t(\ leave ; 


The sparkle of her eye I caught. 




And, save the future, (which is view'd 


Even with my first return of thought. 




Not quite as men are base or good. 


For ever and anon she threw 




But as their nerves may be endued,) 


A prying, pitying glance on me 




With nought perhaps to grieve : — 


With her black eyes so wild and free • 




The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 


I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 




And Death, whom he should deem b is friend. 


No vision it could be, — 




Appears, to his distemper'd eyes. 


But that I lived, and was released 




Arrived to rob him of his prize. 


From adding to the vulture's feast : 




The tree of his new paradise. 


And when the Cossack maid beheld 




To-morrow would have given him all, 


My hei^yy eyes at length 'insealed. 




Repaid his p .ngs, repair'd his fsul ; 


She smiled — and I essay'd to speak. 




To-morrow vould have been the first 


But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 




Of days no more deplored or < urst. 


With lip and finger signs that said, 




But bright, and long, and brckoning years, 


I must not strive as yet to break 




Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 


The silence, till my strength should le 




Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 


Enough to leave my accents free ; 




To morrow would have given him power 


And then her hand on mine she laid, 




To rule, to shine, to p.nite, to save — 


And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 




And must it dawn r pon his grave ? 


And stole along on tiptce tread. 
And gently oped the door, and spake 




XVIII. 


In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 




"The sun avp . sinking— still I lay 


Even music follow'd her light feet ; — 




Chain'd 'o the chill and stiffening steed, 


But those she call'd were not awake, 




I thoup'.t to mingle there our clay ; 


And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd 




Ami my dim eyes of death had need, 


Another look on me she cast. 




No hope arose of being freed : 


Another sign she made, to say. 




1 oast my last looks up the sky, 


That I had nought to fear, that all 




And there between me and the sun 


Were near, at my command or call, 




I saw the expecting raven fly. 


And she would not delay 




Who scarce could wait till both should die, 


Her due return : — while she was gono> 




Ere his repast begun ; 


Methought I felt too much alone. 





THE ISLaNP 



203 



XX. 

* She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more ? — I \vill not tire 
With long recital of the rest, 
Since I became the Cossack's guest ; 
They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain, 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his o'wn doom may guess ? 

Let "one despond, let none despair ! 



To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good night ! " — The Hetman tbrev 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep, 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 

The king had bewi an hour asleep. 



THE ISLAiVD; 

OB, 

CHi. TTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



Al VERTISEMENT. 

The foundation of the following story will 
f:,.!:::". v-''*^v in ^hf^ norount of tbe mutiry of 1 
Bounty in th(; '^ aitli Seas, (in 17^9,; ana partly 
*JKi:^ifier's account cf the Tonga iniumU." 



CANTO I. 
1. 

The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, an 1 gently made her liquid way ; 
The cloven billow flash'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by tbat majestic ploiigh ; 
The waters with their world were all before — 
pnVjpH \\\o Smi+b Ron's miiny «jn isl'^* «bf>r«». 
I'ne quiet r.:^:::, ::.A^ •V'^'iliiie. 'cnn ♦:<> -.'..UiC, 

„ \.;,^'v."'"' *''''ii. tiie amvniTi"; W' ^ . 

.,...iii», not unconscious oi uie uuy, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ruy ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
A-td lift theii shining eyelids from the deep ; 



•"•Slimed its latelv shadtjw'd wa:*p. 
And the -it^^' id ^vith a freshening fligni , 

The purplim: • ->'"< tho poTnirtfr sun, 

Eui, ere ne break — a Uv ' 

II. 
The gallant cniot witiili. i\i.s r'\'''in slent, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was Kent 
His dr'-vn^ 'v.M' <)r ;/iu L^ngiand's welcome shoi* 
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the stonn-surromided Pol« 
'V^o worst was over, and the rest seom'd sure, 
And \^Mv sho\ild not his sbimber be secure ? 
Alas! his ^M'k was trod by unwilling h'ct, 
And wilder hai. N would hold tb<' v, >.^i:i s sheet; 
Young hearts, whii;. i i;,^ui8h'd for some sunny Uk 
AVhor*" «• i.iiipr vo:ir«« nii ' summr»r wonien rtiniie: 
Men without counUy, who, t»...- long estranged, 
''"f* ^onnd no Tvitivp homo, or ♦'runu' '♦ changed 

Of some soft savage to tho uncoriaiu w.. • - 
The gushing fruits that nature gave untiU'd: 
The wood without a path out where they will'd • 



204 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The field o'er which promiscuous plenty pour'd 

Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 

The wish— which ages have not yet subdued 

In man — to have no master save his mood : 

The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 

I'he glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

1 he freedom which can call each grot a home ; 

The general garden, where all steps may roam, 

Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild; 

Their shells, theh fruits, the only wealth they know ; 

Their unexploring navy, the canoe; 

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 

Their strangest sight, an European face :— 

Such was the country which these strangers yeam'd 

To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate, 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast ; 
The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest; 
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path. 
Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice : 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage. 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 



IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death. 
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath ; 
They come not ; they are few, and, over-awed, 
Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud, 
In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
Full in thine eyes is waved th<i flittering blade, 
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid, 
The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 
In hands as steeled to do the deadly xest. 
Thou darest them to the worsit, exclaiming- 

"Fu-e !" 
But they who pitied not could yet admire • 
Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
Restrain'd them longer than theii* broken law; 
They would not dip their souls at once in vjljud, 
But left thee to the mercies of the flood . 



V. 

" Haist out the boat ! " was now the leader's ^ry ; 

And who dare answer " No ! " to Mutiny, 

In the first dawning of the drunken hour. 

The Saturnalia of u.ihcped-for power ? 

The boat is lower'd wiih all the haste of hate, 

With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 

Her on.y cargo such a 8cant supply 

As pro.Tiises the death their hands deny ; 

And just enough of water and of bread 

To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 

Bome cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and twine. 

But treasures all to hermits of the brine, 

Were added after, to the earnest prayer 

Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air ; 

And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 

rh" feeling compass — Navigatioi 'a soul. 



VI. 



And now the self-elected chief finds time 
To stun the first sensation of his crime, 
And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowlj 
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
** Brandy for heroes ! " Burke could once exclaim- 
No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 
And such the new-born heroes found it here, 
And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheei 
" Huzza for Otaheite ! " was the cry, 
How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny. 
The gentle island, and the genial soil, 
The friendly heai'ts, the feasts without a toil, 
The courteous manners but from nature caught, 
The wealth unhoarded and the love unbought ; 
Could these bave charms for rudest seaboys, dri'ven 
Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
And now, even now prepared with other's woes 
To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose ? 
A las ! such is our nature ! all but aim 
At the. same end by pathways not the same , 
Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name. 
Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 
Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
Yet still there whispers the small voice within, 
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din 
Whatever creed he taught or land he trod, 
Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 



VII. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew: 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck— 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyt* , 
While others scoff 'd his augur'd miseries, 
Sneer' d at the prospect of his pigmy sail 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow. 
The seaborn sailor of his shell canoe, 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea, 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 
The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

- VIII. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — ■ 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Wliich felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth. 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn. 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death ! " 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all 
In that last moment could a word recall 
Remorse for the black deed as yet half done. 
And what "he hid from many show'd to one : 



THE ISLAjSD. 



205 



When Bllgh in stem reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Wliere all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
A.nd blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
H is feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
" 'Tis that ! 'tis that ! I am in hell ! in hell ! " 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark, 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell. 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 



IX 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 

The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave 

As on the JEolian harp, his fitful wings 

Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 

With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 

Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 

Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 

That boat and ship shall never meet again ! 

But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 

Their constant peril and their scant relief; 

Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 

Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 

The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 

Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 

The ills that lessen' d still their little store. 

And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 

The varying frowns and favors of the deep, 

That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 

With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 

The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 

TJie incessant fever of that arid thirst 

Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 

Above their naked bones, and feels delight 

In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 

And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 

A drop to moisten life's all gasping springs ; 

The savage foe escaped, to seek again 

More hospitable shelter from the main ; 

The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at last, 

To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 

As ever the dark annals of the deep 

Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 



We leave them to their fate, but not unknown 

Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her ovm. : 

Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause. 

And injured navies urge their broken laws. 

Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 

Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 

Wide o'er the wave — away ! away ! away ! 

Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 

Oiioe more the happy shores without a law 

Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 

Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — woos 

To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 

Where all partake the earth without dispute, 

And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit : • 

Where none contest the fields, the woods, the 

streams : 
The goldloss age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 
Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 
rill Europe taught them better than before ; 



The now Mlnbntsd farMtUruk, to tmnartoiU which CapUln Bigk'i 



Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
But left her vices also to their heirs. 
Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
" Huzza ! for Otahcite ! ' was the crv, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 
In swifter ripples stream aside the seas. 
Which her bold bow flings off with dashing eas4 
Thus Argo plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam; 
But those she wafted still look back to home— ' 
These spurn their country with their rebel l;irk» 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
And yet they seek to nestle \vith the dove 
And tame tfeeir fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO II. 



How pleasant were the songs of Toob-jnai,* 

When summer's sun went down the coral baj . 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade. 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said . 

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo. 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We'll cull the flowers that grow above the dead. 

For these most bloom where rests the warrior's head 

And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main. 

Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these ! how happy they. 

Who, from the toil and tiimult of their lives. 

Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives 

Even he too loves at times the bhie lagoon, 

And smooths his nifTl^d mane beneath the moon. 

11. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather floweis, 

Then feast like spirits in their promised bower* 

Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 

Then lay our limbs along the tender turf, 

And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragant oil, 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave, 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out thebrtfe 

But lo ! night com(*s, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; we too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival. 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the flrst time were wafted in onnoes. 

Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 



* The (lilt t)ir«« loctlona u«< uk«n from ui ncDxaX mmg of th* Tm^ 
Ulnmlrn, of which r pnmf iran»l«lioii la f\rrn in " MurW** Afcninl ot (hi 
Toiifo lilamli." TuoIioiirI Ii imM howprrr tmr of them ; hu« wa* OM 4 
thuar when CliristUn •ml th^ miilliiorri Uwk rrAijfr. I >»»• •toMl* aai 
Mktod. bul hkw rstaiMd M muth M iwalbla U I 



206 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown, 
Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
The flub and rain our anrows o'er the field : 
Now let them reap the Ernest of their art ! 
But feast to-right ! to-morrow we depart. 
Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 
Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 
[n summer garments be our limbs aiTay'd ; 
Ai'ound our waists the tappa's white display'd ; 
Thick wieaths shall form our coronal, like spring's 
And round our necks shall glance thehooni strings 
So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
0^ the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 
Ah, pa'dse ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 
But to-night — to-night is for the heart. 
Again besto\v the wreaths we gently woo. 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, soften 'd, but intense. 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep, 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep !— 
We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart ! — 
What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are nature's growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both: 
The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
WHio such would see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded than the New, 
Now neic no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
WTiere Chimborazo, over air, earth, tvave. 
Glares with his Titan eye, and see* no slave. 

V.' 

Such was this ditty of ti-adition's days. 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine ; 
Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony ; 
A boy Achilles, with the centaur's IjTe 
In hand, to teach him to suipass his sire. 
For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave 
Rung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Thau all the columns Conquest's minions rear : 
Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 
For sage's labors or the student's dream; 
Attracts, when history's volumes are a toil, — 
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soi4. 
Buch was this rude rhyme— rhjTne is of the rude— 
But suck inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
Who came and cor.quer'd; such, wherever rise 
Landi) vhere no f >e8 destroy or civilize, 



Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 

Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart J 



VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm. 

The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

All gently to refresh the thirsty cave. 

Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy, 

Wlio taught her passion's desolating joy, 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost; 

O'er those who, burning in the new-bom fire, 

Ijike martyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 

With such devotion to their ecstacy. 

That life knows no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 

Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought 

And all our dreams of better life above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 



VII. 

There sat the gentle savage of the wild, 

In growth a woman, though in years a child, 

As childhood dates within our colder clime, 

Wliere nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 

The infant of an infant world, as pure 

From natxire — lovely, warm, and premature ; 

Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 

Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 

With eyes that were a language and a spell, 

A form like Aphrodite's in her shell, 

With all her loves around her on the deep, 

Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 

Yet full of life — for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make its way, and all but speak ; 

The sun-born blood suffused her neck and threw 

O'er her clear nutbroA^Ti skin a lucid hue. 

Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave 

"WTiich di-aws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the soiithern seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies, 

To bear the bark of others' happiness, 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew less : 

Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whoett 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not, 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pasf 

O'er lakes, to ruffle, not destroy, their glass. 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from tbe 

hill. 

Restore their surface, in itself so still. 
Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave, 
Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 
And crush the living waters to a mass. 
The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 
And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 
But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 
To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all 



THE ISLAND. 



201 



VIII. 

And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 

Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 

The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides, 

Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 

Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring -vvind, 

The tempest-born in body and in mind, 

His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam, 

Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home, 

The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 

The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 

His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 

A. careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 

Nurs'd by the legends of his land's romance ; 

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear. 

Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 

Plac'd in the Arab's clime, he would have been 

A? bold a rover as the sands have seen, 

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 

As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ; * 

Fiy'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique; 

On Hellas' mountains a rebellious Greek ; 

j3orn in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 

Bred *-o a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 

For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 

If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 

Beyond itself,' and must retrace its v/ay, f 

Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 

Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame, 

A humbler state and discipline of heart 

Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ; J 

But grant his vices, grant them all his o\vn, 

How small their theatre without a throne ! 

IX. 

Thou smilest ; — these comparisons seem high 

To tliose who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 

Link'd with the unknoAvn name of one whose doom 

Has nought to do with glory or with Rome, 

With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ; — 

Thou smilertt ? — Smile ; 'tis better thus than sigh ; 

Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 

A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 

A patriot hero or despotic chief, 

To form a nation's glory or its grief. 

Born under auspices which make us more 

Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 

But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

\. blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 

The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

Thf husband of the bride of Toobonai. 

X. 

by Neuha's side he sate, and watch'd the waters, — 
N<^iiha, the sunflower of the island daughters, 
t£ighborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles, 
Without a scutcheon for these secrrt isles,) 

* The " »liip of thR fifwrt " U the Orieiitul (ig'urc for the CNMel or droin- 
tdary ; and thoy rlbterve the metaphor well, the former for hit eiuUin\iice, 
the liitt/^r fir>r hia •wlfliifHH. 

t " l.iculliw, whfn frii?nllty -.oiili! charm, 
IlH(t roii»t>-il tiirnipi in the Hahine farm."— Pop* 

t 'I'he cijiwul Nero, who iiinili! ihu unequal mnlcb which deceived Hnnnl- 
»»l, and ilcfeated Asdnilud; ihen-by HCconipHtlihig iin achlrvenienl ainiort 
unr!va'.li(t In milluiry nnnal*. Thi- flml Intolllife-nw of hli return, to Hiinni 
al, wtt» thii iltflit ot Atdrulmrii heivij thrown Into hU ciuiip. When Hannllwl 
•aw Ihrt, hi' CMclulined wltl> a «itfh, Uiali' Koiiji- wimld now Iv the rnUiniu 
ef lh« world." And yi to thin vklor) of N.to'« it iniirht hr owing tlint hia 
mporial nmiietake ripn'-d at all. But the Infimy of the one hai ecHpaiHl the 
jkiry of dip other. W hen the niuno of " Nero *' ia heard, who (hiuica o» the 
(s «wl f-^n luch oie iiuntaii Utinga. 



Of a long race, the valiant and the frer, 

The naked knights of savage chivalry, 

Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore; 

And thine — I've seen — Achilles ! do no more. • 

She, when the thunder-bearing sti angers came, 

In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 

Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm 

Seem'd rooted in the deep amid its calm ; 

But when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 

Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 

And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 

Making the very billows look less free ; 

She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 

Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow 

Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge, 

Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 

And gazed and wonder'd at the giant bulk, 

"Which heaved from wave to wave its trembling hulk 

The anchor di-opp'd ; it lay along the deep, 

Like a huge lion in the sun asleep, 

"While round it "warm'd the proas' flitting chain. 

Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XL 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be toli f 
The New World stretch 'd its dusk hand to the OW 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warm'd to better s}'mpathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sim-born sires, 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 
Their union grew : the childi-en of the storm 
Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
While these in turn admired the paler glow, 
"Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no Know 
The chase, the race, the liberty to roam. 
The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 
The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoe, 
Which stemm'd the studded archipelago. 
O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils ; 
The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods. 
Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 
While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 
Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast ; 
The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root. 
Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit; 
The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshum 

yields 
I The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 
And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
Without a furnace in unpurchased groves, 
And flings off famine from its fertile oreast, 
A priceless market for the gathering guest; 
These, with the luxuries of seas and wood8, 
The airy joys of social solitudeo. 
Tamed each rude wanderer to the s}Tnpathie« 
Of those who wove more hupj y, if less wise, 
Did more than Europe's disfipline had done. 
And ci'ilizcd civilizavion's son ! 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neuha and Torquil wore not the least fair; 
Both children of the is4C8, though distant far. 
Born both beneath a se:\-presiding star ; 
Both noin-ish'd amid nature's native scenes. 
Loved to the luHt, whatever intervenes 
Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 
1 Wliich still reverts to what first caught Ihe ert 



208 



BYEON'S WORKS. 



He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roam'd through lands which are not 

mine, 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
But 'twas not all long ages lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall. 
The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,* 
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive me, Homer's universal shade ! 
Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair. 
The youth which makes one rainbow of the air. 
The dangers past, that make even man enjoy 
The pause in which he ceases to destroy. 
The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel, 
United the half savage and the whole, 
The maid and boy, in one absorbing soui. 
No more the thundering memory of the fight 
Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 
No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
Distiu'b'd him like the eagle in her nest, 
Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 
Darts for a victim over all the sky ; 
His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 
At once Elysian and effeminate. 
Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn : — 
These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 
Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid. 
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
Had Caesar kno^vn but Cleopatra's kiss, 
Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 
And what have Caesar's deeds and Caesar's fame 
Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 
The gory sanction of his glory stains 
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 
From the tall bough where they have perch' d so 

long,— 
Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls. 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
When but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 
Rapt in the fond forgetfulness cf life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 

• When Tery young, about eight yean of age, after an attack of the 
MMlet fever at Alienleen, J wan remoTed by medical advice into the Hi^h- 
IukU. Here 1 pa»«(-d occawonally some summer*, and from this period I 
dM^ my love of mountainous countries. 1 can never forget the efl'ect, a few 
foan afterwords in England, of the only thing I had long seen, even in 
•Iniature, of a inounlain, in the Malv.-m Hills. After I returned to Chel- 
lenham, 1 used to watch them every afternoon, at sunwt, with a sensation 
vhich 1 cannot describe. This was boyish enough ; but I was then only thir- 
«B years of afe, and K was in tbe ttoUdaj*. 



With no distracting world to cull 

From love ; with no society to scoff 

At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 

Of coxcombry in admiration loud, 

Or 's'ith adulterous whisper to alloy 

Her duty, and her glory, and her joy • 

With faif 1 and feelings naked as her form, 

She etood as stands a raiubow in a storm, 

Changing its hues with Lright variety, 

But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 

Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move, 

The cloud-compelling haibinger of love. 

XV. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore. 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours— they never pass'd o'er time, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime. 
Which deals the daily pittaace of our span, 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man 
What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 
The present, like a tyrant, lield them fasi . 
Their hour-glass was the se;i-sand, and the tide 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments gHifl 
Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r ; 
They reckon'd not-, whose day was but anhoiir: 
The nightingale, theii- only vesper-bell, 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell :.• 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep. 
But fiery, and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft. 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies, 
And then for light into each other's eyes. 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun. 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 

XVI. 
And let not this seem strange : the devotee 
Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 
Around him days and worlds are heedless driveik. 
His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 
Is love less potent ? No — his path is trod. 
Alike uplifted gloriously to God : 
Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 
The other better self, whose joy or wo 
Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 
Which, kindled by another, grows the same. 
Wrapp'd in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pilt 
Where gentle hearts, like Brainins, sit and smilf. 
How often we forget all time, when lone. 
Admiring Nature's universal throne. 
Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 
Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 
Live not the stars and mountains ? Are tbe ware* 
Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 
Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres^ 
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore, 
Strip off this fond and false identity ! — 
Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky ? 
And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 
In the young moments ere the heart is taught 



• The now well-known story of the loves of the night'r.jale and 
■ot be more than alluded to, being '':£cj<t4 y 



jaib island. 



20& 



TEme*s lesaon, of man's baseness or his own ? 
411 nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

KVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : t-vfilight's hour 
Come sad and softly to their rocky bower, 
WTiich, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echoed their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm, 
Bought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
N ow smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell. 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,* 
As, far divided from his parent deep. 
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad boscm of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird wheel'd rock-ward to his nest. 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, -vhere Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice ! 
Not such as would have been a lover's choice. 
In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
No dying nigh -breeze, harping o'er the hill. 
Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony, 
With Echo for their chorus; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl,- 
Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night ;— 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shiill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 
Torquil ! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho ! " 
"Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
The sound. " Here's one," was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 
But here the herald of the self-same mouth 
Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 
Not like a "bed of violets " on the gale, 
But such as wafts its cloud o'er i^rog or ale, 
Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 
Its gentle odors over either zone, 
And puff 'd where'er winds rise or waters roll. 
Had wafted smoke from Portsmout)? tc the Pcle, 
Opposed its vapor as the lightning fiash'd, 
And reek'd, 'mid mountain billows unabash'd. 
To iEolus a constant sacrifice, 
1 hrough every change of all the varying skies. 
And what was he who bore it ? — I may err, 
But deem him sailor or philosopher.f 



• If the readf r will npply to hii ear Iho »ea-ihell on hit chlinney-ploce, be 
■rill be aware of what U alliuled to. If the text ihuiild appear obacure, ho 
irill find in " Gobir," tht; aaino Idea better expntaKil in two line*. — The pooin 
I never read, but huve heard the linei quoted by a mop» reeomliie reader — 
who leeins to be of a different opinion from the editor ot the Quarterly 
BfiTlew, who qiiiUiflnd it, In hli aiiiwer to the Critical Keviewiv of liU 
Jurenal, aa trriah of the wont iiud niuit inanne deacrlptlnn. It la lo Mr. 
LAjdor, the anilvor, of "Ciebir,"ao qualJAiHl, and of aonie I^atin poem*, 
vMeh Tie with Murtial or Catullua in obscenity, that the Inmiaculatit Mr. 
••athey addrfaaei liii dixluinaiiun nguintt impurity I 

t Hobbo, lite fw'i si of Kocke'i and other philoeoohy, wa« an tevetenle 
,— «rar to plpcd beyoa J compulation. 

27 



Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 
Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest ; 
Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 
His hours, and rivals opium and his bridea •, 
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, 
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand 
Divine m hookas, glorious in a pipe, 
When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 
Like other charmers, wooing the caress 
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 
Yet thy t rue lovers^ more admire by far 
Th^ nakecl beauties — Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude, 
Fantastically, it may be, array 'd, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep, 
When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep. 
And the rough satm-nalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car;^ 
And pleased the god of ocean sees his name 
Revive once mor*>, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades ; 
Still the old god delights, from out the mam. 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread j 
And stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest woods will have their thora) 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His ai-ms were all his own, our Europe's growth. 
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath, 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath. 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scotf, 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off;) 
These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As ■wnen the arm-chest held its brighter trust, 
Completed his accoutrements, as Night 
Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 

XXI. 

** What cheer, Ben Bunting ? " cried (;rhen in tuL 

view 
Our new acquaintance) Torquil, •' Auijht of new ? "• 
" Ey, ey ! " quoth Ben "not new, but news enow ; 
A strange sail in the offing." — " Sail ! and how ? 
What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be, 
I've seen no rag of canvas on the sea." 
" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 
But from the bluff-head, where I wntch'd to-d«y, 
I saw her in the doldrums ; fcr the wind 
Was light and baffling. "—" When the sun dcK;lIn«d 



Thla roufh but )nvtal cprrinoey, nam\ in erominf (be Hm, kaa bM* *. 
n and w well deaoiftwd, thai K iiL«d not tm vnan iktta tOvOat % 



10 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Where lay she ? had she anchor'd ? " — "No, but still 

Bhe bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 

" Her flag ? " — " I had no glass ; but fore and aft, 

Egad ! she seemed a wicked-looking craft." 

'* Arm'd ? " — " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 

Tls time, belike, to piit our helm about." 

" About ? — '^V^^ate'er may have us now in chase, 

We'll make no running-fight, for that were base, 

We will die at our quarters, like true men." 

" Ey, ey ! for that 'tis all the same to Ben." 

' Does Christian know this ? " — "Ay ; he has piped 

all hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That's but 

fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
B\it whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes ! " 
'Right," quoth Ben, " that vsdll do for the marines."* 



CANTO III. 



I. 



Tre fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom. 
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb, 
Had ceased ; and sulphury vapors upward driven 
Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 
The rattling roar which rung in ever)' volley 
Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
No more they shriek'd their hoiTor, boom for boom ; 
The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 
The mutineers were crush'd, dispersed, or ta'en, 
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 
Few, few escaped, and those were hunted o'er 
The isle they loved beyond^ftheir native shore. 
No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth, 
Once renegades to that which gave them bii-th ; 
Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the 

wild, 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den. 
And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 
Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
P«- "ver ocean in his fiercest moods, 
When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
Is hurl'd dovrn headlong, like the foremost brave, 
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind. 
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind. 
But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few. 
But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
With something of the pride of former vrill. 
As men not all unused to meditate. 
And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 



• " That will do for Che marine, but the tallon won't believe it," i* u old 
WjtDf i and one of the few fragnienU of former Jealounei which Mill turrire 
fm HM oalj) totvMu Hmm hJImm Miricea. 



Their present lot was what they had foies^en. 
And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their W 
Not pardon'd, but unsought for or fors^ot, 
Or trusted that, if sdught, their distant caves 
Might still be miss'd amid the world of waves, 
Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they 

saw 
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
No more could shield their virtue or their vice * 
Their better feelings, if such were, were throwr 
Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alon« 
Proscribed even in their second country, they 
Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay . 
All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what avail'd the club, and spear, and aim 
Of Hercules against the sulphujy charm. 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be empluy'd f 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the prsv/e 
No less of human bravery than the brave ! * 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft -will dare and do ; 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, % 
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and li , es again ! 

III. 
Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd. 
Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 
Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 
But still the hunter's blood was on their horn, 
A little stream came tumbling from the height. 
And straggling into ocean as it might. 
Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray. 
And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless spray ; 
Close on the wild, -wide ocean, yet as pure 
And fresh as innocence, and mere secure, 
Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep, 
As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 
While far below the vast and sullen swell 
Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell : 
To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings fixs^ 
Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst,— 
Drank as they do who drink their last, and throw 
Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 
Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory 

stains 
From wounds whose only bandage might be chains ; 
Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd %aJ}:9 

round, 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless : — ^but silent all. 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 

IV. 

Stem, and aloof a little from the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless, hue once spread 
Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 



* Arehidamus, king of Sparta, and son of Ageailaus, when he nw I 
machine InrenteJ for the casting ol rtonea and daita, exclaimed that it WM 
the " grave of ralor." The lame «tory haa been told of some knight* oo (fe* 
tnt applicatibn of gunpowder ; bu. i>e origmal anecdote '» m» Hatatvk. 



THE ISLAISD. 



ai 



His light-bro\im locks, sg graceful in their flow, 
Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow, 
Btili as a statue, with his lips comprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute, 
He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 
Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 
Not mortally — his worst wound was within : 
His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
Show'd that his faintness came not from despair. 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, 
R^ugh as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 
Ben Bunting, Avho essay'd to wash, and wipe. 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 
The fourth and last of this deserted group 
Walk'd up and down — at times would stand, then 

stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
Then hurry as in haste— then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes On his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
And then his former movements would redouble, 
With something between carelessness and trouble : 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
^ Rend men's lives into immortalities. 



At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man. 
Who flutter'd over all things like a fan. 
More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
Exclaim'd "G — d Damn!" — those syllables in- 
tense, — 
Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
As the Turk's *' Allah " or the Roman's more 
Pagan " Proh Jupiter ! " was wont of yore 
To give their first impressions such a vent, 
By way of echo to embarrassment, 
"'ack was embarrass'd, never hero more, 
And as he knew not what to say, he swore ; 
Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound : 
He drew it from his mouth, and look'd fpll wise. 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus rendering the i^'/iperfect plirase complete, 
A peroration I need t, ot repeat. 

VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood; 
Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
Of passioTi reeking from his clouded face ; 
Till lifting up again his sombre eye, 
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
"And is it thus," he cried, •* unhappy boy ! 
• And thee, too, thee — my madness must destroy ! " 
He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 
Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress • 



Inquired into his state ; ar d when he heard 

The wound was slighter than he deem'd or feai'd. 

A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 

As much as such a moment would allow. 

** Yes," he exclaim'd, " we are taken in the toil, 

But not a coward or a common spoil ; 

Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may buy, ' 

And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 

'Twould be some comfort still, could you survive; 

Our dwindled band is now too few to stiive. 

Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell, 

To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell ' 

For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 

In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

VII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
"Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary. 
A dark speck dotted ocean • on it flew 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew ; 
Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow'd — 
Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hoi 

low'd ; 
And near, and nearer, till their ddsky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray. 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below 
Which flings its broad and boiling sheet on sheet. 
And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet: 
But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigU 
The barks, like small birds through a lowering shy. 
Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep 
The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

VIII. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand. 
Leap'd like a nercid from her shell to land, 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dew^ eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd ; 
And smiled, and wept, and neiu-, and nearer clasp tt, 
As if to be assured 'twas him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and the.*, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight : 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fiU'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb't 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ccstacy. 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meolinp, 
Were not unmoved : who arc, when hearts an 

greeting ? 
Even Christian gaVcd upon the maid and boy 
Witti tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul m%iiM, 
In hopeless visions of our better days, 
When all's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray, 
•* And but for me ! " he said, and turn'd »wny 
Th(Mi gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again \ 



212 

iLnd then relapsed into his snllefn gnisc, 
Us heedless of his farther destinies. 

X. 

But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
I he billows round the promontory brought 
The splash of hostile oars.— Alas ! who made 
That sound a dread ? All round them seem'd arrar'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Ot the arm'd boats, which hurried to complete 
1h^ TTimant's ruin withtheir flying feet, 
Beckon'd the nativss round her to their prows, 
fiE.,jArk'd their guests, and launch'd their light 

canoes, 
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
They gain upon them — ^now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chase di-s"ide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide. 
To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 
And more than life oj lives to Neuha : Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove^ 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment ! — ^Fly, thou light ark, fly ! 



CANTO IV. 
I. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon's clouded and half free 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts, but still her snow^' sail 
Attracts our eye amid the rudest gale ; 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore* 

II. 

Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
rhe haunt of birds, a desert to mankind, 
Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 
And sleeps unwieldy in his cavern dun. 
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
The startled echo of the ocean bird. 
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood. 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow seg^ment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand 
Here, the young turtle, crawling from his shell 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 
The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
BftTe mariners a shelter and despair ; 



BYRON'S WOltKS. 



A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost 
Such was the stem asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following foes ; 
But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

ni. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot. 

The men that mann'd what held her Torquil*i xA 

But her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 

This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle. 

And bade bim "speed and prosper." She would t&ks 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star, 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd 

They pull'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea. 

And yielded scarco to Torquil's manlier strengtn 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face. 

With nought but soundless waters for its base ; 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe. 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 

Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die I 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ? *' 

IT. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprost 
Neuha, and pointing to the approaching foes, 
Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow! 
Then plvmged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
There was no time to pausa — the foes were near- 
Chains in his eyes, and menace in his ear ; 
With vigor they pull'd on, and as they came, 
HaU'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 
Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more ; 
The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
There was no landing on that precipice. 
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
The wave roll'd on, no ripple on its face. 
Since their first plunge recall' d a single trace; 
The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam. 
That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest homar 
White as a sepulchre above the pair 
Who left no marble (mournful as an heir) 
The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 
And but for this alone the whole might seem 
The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd awa/ 
Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
Some said he had not plung'd into the wave, 
But vanish'd Hke a corpse-light from a gra^e ; 
Others, that something supernatural 
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 
While ail agreed that in his cheek and eye 
There was a dead hue of eternity 



THE ISLAND. 



213 



Btill as tueir oars receded from the crag, 
Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
ExpectaLt of some token of their prey ; 
But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 

V. 

And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep, 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
For ever ? or, received in coral caves. 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves ? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell ? 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair. 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air ? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
B»neath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 

Follow 'd: her track beneath her native sea 

Was as a native's of the element. 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of light behind her heel. 

Which struck and flashed like an amphibious steel. 

Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 

The depths where divers hold their pearl in chase, 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 

Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 

Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 

The way — then upward soar'd — and as she spread 

Her arms, and flung the foam from off her locks, 

Laugh'd, and the soimd was answcr'd by the rocks. 

They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave,* 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

Save through tlie billows' glassy veil of green, 

In some transparent ooean holiday. 

When all the finny people are at play,) 

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 

Led him to where the rock appear'd to Jut, 

And form a something like a Triton's hut; 

For all was darkness for a space, till day 

Through clefts above let in a ^ober'd ray ; 

As in-some old cathcdriU's glimmering aisle 

The dusty monuments from light recoil. 

Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 

The vault drew half her shadow from the scene. 

VII. 

Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 

A pine torcih, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 

A plantain«K>af o'er all, the more to keep 

It i latent sparkle from the sapping^deep. 

This mantle koi)t it dry ; then from a n«)ok 

Of the same plantain-leaf a flint she took, 

A few shrunk withcr'd twigs, and from tlie blade 

Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and tlnis array 'd 

The grot witli torchlight. Wide it was and high, 

And sliow'd a self-})orn (rothic canopy; 

The arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 

The architrave some earthquake might erect : 



• 01 CliU ciivo (which la no flctloii) Ihp orlfriiml will N' fi.iiml In lh« nInOi 
UitpD-r of " Miiriiier'a Accutint o( llir Ton(fi« Uliuiitii." I linvr ukrii the 
■jvcUcaI lllmtty to iniiiiplKKt It tu I'oubuiml, ihe laat ItUiiil when any OmUdM 
It vsuia !■ Ina of '..'h(istl«n and hla cunini'tM. 



The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled, 
When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world; 
Or harden'd from some earth-aboding fire. 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funcMil pyre; 
The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,* 
Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave 
There, with a little tinge of fantasy. 
Fantastic faces mop'd and mow'd on high. 
And then a mitre and a shrine would fix 
The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
And built herself a chapel of the seaa 

VIIL 
And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand. 
And waved along the vault her kindled biand 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to sooth the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the ft-esh gnatoo. 
And sandal-oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Born of the fniit ; for board the plantain spread 
With his broad leaf, or turtle-shell he bore 
A banquet in the flesh it cover'd o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine torch-pile to keep undying light. 
And she herself, as beautiful as night, 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail. 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light cane 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower, 
And now she spread her little store with smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She, as he gazed with grateful woiidor, press'd 
Her shelter'd love to her inipassion'd breast ; 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love, — for lovn is oTO, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
With each new being born or to be born : i 
Ilow a young chief, a thoiisand moons ago, 
Diving for txn-tle in the depths below, 
Had risen, in tracking Fast his ocean prey. 
Into the cave which round and o'er them la> . 
How in some desperate' feud of after time, 
He shelter'd there a dauf^hter of the clime, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe. 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo{ 
Ilow, when the storm of war was still'd, ha le>A 
His island clan to where the waters spread 



* Thin limy •e«<in too mlnuio for ilw* ({riiftntl outline (bi M.iriiipr' 
fnuii wlilcli il U tnkrii. BiU lew men liuve tr.tv(>|li<«l witli.aii wvinit • 
lliiiif iif ttie kinil~4iii land, tlwt U. Without nil»frtln(f li> Kil.'m, in Mi 
Piirlt'ii lii»t JiMirnnl, (It my inrinory do not err, fiir llvm nr • li'lit yritn i 
I rciul tir IxHik,) Ik nwiilloiia liiiviu|: ■■>"l witll a nxk or luotiiuain »> vi 
rp«'inNiii){ a (ioihlf c.tthi-ilnl, tliiit uuly a nilnulB 
tlliii tliiit it WHi u wi>rk o( nnture. 

t 'riw ntntW will imiulln-t iIm xpiirnkia of the OrMk 
IraiialiiUoii lull) niiwl of the inoilrrn lHiix>"^rM: 

*■ WluirVr tliiiu art, thy niaater ■••, 
Ut waa or la, nr U k> Ni " 



214 



BYKON S WORKS. 



rneir deep gr .'en shadow o'er the rocky door, 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark, 
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ; 
Row'd doAvn in sorrow the sea-girded rock, 
Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
\^Tien, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 
And their companion, glorious by her side. 
Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 
^'itii sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore; 
H )W they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 
Afid why not also Torquil and his bride ? 
Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 
Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess. 
This tale ; enough that all within that cave 
Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 
Where Abelard, through twenty years of death, 
Wlien Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and 

press'd 
The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.* 
The waves without sang round their couch, their roar 
As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
Within, their hearts made all their harmony. 
Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh. 

X. 

And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
^^'^lich left them exiles of the hollow rock, 
Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they plied, 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 
Another course had been their choice — but where ? 
The wave which bore them still their foes would bear, 
Who disappointed of their former chase, 
In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 
Eager ^^-ith anger, their strong arms made way 
Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 
They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 
For the first fiu-ther rock which met their sight 
Thoy stner'd, to take their latest view of land, 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 
Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 
Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 
But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 
Nor add a saci ifice which were in vain ; 
For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms that must be wielded here ? 

XI. 
They landed on a wild but narrow scene, 
Where few but Nature's footstej; • vet had been; 
Prej-ared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
Stern and sus^ain'd of man's extremitj'. 
When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
To cl.eer resistance against death or chains, — 
They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 
Who dyed Thermopylae with holy blood. 
But, ah ! how different ! 'tis the cause makes all. 
Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 
Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd 
hence ; 



* Tbe tradition i* attached to th* Mory of Eloiaa, that when her body wm 
bwunvl inlu the gra^e uf Alielanl, (vho hail been buiied twenty yeuii,) Iw 



No grateful country, smiling through her tea/& 

Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 

No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent. 

No heroes envy them their monument ; 

However boldly their warm blood was spilt. 

Their life was shame, their epitaph was guilt. 

And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 

The leader of the band he had undone ; 

Who, born perchance for better things, had set 

His life upon a cast which linger'd yet : 

But now the die was to be thrown, and all 

The chances were in favor of his fall ; 

And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock. 

Obdurate as a portion of the rock 

Whereon he stood, and fix'd his levelled gun. 

Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 

XII. 
The boat dreAV nigh, well arm'd, and firm the cien 
To act whatever duty bade them do ; 
Careless of danger, as the oiiward -nind 
Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behird- 
And yet perhaps they rather vrish'd to go 
Against a nation's than a native foe. 
And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 
Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 
They hail'd him to surrender — no reply : 
Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 
They hail'd again — no answer ; yet once more 
They ofFer'd quarter louder than before. 
The echoes only, from the rock's rebound, 
Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 
Then flash'd the flint, and bU^ed the volleying flamt 
And the smoke rose between them and their aim. 
While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell, 
Which peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell : 
Then flew the only answer to be given " 
By those who had lost all hope in earth ir heaven. 
After the first fierce peal, as they pull'd nigher, 
They heard the voice of Christian shout, "Now fire I 
And ere the word upon the echo died. 
Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side. 
And, furious at the madness of their foes, 
Disdain'd all further efforts, save to close 
But steep the crag, and all without a path, 
Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath ; 
While, placed 'mid>clefts the least accessible 
WTiich Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well, 
The three maintain'd a strife which nius* not yield, 
In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 
Their every shot told; while the assailant fell, 
Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 
But still enough survived, and mounted still, 
Scattering their numbers here and there, until 
Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
Enough for seizure, near enough to die, ■ 
The desperate trio held aloof their fate 
But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged tirt 

bait; 
Yet to the very last they battled well, 
And not a groan infnrm'd their foes who fell. 
Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once moff 
Mercy was offer'd when they saw his gore ; . 
Too late for life, but not too late to die, 
With, though a hostile hand, to ciose his eye. 
A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 
The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 
Some passion which a weakly gesture spake 



THE ISLAND. 



2U 



Ho beaian'd to the foremost, who drew nigh, 
Bat, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 
Hia last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast 
He tore the topmost button from his vest,* 
Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 
A.S his foe fell ; then, like a serpent, coil'd 
His wonnded, weary form, to where the steep 
Lock'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 
Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and 

shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook j 
Then plunged : the rock below received like glass 
His body crush'd into one gory mass, 
"With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds. 
Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds, 
Some splinters of his weapons, (to the last. 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast,) 
Yet glitter'd, but at distance — hurl'd away 
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray ; 
The rest was nothing — save a life mispent. 
And soul — ^but who shall answer where it went ? 
*Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
Unless these bullies oi eternal pains 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains. 

XIII. 
The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 
The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 
They stood ^vith honor, were the \vretched few 
Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 
But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
Cold these lay wJicre they fell, and weltering. 
While o'er them flapp'd the sea-bird's dewy wing, 
• Now wheeling nearer from the neighboring surge. 
And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 
But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
Eternal with unsympathetic flow ; 
Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 
And sprung the flying fish against the sun, 



• In Tlulxivil*.'* account of Prederic tlie Second of Prussia, there is a sin- 
gular relation of a young Frenchman, who with his nuBtri'sa, appew^i to be 
of lome rank. He enlisled and deserted at Scweidnitz : and iifler a despeinte 
lecistatice waa retalten, haring Icilled an officer, who attempted to 8ciy« him 
Biter he Vdt wounded, by the discharge of his niusliet loaded witli a button of 
fail uniform. Some circumstances on his court martial raised a great interest 
■nM::g his judge*, who winlied to discover his real situaUon In life, which he 
vOnvi to di£:lose, but to the king only, to whom he requeste<l permission to 
WtHm. This was mfused, and Prederic vaa flUcd with the greatest indigna- 
Hoo, from baJfled curiosity or some oliisr motire, when he understood that hii 
iMvaatt htd bwn dented—SM Thlbaili't Work, «<ol. IL— [1 <|uole from meiii- 



Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height. 
To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV. 
'Twas morn ; and Neuha, who by da^vn of day • 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, ' 

And watch if aught approach' d the amphibioni lab 
Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
It flapp'd, it fill'd, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 
With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and highi 
While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie. 
But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 
She gazed and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. 
To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
Diminish'd., dwindled to a very speck — 
Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy 
Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 
Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
Drifting along the tide, without an oar, 
That eve the strangers chased them from the shore 
But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now , 
Nor ever did more love and joy embark. 
Than now was wafted in that slender aik. 

XV. 

Again their own shore rises on the view, 

No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

No sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home ! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 

The chiefs came down, around the people poiir*d. 

And welcome Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng 'd, embracing and embraced 

By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 

And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and thta 

One acclamation rent the sky again ; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave.' 

A hundred fires, far flickering from the height^ 

Blazed o'er the general revel of tlie night, 

The feast in honor of the guest, rctuj;n'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously e;irn*d : 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



EXTRACT FROM THE VOYAGE OF CAPTAIN BLIGH. 



Oy tie 27th of December it blew a severe storm of 
wind fi-om the eastward, in the course of which we 
Buffered greatly. One sea broke away the spare 
yards and spars out of the starboard nMiin-chains 
another broke into the ship and stove au the boats 
Several casks of beer that had been lashed on deck 
broke loose, and were washed overboard ; and it was 
not without great risk and difficulty that we were 
able to secure the boats from being washed away 
entirely. A great quantity of our bread was also 
damaged and rendered useless, for the sea had 
Btove in our stern, and filled the cabin with water 

On the 5th of January, 1788, we saw the island 
of TenerifFe about twelve leagues distant ; and next 
day being Sunday, came to an anchor in the road 
of Santa Cruz. There we took in the necessary 
Bupolies, and, having finished our business, sailed 
CD the 10th. 

I now divided the people into three watches, and 
gave the charge of the third watch to Mr. Fletcher 
Christian, one of the mates. I have always con- 
sidered this a desirable regulation when circum- 
Btances will admit of it ; and I am persuaded that 
unbroken rest not only contributes much towards 
the health of the ship's company, but enables them 
more readily to exert themselves in cases of sud- 
den emergency. 

As I wished to proceed to Otaheite without stop- 
ping, I reduced the allowance of bread to two- 
thirds, and caused the water for drinking to be fil- 
tered through drip-stones, bought at TenerifFe for 
that purpose. I now acquainted the ship's compa- 
ny of the object of the voyage, and gave assurances 
of certain promotion to every one whose endeavors 
should merit it. 

On Tuesday the 26th of February, being in south 
latitude 29 degrees, 38 minutes, and 44 degrees, 
44 n«nutes west longitude, we bent new sails, and 
made other necessary preparations for encountering 
the weather that was to be expected in a high lati- 
tude. Our distance from the coast of Brazil was 
about one hundred leagues. 

On the forenoon of Sunday the 2d of March, after 
ieeing that eVery person was clean, divine service 
was performed, according to my usual custom on 
this day. I gave to Mr. Fletcher Christian, whom 
I had before directed to take charge of the third 
vratcn, a witten order to act as lieutenant. 

The change of temperature soon began to be sen- 
Bibly felt, and that the people might not suffer from 
their own negligence, I supplied them with thicker 
clothing, as better suited to the climate. A great 
numl)er of whales of an immense size, with two 
•pout-holes on the back of the head, were seen on 
the 11th. 

On a complaint made to me by the master, I 
found it necessary to punish Matthew Quintal, one 
of the seamen, with two dozen of lashes, for inso- 
lence and mutinous behaviour, which was the first 
time that there was any occasion for punishment on 
Doard. 

We were off Cape St. Diego, the eastern part of 
the Terra del Fuogo, and, the wind being unfavor- j 
able, I th»Aight it more advisable to go round to the 
•^stward c f Statrn-land than to attempt passing I 



through Straits le Maire. We pabsed New "Xear*! 
Harbor and Cape St. John, and on Monday the 31si 
were in latitude 60 degrees 1 minute south. But 
the wind became variable, and we had bad weather. 
Storms, attended with great sea, prevailed until the 
12th of April. ^The ship began to leak, and requit- 
ed pumping every hour, which was no more than 
we had reason to expect from such a continuance ol 
gales of wind and high seas. The decks also be- 
came so leaky, that it was necessary to allot the 
great cabin, of which I made little use except in 
fine weather, to those people who had not berths to 
hang their hammocks in, and by this means the 
space between decks was less crowded. 

With all this bad weather, we had the additional 
mortification to find, at the end of every day, that 
we were losing ground; for, notwithstanding our 
utmost exertions, and keeping on the most advan- 
tageous tracks, we did little better than drift before 
the wind. On Tuesday the 22d of Apiil, we had 
eight down on the sick list, and the rest of the peo 
pie, though in good health, were greatly fatigued ; 
but I saw, with much concern, that it was impossi- 
ble to make a passage this way to the Scoietj' Is 
lands, for we had now been thuty days in a tempest- 
uous ocean. Thus the season was too far advanced 
for us to expect better weather to enable us to double 
Cape Horn ; and, from these and other considera- 
tions, I ordered the helm to be put a-weather, and 
bore away for the Cape of Good Hope, to the great 
joy of every one on board. 

We came to an anchor on Friday the 23d of May 
in Simon's bay, at the Cape, after a tolerable run. 
The ship required complete caulking, for she had 
become so leaky, that we were obliged to pump 
hourly in our passage from Cape Horn. The saila 
and rigging also required repair , and on examining 
the provisions, a considerable quantity was found 
damaged. 

Having remained thirty-eight days in this place, 
and my people ha\4ng received all the advantage 
that could be derived from refreshments of every 
kind that could be met vdth, we sailed on the 1st of 
July. 

A gale of wind blew on the 20th, with a high sea : 
it increased after noon with such violence, that the 
ship was driven almost forecastle imder before we 
could get the sails clewed up. The lower yards 
were lowered, and the topgallant-masts got down 
upon deck, which relieved her much. We lay to 
all night, and in the morning bore away undjer a 
reefed foresail. The sea still running high, in the 
afternoon it became very unsafe to stand on : w« 
therefore lay to all night, without any accident, ex- 
cepting? that a man at the steerage was thrown over 
the wheel and m.uch bruised. Towards noon the 
violence of the storm abated, and we again bore 
away under the reefed foresail. 

In a few days we passed the island of St. Paul, 
where there is good fresh water, as I was informed 
by a Dutch captain, and also a hot spring, which 
boils fish as completely as if done by a fire. Ap- 
proaching to Van Dieman's land, we had much bad 
weather,"with snow and hail ; but nothing was seen 
to indicate our vicinity on the ISt^i of August^ ex 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



217 



eept aseal, which appeared at the distance of twenty 
leagues from it. we anchored in Adventure Bay 
on Wednesday the 20th. 

In our passage thither from the Cape of Good 
Hope, the winds were chiefly from the westward, 
with very boisterous weather. The approach of 
strong southerly winds is announced by many birds 
of the albatross or petrel tribe ; and the abatement 
of the gale, or a shift of wind to the northward, by 
their keeping away. The thermometer also varies 
five or six degrees in its height when a change of 
these winds may be expected. 

In the land surrounding Adventure Bay are many 
forest trees one hundred and fifty feet high : we saw 
one which measured* above thirty-three feet in girth. 
We observed several eagles, some beantiful blue- 
plumaged herons, and paroquets in great variety. 

The natives not appearing, we went in search of 
them towards Cape Frederic Hem-y. Soon after, 
coming to a grapnel close to the shore, for it was 
impossible to land, we heard their voices, like the 
cackling of geese, and twenty persons came out of 
the woods. We threw trinkets ashore tied up in 
parcels, which they would not open until I made an 
appearance of leaving them : then they did so, and, 
taking the articles out, put them on their heads. 
On first coming in sight they made a prodigious 
clattering in their speech, and held their arms over 
their heads. They spoke so qtiick, that it was im- 

?ossible to catch one single word they uttered, 
heir color is of a dull black ; their skin scarified 
about the breast and shoulders. One was distin- 
guished by his body being colored with red ocnre, 
but all the others were painted black, with a kind 
of soot, so thickly laid over their faces and should- 
ers, that it was difiicult to ascertain what they 
were like. 
On Thursday, the 4th of September, we sailed out 



day by five of the natives ; but the men were not 
taken until nearly three weeks afterwards. Learn- 
ing the place where they were, in a difierent quartei 
of the island of Otaheite, I went thither in the cut- 
ter, thinking there would be no great difficulty ir 
securing them with the assistance of the natives. 
However, they heard of my arrival ; and wiien I 
was near a house in which they were, they came out 
without their fire-arms, and delivered themselvea 
up. Some of the chiefs had formerly seized and 
bound these deserters ; but had been prevailed on* 
by fair promises of returning peaceably to the ship, 
to release them. But finding an opportunity again 
to get possession of their arms, they set the natives 
at defiance. 

The object of the voyage being now completed, 
all the bread-fruit plants, to the number of one 
thousand and fifteen, were got on board on Tuesday 
the 31st of March. Besides these, we had collected 
many other plants, some of them bearing the finest 
fruits in the world ; and valuable, from affording 
brilliant dyes, and for various properties besides. 
At sunset of the 4th of April, we made sail from 
Otaheite, bidding farewell to an island where for 
twenty-three weeks we have been treated with the 
utmost affection and regard, and which seemed to 
increase in proportion to our stay. That we were 
not insensible to their kindness, the succeeding cir- 
cumstances sufficiently proved ; for to the friendly 
and endearing behavior of these people may be as 
cribed the motives inciting an event that affected 
the ruin of our expedition, which there was eveir 
reason to believe would have been attended \vith 
the most favorable issue. 

Next morning we got sight of the Island Hua 
heine ; and a double canoe soon coming alongside, 
containing ten natives, I saw among them a young 
man, who recollected me, and called me by my 



of Adventure Bay, steering first towards east-south- j name. I had been here in the year 17tiO, with Crp 



east, and then to the northward of east, when, on 
the 19th, we came in sight of a cluster of small 
rocky islands, which I named Bounty Isles. Soon 
afterwards we frequently observed the sea in the 
D'ght-time, to be covered by luminous spots, caused 
/•y amazing quantities of small blubbers, or Medu- 
sa;, which emit a light like a blaze of a candle from 
the strings or filaments extending from them, whil" 
the rest of the body continues perfectly dark. 

We discovered the Island of Otaheite on the 
2oth, and, before casting anchor next morning in 
M.itavai liay, siich numbers of canoes had come off, 
that, alter the natives ascertained we were friends, 
they came on board, and crowded the deck so much, 
that in ten minutes I coixld scarce find my o\vn peo- 
ple. The whole distance which the ship had run, 
in direct and contrary courses, from the time of 
leaving England until reaching Otaheite, was 
twenty-seven thousand and eighty-six miles, which, 
on an average, was one hundred and eight miles 
each twenty-four hours. 

Here we lost our surgeon on the 9th of Decem- 
oer. Of late he had scarcely ever stirred out of the 
cabin, though not ai)prehendcd to be in a dangerous 
state. Nevertheless, ap[)earing worse than usual 
m the evening, he was removed where he could ob- 
tain more air, but without any benefit, for he died 
in an hour afterwards. This unfortunate man 
drank very hard, and was so averse to exercise, that 
he would never be prevailed on to take half a dozen 
turns on deck at a time daring all the course of the 
voyagf . He v/as buried on shore. 

On Monday, the .^ih of January, the small cutter 
was uiisscd, of v'bich I was immediately apprised. 
The ship's company being mustered, we found three 
men absent, who had carried it off. They had taken 
with thuni eight stand of arms and ammunition ; 
out with regard to tlieir plan, every one on board 
•eeiried to be (juite ignorant. I tl orcfore went on 
shore, ami engaged all the chiefs to aHsist in recov- 
ering both the f)oat iiiul the deserters. Acc-ording- 
Iv, the former was brought back in the course of the 
28 



tain Cook, m the Resolution. A few days after 
sailing from this island, the weather became s(iually, 
and a thick body of black clouds collected in the 
east. A water-spout was in a short time seen at no 
great distance from us, which appealed to great ad 
vantage from the darkness of the clouds behind it 
As nearly as I could judge, the upper p:ut was about 
two feet in diameter, and the lowei about eight 
inches. Scarcely had I made these re narks, whet 
I observed that it was rapidly advancing towards 
the ship. We immediately altered oiir course, and 
took in all the sails except the foresail ; soon after 
which it passed within ten yards of the stern, with 
a rustling noise, but withoiit our feeling the lest cf 
feet from its being so near. It seemed to be trar 
elling at the rate of about ten miles an hour, in the 
direction of the wind, as it di.-^persed in a quarter of 
an hour after passing us. It is impossible to say 
what injury we should have received had it passed 
directly over us. Masts, I imagine, mighc have 
been carried away, but I do not apprehend that it 
would have endangered the loss of the ship. 

Passing several islands on the way, we anchored 
at Annainooka on the 23d of April ; and an old larae 
man called Tepa, whom I had known here in 1777, 
and immediately recollected, came on board, along 
with others, from dirf"orent islands in the vicinity. 
They were desirous to see the ship, and on beirf^ 
taken below, where the bread-fruit plants were ar- 
ranged, they testified great surprise. A few of th^'se 
being decayed, we went on .shore to procure some in 
their j)lace. 

The natives exhibited numerous marks of the pe 
cnliar niourniitg which they express on losing thcil 
rehitives ; such as bloody temples, their heads being 
deprived of most of their hair ; and what was worse, 
almost thf whole of tliem had lost some of their 
lingers. Srvcral fine l)oys, not al)ove six yenri old, 
had lost f)Oth their littlefingers ; and soveral of the 
men, besides th«\«ie, had parted with the m»ddl« 
fintrer of the right hand. 

The chiefs went off with me »o dinner *nd wt 



218 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



rarried on a brisk trade for yams : we also got plain- 
tains and bread-frm;. But the yams were in great 
abundance, and very fine and large. One of them 
weighed above forty-five pounds. Sailing canoes 
came, some of which contained not less than ninety 
passengers. Such a number of them gradually ar- 
rived from different islands, that it was impossible 
to get any thing done, the multitude became so 
great, and there was no chief of sufficient authority 
to command the whole. I therefore ordered a 
watering part}', then employed, to come on board, 
and sailed on Sunday the 26th of April. 

"We kept near the island of Kotoo all the after- 
noon of Monday, in hopes that some canoes would 
come off to the ship, but in this we were disappoint- 
ed. The wind being northerly, we steered to the 
westward in the evening, to pass south of Tofoa ; 
and I gave directions for this course to be continued 
diiring the night. The master had the first watch, 
the gunner the middle watch, and Mr. Christian 
the morning watch. This was the turn of duty for 
the night. 

Hitherto the voyage had advanced in a course of 
uninterrupted proisperity, and had been attended 
with circumstarces equally pleasing and satisfac- 
tory. But a very different scene was now to be dis- 
ci jsed : a conspiracy had been formed, which was to 
render all our past labor productive only of misery 
and distress ; and it had been concerted with so 
much secrecy and circumspection, that no one cir- 
cumstance escaped to betray the impending ca- 
lamity. 

On the night of Monday, the watch was set as I 
have described. Just before sunrise on Tuesday 
morning, while I was yet asleep, Mr. Christian, 
with the master-at-arms, gunner's mate, and 
Thomas Burkitt, seaman, ct^me into my cabin, and 
seizing me, tied my hands with a cord behind my 
back, threatening me with instant death if I spoke 
or made th-e least noise. I nevertheless called out 
as loud as I could, in hopes of assistance ; but the 
officers not of their party weie already secured by 
sentinels at their doors. At my own cabin door 
were three men, besides the four within : all except 
Christian had muskets and bayonets ; he had only 
a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, and forced on 
deck in my shirt, suffering great pain in the mean 
time from the tightness with which my hands were 
tied. On demanding the reason of such violence, 
the only answer was abuse for not holding my 
tongue. The master, the gunner, surgeon, master's 
mate, and Nelson the gardener, v,ere kept confined 
below, and the fore-hatchway was guarded by sen- 
tinels. The boatswain and carpenter, and also the 
clerkj were allowed to come on deck, where they 
saw me standing abaft the mizzen-mast, with my 
hands tied behind my back, under a guard, with 
Christian at their head. The boatswain was then 
ordered to hoist out the launch, ac;^ompanied by a 
threat, if he did not do it instantly, to take care 

OF HIMSELF. 

The boat being hoisted out, Mr. Hayward and 
Mr. Hallet, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. Samuel, 
the clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the 
intention of giving this order, and endeavored to 
persuade the people near me not to persist in such 
acts of violence ; but it was to no effect ; for the 
con8*.ant answer was, " Hold your tongue, sir, or 
you are dead this moment." 

The master had by this time sent, requesting that 
he might come on deck, which was permitted ; but 
he was soon ordered back again to his cabin. My 
exertions to turn the tide of affairs were continued; 
when Cliristian, changing the cutlass he held for a 
bayonet, and holding me by the cord about my 
hands with a strong gripe, threatened me with im- 
mediate death if I would not be quiet ; and the 
villains around me had their pieces cocked, and 
bayonets fixed. 

Certain individuals were called on to get into the 
ocaU and were hiuiied over the ship's side ; whence 



I concluded that along with them I was to be set 
adrift. Another effort to bring about a change pro- 
duced nothing but menaces of having my brains 
blown out. 

The boatswain and those seamen who were to ba 
put into the boat were allowed to collect twine, can- 
vas, lines, sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty-gallon 
cask of water ; and Mr. Samuel got one hundred 
and fifty pounds of bread, with a small quantity o! 
rum and wine ; also a quadrant and compass, but 
he was prohibited, on pain of death, to touch any 
map or astronomical book, and any instrument, or 
any of my surveys and drawings. 

the mutineers having thus forced those of the 
seamen whom they wished to get rid of "into the 
boat, Christian directed a dram to be served to each 
of his crew. I then unhappily saw that nothing 
could be done to recover the ship. The officers 
were next called on deck, and forced over the ship's 
side into the boat, while I was kept apart from eve- 
ry one abaft the mizzen-mast. Christian, armed 
with a bayonet, held the cord fastening my hands, 
and the guard around me stood with their pieces 
cocked ; but on my daring the ungrateful wretches 
to fire, they uncocked them. Isaac Martin, one of 
them, I saw had an inclination to assist me ; and 
as he fed me with shaddock, my lips being quite 
parched, we explained each other's sentiments by 
looks. But this was observed, and he Avas removecL 
He then got into the boat, attempting to leave the 
ship ; however, he was compelled to return. Soriie 
others were also kept contrary to their inclination. 

if appeared to me that Christian was some time 
in doubt whether he should keep the carpenter or 
his mates. At length he determined on the latter, 
and the carpenter was ordered into the boat. He 
was permitted, though not without opposition to 
take his tool-chest. 

Mr. Samuel secured ray journals and commission, 
with some important ship papers : this he did with 
great resolution, though strictly watched. He at- 
tempted to save the time-keeper, and a box with my 
surveys, drawings, and remarks for fifteen years 
past, which were very numerous, when he was hur- 
ried away with — "Damn your eyes, you are well of! 
to get what you have." 

Much altercation took place among the mutinous 
crew during the transaction of this whole affair. 
Some swore, *' I'll be damned if he does not find 
his way home, if he gets any thing with him," 
meaning me ; and when the carpenter's chest was 
carrying away, " Damn my eyes, he will have a ves- 
sel built in a month ; " while others ridiculed the 
helpless situation of the boat, which was very deep 
in the water, and had:.o little room for those who 
were in her. As for Christian, he seemed as if medi- 
tating destruction on himself and every one else. 

I asked for arms, but the mutineers laughed at 
me, and said I was well acquainted with the people 
among whom I was going : four cutlasses, however, 
were thrown into the boat after we were veered 
astern. 

The officers and men being in the boat, they only 
waited for me, of which the master-at-arms inform 
ed Christian who then said, " Come, Captain Bligh. 
your officers are now in the boat, and you must go 
with them ; if you attempt to make the least re- 
sistance, you will instantly be put to death ; " and 
without further ceremony I was forced over the side 
by a ti'ibe of armed ruffians, where they untied my 
handsi. Being in the boat, we were veered astern 
by a rope. A few pieces of pork were thrown to us, 
also the four cutlasses. The armorer and carpenter 
then called out to me to remember that they had no 
hand in the transaction. After having been kept 
some time to make sport for these unfeeling wretch- 
es, and having undergone much ridicule, we were 
at length cast adrift in the open ocean. 

EightpPTi persons were with me in the boat, — the 
master, acting surgeon, botanist, gunner, boatswain 
carpenter, master, and quartermaster's mate, twa 



-trre- 



APPENDIX TO THE ISLAND. 



219 



Siartermasters, the sail -maker, two cooks, my clerk, 
e butcher, and a boy. There remained on board 
Fletcher Christian, the master's mate ; Peter Hay- 
Wood, Edward Young, George Stewait, midship- 
men ; the master-at-arms, gunner's mate, boat- 
swain's mate, gardener, armorer, carpenter's mate, 
carpenter's crew, and fourteen seamen, being al- 
together the most able men of the ship's company. 

Having little or no wind, we rowed pretty fast to- 
wards the island of Tofoa, which bore northeast 
about ten leagues distant. The ship while in sight 
steered west-northwest ; but this I considered only 
BS a feint, for when we were sent away, " Huzza for 
Otaheite ! ' was frequently heard among the muti- 
neers. 

Christian, the chief of them, was of a respecta- 
ole family in the north of England. This was the 
third voyage he had made with me. Notwithstand- 
ing the roughness with which I was treated, the re- 
mombran.ce of past kindnesses produced some re- 
morse in him. While they were forcing me out 
the ship, I asked him whether this was a proper re- 
turn for the many instances he had experienced of 
my friendship ? He appeared disturbed at the ques- 
tion, and answered with much emotion, ** That 
—Captain Bligh— that is the thing — I am in hell — 
I am in hell ! " His abilities to take charge of the 
third watch, as I had so divided the ship's company, 
were fully equal to the task. 

Haywood was also of a respectable family in the 
north of England, and a young man of abilities, as 
well as Christian. These two had been objects of 
my particular regard and attention, and I had taken 
great pains to instruct them, having entertained 
hopes that, as professional men, they would have 
become a credit to their country. Young was well 
recommended, and Stewart of creditable parents in 
the Orkneys, at which place, on the return of the 
Resolution from the South Seas in 1780, we received 
BO many civilities,- that in consideration of these 
alone I should gladly have taken him with me. But 
he had always borne a good character. 

When I had time to reflect, an inward satisfaction 
prevented the depression of my spirits. Yet, a few 
hours before, my situation had been peculiarly flat- 
tering ; I had a ship in the most perfect order, 
stored with every necessary, both for health and 
lervice; the object of the voyage was attained, and 
two-thirds of it now completed. The remaining 
Ipart bad cfery prospect of succoss 



It will naturally be asked, wLat could be the 
cause of such a revolt ? In answer, I can only con- 
jecture that the mutineers had flattered'themselvea 
with the hope of a happier life among the Otaheit 
ans than they could possibly enjoy in England 
which, joined to some female ccnne.Kions, most 
probably occasioned the whole transaction. 

The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
cheerful in manners and conversation, possessed ol 
great sensibility, and have sufftcient delicacy to 
make them be admired and beloved. The chiefs 
were so much attached to our people, that they 
rather encouraged their stay among ihem than oth- 
erwise, and even made them promises oi Lirge pos- 
sessions. Under these and many other concomi- 
tant circumstances, it ought hiadly to be the suo- 
ject of surprise that a set of sailors, most of them 
void of connexions, should be led away, where 'hey 
had the power of fixing themselves in the midst ol 
plenty, in one of the finest islands in the world, 
where there was no necessity to labor, and where 
the allurements of dissipation are beyond any con- 
ception that can be formed of it. The utmost, how- 
ever, that a commander could have expected was de- 
sertions, such as have already happened more or 
le!?s in the South Seas, and not an act of open mu- 
tiny. 

But the secrecy of this mutiny surpasses belief, 
Thirteen of the party who were now with me had 
always lived forward among the seamen, yet neither 
they, nor the messmates of Christian, Stewart, 
Haywood, and Young, had ever observed any cir- 
cumstance to exci<-e suspicion of what was plotting ; 
and it is not wonderful if I fell a sacrifice to it, my 
mind being entirely free from suspicion. Perhaps, 
had mariners been on board, a sentinel at my cabin 
door might have prevented it ; for I constantly slept 
with the door open, that the officer of the watch 
might have access to me on all occasions. If the 
mutiny had been occasioned by any grievances, 
either real or imaginary, I must have discovered 
symptoms of discontent, which would have put me 
on my guard ; but it was far otherwise. With 
Christian, in particular, I was on the most fi-iendly 
terms ; that very day he was engaged to have dined 
with mo ; and the preceding night he excused hiiu- 
self from supping with me on pretence of indispo- 
sition, for which I felt concerned, h&Tiug no BU» 
picions of his honor or integrity. 



MANFEED : 



A DRAMATIC POEM, 



■ There are more thinfi in heaven and eaitb, Hontll^ 
naa «ie dreamt of in your pfailoKphj." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

• 

Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch op the Alps, 

Arimanes. 
Nemesis. 
The Destinies. 
Spirits, &c. 

rhi> Soene of the Drama is among the higher Alps — 
partly in the Castle of Manfred^ and partly in the 
Mountains. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Manfbjss alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery. — Time, 
Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep. 
But a continuance of enduring thought. 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil and these eyes but close 
To look witliin : and yet I live, and bear 
The*aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
Borrow is knowledge : they who know the most, 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth. 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 



Of wonder, and the wisdom of the woiid» 

I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 

A power to make these subject to itself— 

But they. avail not : I have done men good, 

And I have met with good even among men — 

But this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 

And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 

But this avail'd not : Good or evil, life, 

Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 

Have been to me as rain unto the sands 

Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 

And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes 

Or lurking love of something on the earth.— 

Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the imbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light— 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appear 1 

[A pausik 
They come not yet. — ^Now by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! Appear ! 

[Apauatk 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air, 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell. 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul. 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery : it 
is stationary ; and a voice is hea'>-d singing. 



MANFRED. 



221 



FiBST Spirit. 

Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
Which tlie breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd. 
Mortal — ^be thy wish avow'd. 

Voice of the Seconi> Spirit. 

Mount Blanc is the monarch of mountains 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of cjouds. 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, tkat thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass. 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou f 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 

In the blue depth of the waters, * 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
SVliere the mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the siirface 

Came the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit. 

Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire, / 

And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher ; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 

% am the Rider of the wind. 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

r swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sailM well, and yet 

Twill aink ere night be past. 



Sixth Spirit. 



My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with lia-bt ? 

Seventh Spirit 

The star which rules thy destiny 

Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 

It was a world as fresh and fair 

As e'er revolved round sun in air, 

Its course was free and regular. 

Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 

The hour arrived — and it became 

A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 

A pathless comet, and a curse. 

The menace of the universe ; 

Still rolling on with innate force. 

Without a sphere, without a course ! 

A bright deformity on high, 

The monster of the upper sky ! 

And thou ! beneath its influence bom— 

Thou worm ! whom I obey and seem— 

Forced by a power, (which is not thine, 

And lent thee but to make thee mine,) 

For this brief moment to descend, 

Where these weak spirits round thee bend 

And parley with a thing like thee — 

What wouldst thou. Child of Clay ! with mm * 

The Seven Spirits. 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, Ihy star. 
Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay ! 

Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals— aay \ 

Man. Forgetfulness 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why i 

Man. Of that which is within me ; read it there^ 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which ir» 
possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all. 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion- 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou mayst die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me } 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Yo mock me — but the power which brouglit 
ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will t 
The mind, the Spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your o>vn, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay 
Answer, or I will teach ye what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Si»rit. If, as thou sar'st, thine essence be as out 



222 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 

Mati. I then have call'd ye from your realms in 
vain. 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and stiength, and length of 
days 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — begone ! 

Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
thee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
WTiich we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we 
part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the mind and principle : 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Ma7i. I have no cUoice ; there is no form on earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 

Seventh Spirit, f Appearing in the shape of a 
beautiful female figure.) Behold ! 

Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
Art not a madaess and a mockery. 
I yet will be most happy. I will clasp thee. 

And we again will be [TAe figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 
[Manfred falls senseless. 

A voice is Jteard in the Incantation which follows.) 

When the moon is on the wave. 
And the glow-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass ; 

When the falling stars are shooting, 

And the answer'd owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill. 

Shall my soul be upon thine, 

With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep. 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 

By a power to thee unknown. 

Thou canst never be alone ; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen. 
Most be near thee, and hath been 



And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head. 
Thou shalt marvel I am not 
As thy shadow on the spot, 
And the power which thou dost feel 
Shall be what thou must conceal. 



And a magic voice and verse 
Hath baptized thee with a curse, 
And a spirit of the air 
Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
In the wind there is a voice 
Shair forbid thee to rejoice ; 
And to thee shall Night deny 
All the quiet of her sky ; 
And the day shall have a sun, 
Which shall make thee wish it done. 



From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill \, 

From thy own heart I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring : 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snahe, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm j 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 



By thy cold breast and serpent smile. 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye. 

By thy ^ut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 

By thy delight in others' pain. 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 



And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote chte to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nur to die. 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee. 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — ^now wither! 



SCENE II. 

The Movtntain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Mrtruimg. 
Manfred alone upon the Cliffa. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandoij m&-» 
The spells which I have studied bafiie ab — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf 'd in darkness. 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth 1 



MANFRED. 



£28 



^nd thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Moun- 
tains, 
Wl>y are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart, 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
1 feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I sec the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm 
There is a power upon me which withholds, 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thon wing'd and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
How glorious in its action and itself ! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, Avith our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degredation and of pride. 
Contending with low wants and lofty will. 
Till our mortality predominates, 
And men are — what they name not to themselves. 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. 
The mutual music ^f the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastor 111 fablo — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd; 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyiocnt — born and dying 
Wilh the b.est tone which made me ! 

Enter from helow a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois Hunger. Even so 

ndd way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Bavc bafllod me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Hepay n\y breakncfk travail. — "^Vhat is here ? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Bavc our best hunters, may attain ; his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly^ and his air 
Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance— 
I will approach him nearer. 

M tn. (not perceiving the other.) To be thus — 
Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
A oiighttd trtink upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay— 



And to be thus, eternally but thus, 

Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'e* 

With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by yean 

And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 

Which I outlive ! — ye toppling crags of ice ! 

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws do^vn 

In mountainous o'envhelming, come and crush me . 

I hear ye momently above, beneath, 

Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass, 

And only fall on things that still would live ; 

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 

And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up thevaReyj 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; cloudi 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 

C.'Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near 
A sudden step wnM startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. ^- Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys Avith destruction's splinters . 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus. 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg- 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink 1 

Man. (iwt hearing him.) Such would have bPNi 
for me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rooks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shaL 

be— 
In this one plunge, — Farewell, ye opening heavens 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
Ye were not meant for me — Earth ' take these a toms ! 
\As Mankubd is in act to sp) ing from the cliffy 
the Chamois Huntke seizts and retains him 
toith a sudden grasp. 

C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of th/ 
Ufe, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood-- 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

Ma7i. 1 am most sick at heait — nay, grasp dmi 
not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind "What an 

thou ? 

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon, — Awny >vith me— 

The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me— • 

Phiceyour foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand. 
And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gained within an hour — 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Huth wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis brarely 

done — 
You should have been a hunter.r— Follow me. 



As they desceiul (}>• 
scnu) ctostta. 



ks trifh lU/fiiuItv. iht 



224 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



ACT n. 

SCENE I. 

A Cottage among the Bernese Alps. 

Manfbes and the Chamois Hunteb. 

C. Hun. No, no— yet pause — thou must not yet 
go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance, 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to th%ir doors, 
T know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Htm. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine : 
*Tis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy senses wan- 
der from thee. 

Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours. 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed : but still it rises up, 
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half- 
maddening sin. 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — that word 
was made 
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
!t must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years. 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number : ages — ages — , 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
Wiih the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked! 

C. Hun "Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'Bt thou existence doth depend on 
time? 



It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mire 
Have made my days and nights imperishable 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves breakj 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt surf-weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must noi 
leave him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I seo 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That th^u dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Ma7i. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alpi— 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toiU), 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — ^my soul was scorch'd already ! 

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy 
lot for mine ? 

Ma7i. No, friend I I would not wrong thee noi 
exchange 
My lot with living being : I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to djeam, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Htm. And with this— 

This cautious feeling for another's pain. 
Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 

Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 

My injuries came down on those who loved m^— 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest I 

And penitence restore thee to thyself ; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not. 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell! — here's gold and thanks ft* 

ttiee — 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain perils pass'd :— 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! » 



SCENE IL 
A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Catarict. 

Enter Manfred. 

It is noon— Ine sunbow's rays still arch 
The torrent with the many hues ' of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving coliunn 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
But mine now diink this sight of loveliness 



MANFRED. 



22.'^ 



1 should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters — I will call her. 

'Manfred takes some of the water into the 
palm of his hand, and flings it in the air. 
ymtttering the adjuration. After apaiise, the 
Witch of the Alps rises beneath the arch 
of the sunbeam of the torrent. 
Beautiiul Spirit ! with thy hair of- light, 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least-mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leavei 
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
The blush of earth embracing with her heaven — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glass 'd serenity of soul, 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — if that he 
Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
^nd gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both. 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — ^what wouldst thou with me ? 

Man. To look upon thy beauty — ^nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But (hey can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch What could be the quest 
Which is not in the power of the most powerfal. 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 

Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 

Man. Well, though it torture me. 'tis but the 
same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, "my griefs, my passions, and my powfers, 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who but of her anon. 

I said with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
I held but slight communion ; but instead. 
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 
The diffifult air of the iced mountain's top, 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or oceaD, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 



To follow through the night the moving noon. 

The stars and their development ; or catch 

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 

Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves. 

While Autumn winds were at their evening song 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hati'cig to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I fel 1, myself degraded back to them, 

Ad.I was all clay again. And then I dived. 

In. my lone wanderings, to the caves of death. 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught. 

Save in the old time ; and with time and toil. 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air. 

And spirits that do compass air and earth. 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I mado 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings i.-aise4 

Eros and Anteros 2 at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

rhe thii;gt of knowledge, and the power ana joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my wordx 
Boasting these idle attributes, becruse 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties : 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes. 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty ; 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings. 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine^ 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not , 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own-- 
I lov'd her, and destroy'd her ! 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but hesirt — wHch br»ka 
her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood waj shed' 
I saw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for thi»— 

A being of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine o^vn would rise above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and nhrink'st baok 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man. laughter of Air! 1 tell thee, since that 
h.)ur — 
Bht wordo are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Or watch miv watchings — Come and sit ly me 
My solituQe is solitude no more. 
But peopled with the Furies ; — I hare gnMh'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning mora* 



2^6 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



Then cxixsed myself till sunset ; — I have pray'd 

For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 

I have affronted death — but in the war 

Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 

Ajid fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 

Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 

Back by a single hair, which would not break. 

In phantasy, imagination, all 

The affluence of my soul — which one day was 

A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep. 

But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 

Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 

1 plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 

1 sought in all, save where 'tis to be found. 

And that I have to learn — my sciences, 

My long pursued and superhuman art. 

Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 

And live — and live forever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do , 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
Man. 1 Avill not swear — Obey ! and, whom ? the 
spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all ? 

Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 
Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
Man. Retire ! 

[The Witch disappears. 
Man. f alone.) We are the fools of time and terror : 
Days 
Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live. 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks wnth sorrow, or beats quick with pain. 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Btill in my science — I can call the dead, 
Aid ask them what it is we dread to be : 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not— 
The buried Prophet answer'd to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he sleWj 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
Ip words of dubious import, but fulfilled.' 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
ttad still beei living ; had I never loved, 



That which I love would still be beautiful- 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she I 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins— • 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in" this hour I di-ead the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my he^rt, 
But I can act even what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — the night appicachei 

SCENE III. 

The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain 

Enter First Destiny. 
The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright , 
And here on snows, w^here never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam. 
Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's image; 
And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
The fretwork of some earthquake — where the cloadf 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or Qur vigils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not 

A Voice without, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne. 
Lay buried in torpor. 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
With a nation's destruction— his flight and ^espair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast. 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast : 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his witxk 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the Mir, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But leaved him to wreak further havoc for me * 

First Destiny, answering 
The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping • 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it,— 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherisli ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from 

Sorrow and angniah 



MANFRED. 



227 



And evil and dread, 

Envelup a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I've done, and shall still be rene\ving ! 

Ente^ the Second and Teird Destinies. 

The Three. 
Oui hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves ; 
We only give to take again 

1 he spirits of our slaves ! 

First D<iS. Wei* ome ! — Where's Nemesis ? 
Second Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
A.vengirg men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date. 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves. 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outstay'd the hour — ^mount we our clouds ! 

[Exeuni. 

SCENE IV. 

The Hall of Arimanes. — Arimanes on his Throne, a 
Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

llail to our Master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

AVho walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements — which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth— and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and theclouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
• To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Dhstinies and Nemesis. 

first Des. Glory to Arimanes! on the earth 
His p()W(;r incrcaseth — both luy sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

/V«m. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we axe thine, 



And all that liveth, more or less, is cviTS, 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 



Etiter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is herm 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Uow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man— 

A Magician of great power and fearful skill ! 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave! 
What, know'st thou not 
Thii f and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey 

AU ths Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con- 
demned clay. 
Child o.*" the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it; 

And yot 7 =! see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

Man. "i ii taught already ; — many a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare gn^und, have I bow'd down my face. 
And slrew'd my head with ashes ; I have knowr 
Tlie fulness of lumJliation, for 
I sunk before my \ ain despair, and knell 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
• Wliat the whole earth :^ccoi ds, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory- -Crouch ! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down tu that which is abote 
him, 
Ihe overruling Infinite — the Mrkpr 
"Who made him not for worship— let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

2%e Spirits. Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

Fir si' Des. Hence! Avaunt ! -h<»'r mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And pi 3.'.ence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal natxire, like 
Our own ; h?s knowledge, and his powers, an«? wlU 
As far as ii compatible with clay, 
AVhich clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay haih seldom borne ; his aspiratiijns 
Have' been beyond the dwellers of the earth. 
And they \\ii\c on!!y taught him what we know- 
That knowlcdjre is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nui 

being. 
Nor breath from the wcm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart; a.'id in their consequeaoe 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pit v. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be i<. *»o, or not 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his^-or power upon his soul. 

Nem. What doth he here thnn ? 

First Des. Let h'm aivswer that 

Man. Yo know what I have known ; %xxd witboui 
power 
1 1 could not be amon^ ye : but there ara 



228 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of 81 ch, to answer unto what I seek. 

Nem. What would'st thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 

Ari. Yea. 

yem. Whom wouldst thou 

Unchamcl ? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

4flUrte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return 'd to the earth, 

Reappear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou werest, 
Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requii-es thee here ! 
[^I'he Phantom of Astakte 7'ises and stands in 
the midst. 
Man. Cim this be death ? there's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — ^but bid her speak— 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken. 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent. 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of 
air! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit— obey this sceptre ! 

Nem. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
Ajad we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have 30 much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Bay that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
Per hitherto all hateful things conspire 
''o bind me in existence — in a life 



Which makes me shrink from imm irtality^— 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and wliat I am ; 
And I would hear yet once more before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering biids from the hush'd 

boughs, 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the cavef 
Acquainted veith thy vainly echoed name. 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me- 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth. 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — ^but say— 
I nsck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 

Man. ' Say on, say oxy-» 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

PJtan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthlt 
ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, th.^u lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappear*. 

Nem. She's gone, and vrill not be recall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, 
and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ?— 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manf&bd 
{Scene closes.) 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall m the Castle of Manfred 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 
Her. It wants but one till aonaet 

And promises a lovely twilight. 



MANFRED. 



229 



Mar.. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. {alone.) There is a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
It that I did not know philosphy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolraan'i jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once ; 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 
And I within my tablets would note do^vn 
That there is such a feeling. "Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these 
walls ; 
rhy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — What would my reverend 
guest ? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude :— Age and zeal, my 
office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighborhood, 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
Ard busy Avith thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed. — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse wiih. the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man. 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou oommunest. I know that with mankind. 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
It is an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things i 

Abbot. My pious brethem — the scared peasantry' — 
Rven thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abb )t. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I wouid not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
W\ih the true church, and through the church to 
heaven. 

Man. I hear th» e. Thi» is my reply ; whate'er 



I may have been, or am, i'^th rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not cnoose a mcrtal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishnent, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from lin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to heaven — " Vengeance is mine alone." 
So saith the Lord, and wth all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men.. 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast - 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
The innate tortures of that dee^ despair, 
Which is remorse without the feai- of hell 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its o%vn sins, wiongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self condemn'^ 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place 
AVhich all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon'd. 

Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near hu 
last, 
The \-ictim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
With show of royal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back and said 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ? " 

Abbot. And what of this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman 

" It is too late ! " 

Abbot. It nevt«r can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope i 
'Tis strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape thonisolves some phantasy on earth, 
To which frail twig they cling like drowning men 

iMan. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly risioiv. 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightonor of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it mijiht be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain-ratnrnot. 
Which having leapt from its lyorc da/zling height 
FiVen in the foaming strength of its nbyss, 
("WTiich casts up misty columns that bwome 
Clouds raining from the reascendcd skies,) 
Lips low but mighty still. Btit this is past. 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore to I 

Man. I could not tame my nature dovm ; !oi he 



230 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Must serve wKo fain would sway — and sooth — and 
» sue — 

And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing among the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men ? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from Ufe ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
Tl o red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom, 
"Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
Tlie course of my existence ; but there came 
Tilings in my path which are no more. 

Abb )t. Alas ! 

1 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age. 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Si)nie of disease — and some of insanity — 
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts. 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things 
•One were enough ; then wonder nor that 1 
Am what I am, but that I ever was. 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 

[Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. Thip should have been a noble creature: he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts^ 
Mix'd, and contending without cy.'\ or order, 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
For ''uch are worth redemption ; and my duty 
U to lare all things for a righteous end. 
[*li follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. 

SCENE II. 

Another Chamber. 

Manfred and. Herman. 
Het My lord, you bade me wait on yoa at sunset : 
tte sinks behind the mcuntain. 



Man. Doth it so" 

I will look on him 

[Manfred advances to tlie Window cf the Hatt, 
Glorious Orb 1 the ido. 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons^ 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than tliey, which did draw down 
The erring spuits who can ne'er retm-n. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
"WTiich gludden'd, on their mountain tops, the htaiti 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief stai • 
Centre of many stars I which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
Even as our outwai-d aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my fii-st glance 
Of love and wonder was for t.'iee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have beeu 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [EaM Manfbbh. 

SCENE III. 

The Mountains. — The Cattle of Manfrt^d at sonu 
distance. — A Terrace before a Tower. — Time^ 
Twilight 

Herman, Manuel, and. other Dependants of 
Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough; night after night, foi 
years. 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it.- 
So have we all been ofttimes, but from it. 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
One cliaip.bor where none enter : I would gi\e 
The fee of what I have to come these three years 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. . 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within lim 

castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Ma7iuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits: 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free,— 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 



MANFRED. 



23 1 



And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
Ftom men and their deUghts 

Her. Beshre-w the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
A.S if they had forgotten them. 

Mamtel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Borne strange things in them, Herman. 

Her. Come, he friendly ; 

Relate me some to while away r^ur watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Eegan to glittrr with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfreo was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love>— 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 

The lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master ? 

He7 . Yonder in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be- 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee. 

Knock, and apprize t^ e Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of iny o-'vn purpose. 

Mamiel. Reverend father, stop — 

1 pray you pause. 

Abbot. "Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. {Exeicnt. 



SCENE IV. 

Interior of the Tower. • 

Manfred alone. 
Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of tho snow-shining mountaius. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet wltli Nature, for the night 
Hath boon to nic a more lumiliar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shftde 
Of dim and solitary lovPHness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember nie, tliat in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; 



The trees which grew along the broken arche§ 

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the star 

Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 

The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; 5»nd 

More near from out the Caesars' palace came 

The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 

Of distant sentinels the fitful song 

Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 

Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 

Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 

Within a bowshot — Where the Csesars dwelt. 

And dwell the tuneless bii-ds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth , — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesars' chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugg'd desolation, and fill'd up,' 

As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries. 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 

And making that which Avas not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old I — 

The dead, but sceptered sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'Twas such a night i 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 



Enter ^Ae? Abbot 

Abbot. My good lora • 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I shoula 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded: 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not i { 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost thou meau \ 

Man. Look there 

What dost thou sec ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there. I 8a), 

And steadfastly ;--now tell me what thou seost i 

Abbot. That which should shake me,- -but I feai 
it not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise 
Like an infernal god from out the earth ; 
His face ^vrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands Dotween 
Thyself and inc— but I do fear nim not. 

Man. Thou hast no cttU8i»— ho slnJl no* hant 
theo — but 



232 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee— Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply- 

Never— till I have battled with this fiend— 
What doth he here ? 

Man. Why— ay— what doth he here ?— 

[ did not send for him, — ^he is unbidden. 

A^bot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like 
these 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake; 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
/ h ! he unveils his aspect ; on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality ©f hell— 
Avaunt ! — 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown ^eing ! answer ! 
— speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come! 'tis 
time. 

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sent thee 
here ? 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon— Come ! come ! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 

Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! — I 
say. 

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren. — 
Rise ! [Other spirits rise up. 

Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power. 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
it were in vain ; this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me; yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Bhall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Snirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
\ rt tl. us in love with life ? the very life 
Which made thee wretched I 



Man. Thou false Send, thou lies< 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know. 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not combat against death-, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels : my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
But by superior science — penance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind— «ud 

skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand . 
Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy heU ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that 1 know: 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine ; 
"The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No color from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorb' d in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of his own desert. 
Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst no« 

tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But w.is my ovm. destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

[The Demons disappear. 

Abbot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips ax« 
white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to heaven- 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not. 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well- 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart- • 

But yet one prayer — alas ! how fares it with thee ?— 

Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expire* 

Abbot. He's gone — ^his soul hath ta'en its earth 
less flight — 
Whither ? I dread to think— but he fs gOQ» 
V 



NOTES TO MANFRED. 



1. 

the sunJbow^s rays still arch 



The torrent with the many hues of heaven. 

Page 224, lines 102 and 103. 
This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the 
O'F.'jr part of the Alpine torrents ; it is exactly like 
A rainbow, come down to pay a visit, and so close 
that you may walk into it : — this effect lasts till noon. 
2. 
He who from out their fountain dwellings raited 
Eros and Anteros, at Gadara. 

Page 225, lines 86 and 87. 
The philosopher lamblicus. The story of the 
raising of Eros and Anteros may be found in his 
*fe by Eunapius. It is well told. 
3. 



-she replied 



In words of dubious import. 

Page 226, line's 



The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (wh(. 
commanded the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and 
afterwards perished for an attempt to betray th« 
Lacedemonians,) and Cleonice- is told in Plutarch'i 
Life of Cimon ; and in the Laconics of Pausaniai 
the Sophist, in his description of Greece. 



t he grant sons 
Of the embrace of angels. 

Page 230, lines 65 and 66. 
"That the Sons of God saw the daughters o! 
men that they were ta.iT," &c. 

" There were giants in the earth in those days ; 
and also after that, when the Sotis of God came in 
untp the daughters of men, and they bare children 
to them, the same became mighty mer which were 
of old, men of renown." — Genesis, oh. vi. verses 2 
and 4. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED: 

A DEAMA. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

This production is founded partly on the story of 
a novel called "The Three Brothers," published 
many years ago, from which M. G. Ld'wis's " Wood 
Demon " was also taken, and partly on the " Faust " 
of the great Goethe. The present publication con- 
tains the two first Parts only, and the opening 
chorus of the third. The rest may, perhaps, appear 
aereafter 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men. — Stiianoer, afterwards Cmsajsl. 
Arnold. 
Bourbon. 
Philibebt. 
Oellini. 

Women. — Bertha. 
Olimpia. 

Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Romtf Priests ^ 
PeasatUs, Ac 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 
A Forest. 

Enter Arnold and his mother Bertha, 

Bert. Out, hunchback ! 

Am. I was bom so, mother 

Bert. Oui 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven soui 
The sole abortion ! 

Am. Would that I had been so. 

And never seen the light ! 

Bert. I would so too ! 

But as thou hast — hence, hence — and do thy t>e«tl 
Tliat bulk of thine may bear its burden ; 'tis 
More high, if not so brood as that of others. 

Artt. It ht'ars its burden ; — but, my heart ! Will H 
Sustain thiit which you lay upon it, mother ? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
8ave vou, in nature, can love aught like me, 
You nursed mv -<lo not kill mc ! 

Bert. Tf»-I nuiMd \hm 



^34 



BYRON'S WOflKS. 



Because thou wert m} fiist-bora, and 1 knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 
And gather wood ! 

Arti. I will ; but when I bring it, 

Bpeak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
Bo beautiful aud lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they follow, do not spurn me : 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's 

WTiieh sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid find 
The nipple next day sore and udder di-y. 
Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As fooli&h hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon stiange eggs. Out, urchin, out. 

[Exit Bertha. 

Am. (solus.) Oh mother ! She's gone, and I 

must do 
Her bidding ;— wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
4. kind •« ord in return. What shall I do ? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood: in doing this he 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labor for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blond that fiows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home. — What home ? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too 
Like them ? Oh that each di-op which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have 

stung me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me. 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Ever to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to wash 
his hand : he starts back. 
They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. \He pause*. 

And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
Uii ; ■; what brought me into life ? Thou blood, 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Four forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
Thr ah ape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if this will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my 
Vile form — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground, with 
the point upwards. 

Now 'tis set, 
And I can fall upon it. T 3t one glance 



On the fair day, wldch sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun, which warm'd me, bul 
In vain. The birds— how joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The fallen leaves my monument ; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy : 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the kmjft, 
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain 
which seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters gtii, 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What's here ? A mist ! No mOre ? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He standi 
gazing upon it : it is dispelled, and a tall black 
man comes towards hi?n. 

Am. What would you ? Speak 

Spirit or man ? 

Stran. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Am. Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men are that 

Which is so called or thought, that you may add mti 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But Gome : you wish to kill yourself ; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Am. You have interrupted rce. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made yon 
Mine, and for ever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Arn. I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you can't tell how he approaches : 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to br 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Arn. Do you— dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With' thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, mow 

mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself. 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural ; 'twas only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

Am. Give me the strength then of the buffalo I 
foot, 
When he spurns hrgh the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary ; — and I'll bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Am. {with surprise.) Thou canst ? 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



23j 



Stran, Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 

Am. Thou mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

VVhat all are mocking r That's poor sport, methinks, 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine) the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
No^ / can mock the mightiest. 

A^yi Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

Strati. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 

Am. What wilt thou, do for me ? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you, 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

Am. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I'll show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee 
Thy choice. 

Am. On what condition ? 

Stran. There's a question ! 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am. No ; I will not. 

I must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 

Am. 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement 
[n which it is mislodged. But name your compact : 
Must it be sign'd in blood ? 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Am. Whose blood then ? 

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

Hut I'll be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content ? 

Am. I take thee at th} word. 

Stran. Now then ! — 

[yV/c Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to A UN OLD. 

A little of your blood. 

A't'n. For what ? 

St-an. To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
knd make the charm effective. 

..4m. {Ivoldimj out his wouiuled arm.) Take it all. 

Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this. 
[The Stranger takes some of Arnold's blood in 
his hand., and casts it into the fountain. 

atran. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shad iws of power ! 
Rise to your duty — 
This .8 the hour ! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From tlio dt^i.th ot' this fountain, 
As the cloud-sliiipcn giant 

Bestrides the Hartz mountain.* 



* Thta b > well- known Gennan lupentltlui^- -• «1gnntlo itwdow prodiMwU 
^Aadtn (HI (he Brocken. 



Come as ye were, 
i That our eyes may behold 

I • The model in air 

Of the form I will mould. 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd ; — 
Such his desire is, {^Pointing to AbmoL1> 

Such my command ! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 
Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman's picture, 

Who breath'd to destroy- 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Up to your duty — 
This is the hour ! 
[Various Phantoms arise from the wai'^,and 
pass ill succession before the Stranger and 
Arnold. 
Am. What do I see ? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
Am. The phantom's bald ; my quest is beauty 
Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 

Stran. His brow was girt with laureds more thaa 
hairs. 
You see his uspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his fonn ; his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Am. 1 will fight too. 

But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother. 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The 2)hantom of Julius Ctrsar disappear; 
Am. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth "« gone, 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. H\3 substanM 

Left graves -enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 'tis no more than youra 
Except a little Innf^er and less crooked 
I the sun. Behold another ! 

[A second phantom panm, 
Am. Who is he ? 

Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Aiheninns. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautifiil ! 
Stran. Such was the curled son of CliniM 
wouldst thou 
Invest thee with his form ? 

Am. Would that I had 

Been born with it ! But since I may choose further 
I will look further. 

f TAe shade of Alcibiad^t disappmn 
Stran. Lo ! behold asoin ! 



236 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Am AVhat ! that low, swarthy, short-noaed, round- 
eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature ! I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him ? 

Am. If his form could bring me 

That which redeem' d it — no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Am. No. I was not born for philosophy, 
Though I have that about me which has need on't. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[The shadow of Socrates disappears : another 
rises. 

Am. What's here ? whose broad brow and whose 
curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leanins^ dejected on his club of conquest, 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Am. 1 cannot blame him, 

lUnce I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchang'd the earth for. 

Stran. ^ Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features ? 

Am. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
[f but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
WTaence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir ! 

Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 

[The shade of Antony disappears : another rises. 

Am. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod, 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature. 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 
WTiich he wears as the sun his rays — a something 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was lie e'er human only f 

Stran. Let the earth speak, 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Am. Who was this glory of mankind ? 

Stran. The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Am. Yet one shadow more. 

Stran. (addressing the shadow.) Get thee to La- 
mia's lap. 
[The shade of Demetrius Poliocetes vanishes: 
another rises. 

I'll fit you still. 
Fear not, my hunchback. If the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I'll animate the ideal marble, till 
Vour soul be reconc'led to her new garment. 



Am. Conten'i, .' I vdll fix here. 

Strati. I ^'»-st commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of tLe sea- goddesn 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks. 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flomng waters by the wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were— behold thent 
And him — as he stood by Polixana, 
With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

Am. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

Stran. You have done well. The greatefK 

Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Am. Come ! Be quiclk 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 

Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is what must be. 

Am. Must I wait ? 

Stran. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two 
His stature is twelve cubits : would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak ? 

Arn. Why not ? 

Stran. Glorious ambition! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David : 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged. 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; fo\ all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed e^igines, 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armor there, with greater eass 
Than the adulterer's arrow through his heel, 
TVTiich Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

Am. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 

Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing tAoti 
seest, 
And strong as what it was, and — 

Arn. I ask not 

For valor, since deformity is daring 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal— 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortnnft. 
And oft, like Timour, the lame Tartar, win them. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



237 



Stran "Well spoken ! And thou doubtless wilt 
remain 
F Jna'J as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Uf shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it ? 

Am. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way, with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
An hateful and unsightly molehill to 
The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the woild they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, but of despair ; nor sought to win, 
Though to a heart all love, what could no£ love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog, 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — ^my dam beheld my shape was hopeless. 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
A.nd perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
And he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whorr I 
Would be beloved. As thou showesi me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste! Haste! 

Stran. ' And what shall I wear ? 

Am. Surely he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris : or — still higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Arn. Your aspect is 

.Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I chose, 

I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear : 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
^d now I'll take your figure. 

Am. Mine . 

Stran. Yes. You 

Bball change with Thetis' son, and 1 with Bertha, 
Yo ir mother's offspring. People have their tastes ; 
You have yours — I mine. 

Atn. Despatch ! despatch ! 



Stran. Even so 

[The Stranger takes some earth and mottid$ % 
along the turf, and then addresses ike phan 
torn of Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 

Of Thestis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Tro) 
From the red earth, like Adam,* 

Thy likeness I shape, 
As the being who made him, 

Whose actions I ape. 
Thou clay, be all glomng, 
Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 
Ye violets, I scatter. 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou sunshiny water, 
Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair. 
And wave o'er his brows. 
As thou wavest in air I 
Let his heart be this marblo 

I tear from the rock 1 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightes* 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me. 

Be mingled and stirr'd. 
Know me, and hear me. 
And leap to my word ! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation ! 
'Tis done ! He hath taken 
His stand in creation ! 
[Arnold falls senseless ; his soul pasats rttt 
the shape of Achilles, which rises from tti* 
ground ; while the phantom has disappeared, 
part by part, as the figure wot formed from th* 
earth. 
Am. (in his new form.) I love, and I shall b« 
beloved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 

Stran. Stop ! 

Wliat shall become of your abandon 'd gannent, 
Your hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
Which late you wore, or were ? 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolv« 

And vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you'll aaj 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Am. Let us but leave it there \ 

No matter what becomes on't. 

Stran. That's ungrmoknM, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 



Adam mawia " rid mrik ' from which Ihe Brr. tnu\ vm kiuai 



2?8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Arn. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which -is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship :— and therefore 
Borne one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 
Am. Who would do so ? 

St7-an. That I know not, 

And therefore 1 must. 
Arn. You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

Ifou inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Sf.ran. In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Tourself for ever by you, as your shadow. 
Am. I would be spared this. 
Stran. Biit it cannot be. 

What ! shrink already, being what you are. 
From seeing what you were ? 
Am. Do as thou vpilt. 

Stran. (to the late form of Arnold, es-tended on 
the earth. J 
Clay ! not dead, but soulless ! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire ! toithout which nought can live ; 
Fire ! but m which nought can live. 
Save the fabled salamander. 
Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive. 
Howling for a drop of water, 

Burning in a quenchless lot : 
Fire ! the only element 
Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 
Save the worm which dieth not, 
Can preserve a moment's form. 
But must with thyself be blent ; 
Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter : 
Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter, 
And Destruction's threaten'd son 
When heaven with the world hath done 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold ! 
His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 

But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
\^An if/nis-fatuii^ fits through the wood, and 
rests on the brow of the hod,y. The Stranger 
disappears : the body rises. 
Am. (in his new form. J Oh ! horrible ! 
Stran. (in Arnold's late shape.) What ! trem- 

blest thou ? 
Am. Not so— 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest ? • 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt thou ? 



Am. Must thou be my companion ? 

Stran. Where fere nvi i 

Your betters keep worse company. 

Am. My betters ! 

Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I see, of your nwi 
form: 
I'm glad of that. Ungiateful too That's well ; 
You improve apace : — two changes in an uistant, 
And you are old in the world's wajs aheady. 
But bear ^^-ith me : indeed, you'll find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now be errant ? 

Am. Where the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stra?i. That's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let's see ! 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, 
There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 

A7'n. I have heard great things of Rome. 

Stra7i. A goodly choiM 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and Spanish scion 
Of the old Yandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Am. How 

Shall we proceed ? 

Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 

"WTiat ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages with four coal-black horse: 

Am. . A noble sight : 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam which volumes high 

From their proud nostrils, burns the very air ; 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
Ai-ound their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord j 

They and I are your servitors. 

Am. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 

Stran. You shall baptize them. 

Am. What ! in holy water ? 

Stran. AYhy not ? The deeper sinner, better saints 

Am. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be 
demons. 

Stran. True ; the devil's always ugly ; <nd yom 
beauty 
Is never diabolical. 

Am. I'll call him 

Wlio bears the golden horn, and wears sucn bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest, 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not* 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
He shall be Memnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper ono« a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 



THE DEFORMED TEANSFORMED. 



289 



as many attributes ; but as I wear 

\ human shape, will take a human name. 

Am. More human than the shape (though it was 
mine once) 
( trust. 

Stran. Then call me Caesar. 

Am. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me, 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Am. Well, then, 

Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Bhall be plain Arnold still. 

Cies. ' We'll add a title— 

" Count Arnold ; " it hath no ungracious sound. 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 

Ai-^i. Or in an order for a battle-field. 

Cces. (sings.) To horse ! to horse ! my coal-black 
pteed 
Paws the ground and snufFs the air ! 

There's not a foal of Arab's breed 
More knows whom he must bear ; 

On the hill he will not tire. 

Swifter as it waxes higher ; 

In the marsh he will not slacken. 

On the plain be overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink, 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 

In the race he will not pant, 

In the combat he'll not faint ; 

On the stones he will not stumble, 

Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 

In the stall he will not stiffen, 

But be winged as a griffin. 

Only flying with his feet ; 

And will not such a voyage be sweet ? 

Merrily ! memly ! never unsound. 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over the 
ground ! 

From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 

For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
\They mount their horses , and disappear. 



SCENE II. 
A Camp before the Wails of Rome. 

Arnold dnd C.'rsar. 

Jati You are well cnter'd now. 

-liTi. Ay ; but my path 

til 8 been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
01 Hood. 

Cees. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
Thou art a conquerer ; the chosen knight 
ind free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France : and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been e;u th's lord 
rjnder its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptrt an hermaphrodite of empiie — 
Lady of the «ld world. 

Am. How old f What ! are there 

Vwo ^rorlds ? 

i^4es To you YouT. find ther t art such ihortly. 



By its rich harvests, new disease, and grid ; 
From one-half of the world named a. whole new oiM 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

Arn. I'll trust them. 

C<es. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly 

And that is better than the bitter truth 

Arn. Dog ! , 

Cces. Man ! 

Arn. Devil ! 

C(BS. Your obedient humble servant 

A7'n. Say master rather. Thou hast hired me ot 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 

CcBS. And where wouldst thou be ? 

Arn. Oh, at peace — in peace 

Cces. And where is that which is so ? From the eta] 
To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and • 

In life com/notion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it .becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its TVty, 
Living upon the death of other things. 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Am. And when it prospers— 

Cees. 'Tis no rebellion. 

Am. Will it prosper now ? 

C<BS. The Bourbon hath given orders for th« 
assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Am. Alas ! 

And shall thfe city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God^ and his true saint. 
Saint Peter, rear i';s dome and cross into 
The sky whence Christ ascended from the cross. 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy, (as once of tortiue unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only lefuge.) 

Cces. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Am. What ? 

Cces. The ciucifla 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls. 
And harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Am. And those scarce mortal arches, 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall, 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena, (as right well they might, 
When they had left no human foe uuconquer'i ;) 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pa.S8 on, 
To a new gladiator!" — Must it fall? 

(■(PS. The city, or the amphitheatre? 
The church, or «. ne, or all ? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Arn. To-morrow sounds the aMaoll 

With the flret cock>crow. 

Cm. Which, if it end with 



240 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Am. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
More beautifully than he did on Rome 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

CcBS. I saw him. 

Am. You ! 

Cces. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 

Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
And a worse name. I'm Caesar and a hunchback 
Now. "Well ! the first of Caesars was a bald-head, 
And loved his laurels better as a wig 
(So history says) than as a glory. Thus 
The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. 
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his own twin, quick born of the same womb, 
Because he leapt a ditch, ('twas then no wall, 
Whate'er it now b©;) and Rome's earliest cement 
"Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear 
The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
For ages. 

Am. But what have these done, their far 
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety ? 

Cces. And what had t?iey done, whom the old 
Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 

Ar7i. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

Cces. And why should they not sing as well as 
swans ? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Am. So, you are leam'd, 

I see, too r 

Ara. In my grammar, certes. I 

Was educated for a monk of all times. 
And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 

Am. And wherefore do you not ? 

Cces. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
And prophet, pontiff", doctor, alchymist. 
Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
The stammering young ones of the flood's dull ooze, 
Who lail'd and fled each other. Why ? why, marry. 
Because no man could understand his neighbor. 
They are wiser now, and will not separate 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
They build more — 

Am. (interrupting him.) Oh, thou everlasting 
sneerer ! 
Be silent ' How the soldier's rough strain seems 
Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
Listen ! 

Cces. Year, I h^e heard the angel sing. 

Arn. And demons howl. 

Cces. And man to. Let us listen ! 

love ali music. 



Song of the Soldiers within. 



The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow ; 
With Bourbon, the rover, 

They passed the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen. 

We have captured a king. 
We have turn'd back on no men« 

And so let us sing ! 
Here's the Bourbon for ever I 

Though pennyless all. 
We'll have one more endeavor 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we'll gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wail : on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot, 
Our shouts shall grow gladder. 

And death only be muie. 
With the Bourbon we'll mount 0*er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoils of each dome ? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly. 

We'll revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red. 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall clang with our tread. 
Oh. the Bourbon ! the Bourbon- 

The Bourbon for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden ; 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard, 

Our varied host comes ; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother ; 
But our leader from France is. 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourbon ! 

Sans country or home, 
We'll follow the Bourbon, 

To plunder old Rome. 

Cces. An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, methinks, to heai. 

Am. Yes, if they keep to -their chorus. But he. 
comes 
The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
A goodly rebel ! 

Enter the Constable Bourbon, *♦ cum suis" Sic, ^ 

Phil. How now, noble prince. 

You are not cheerful ? 

Bourb. ^^Thj should I be so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours. 
Most men would be so. 

Bourb. If I were secure ! 

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls « 
adamant. 
They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



241 



ftiat they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
I'heir cliief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the gods 
Of the old fables, I w juld trust my Titans ;— 
But now-r- 

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 

Bourb. True; but those walls have girded in 
great ages. 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
And beckon me away ! 

Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 

Bourb. They do not menace me. I could have 
faced 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands 
And with their thin aspen faces and fixed eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. And there ! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Sheltered by the gray parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practice in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phtl. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

Bourb. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the fiist Caesar with his triumphs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls 'or which he conquer'd, and be greater 1 

Bourb. Vrue; so I will or perish. 

I*hil. You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn xf an eternal day, than death. 

[Count Arnold and C^sar advance. 

Cas And the mere men — do they too sweat 
bejieath 
The ni^on of this same ever-scorching glory ? 

Bourb. Ah ! 

Welcome tl.e bitter hunchback ! and his master. 
The beanty of our host, and brave as beauteous, 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

Ccps. You will find. 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a laborer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

Cofs. You may well say so, 

For you have seen that back — as general. 
Placed m the rear in action— but your foes 
Have nrver seen it. 

Bourb. That's a fair retort, 

For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

C<BS. And if I were, I might have taved myself 
rbe toil of coming here. 



Phil. Why 80 ? 

Cces. One h«lf 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go to him, the other half be sent. 
More swiftly, not less surely. 

Bourb. Arnold, your 

Slight crook'd friend's as snake-like in his welds 
As his deeds. 

Cces. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 

Bourb. You are brave, and that's enough for me 
and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

Cep^. They are but bad company, your highness. 
And worse even for their friends thaa foes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, fellow \ 

Thou waxest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

CcRs. You mean I speak the truth. 

I'll lie — it is as easy : then you'll praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philbert ! 

Let him alone ; he's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and mountaia 

shoulder. 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation : 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of license, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, sxiUen, grumbling slave, 
^Vhom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis. 
With which he deems him rich. 

C(PS. It would be weL 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourb. Be silent ! 

CtBs. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with words . 
You have but few to speak. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater 2 

C««. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why will you vex him ? Have we not enough 
To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow ? 

Am. Since I must not 

Bourb. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the formost laddet't 
First step. 

C(P8. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 

So shall he havfe his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every change the seven-hiU'd city hath 
Retftin'd her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilired, barbarian. 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well 1 
'Twas their turn — now 'tis ours ; and let us hapf 
That we will fight as well, and rule mueh bentt. 



242 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CVm. No doubt, the camp's the school of civic 
rights. 
WThat would you make of R9me ? 

Bourb. That which it was. 

CcBS. In Alaric's time ? 

Bourb. No, slave ! in the first Caesai's, 
Whose name you bear like other curs 

Cas. And kings ! 

lis a great name for bloodhounds. 

Bourb. There's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnake, thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious ? 

Cas. On the eve of battle, no ; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think ? 
Our tutelar deity in a leader's shape. 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for't. 

Cas. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay yourself. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
But Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Arn. Prince ! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourb. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 

CiBS. And mine ? 

Bourb. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 

Good night ! 

Am. (to Cjesar.) Prepare our armor for the 
assault. 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert 

Cies. (solus.) Within thy tent ! 

rhink'st thou that I pass from thee with 



&c. 



my 



presence 



Or that this crooked coffer, which contain'd 

Thy principle of life, is aught to me 

Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 

Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards ! 

This is the consequence of giving matter 

The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 

And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 

Ever relapsing into its first elements. 

Well ; I must play with these poor puppets : 'tis 

The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 

When I grow weary of it, I have business 

Among the stars, which these poor creatures deem 

Wfxe made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest how 

To bring one down among them, and set fire 

Unto their ant-hill : how the pismires then 

Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 

From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 

One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! [Exit Cm^hsl. 



PART II. 

SCENE I. 

9^ore the Walls of Rome. — The Assault : the army 
in motion, with ladders to scale the walls ; BouR- 
MOX, with a white scarf over his armor, foremost. 



Chmus of Spirits in the eur, 

1. 

'Tis the mom, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies the silent lark ? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy : 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes t 
Oh ye seven hills ! awaken, 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 



Hearken to the steady stamp ! 

Mars is in their every tramp I 

Not a step is out of tune, 

As the tides obey the moon ! 

On they march, though to self-slaughtQ 

Regular as rolling water. 

Whose high waves o'ersweep the bordei 

Of huge moles, but keep their order, 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armor'? clank ! 

Look down o'er each fn^wning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier : 

Look on each step of each ladder, 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 



Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval ! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spetr^ 
Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon 
Gaping to be murderous soon ; 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new, 
Gather like a locusts' cretv. 
Shade of Remus ! 'tis a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine ;— 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 

4. 
Near — and near — and nearer still, 
As the earthquake saps the hill. 
First with trembling, hollow motion, 
Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean. 
Then with stronger shock and louder. 
Till the rocks are crushed to powder,— 
Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 
Heroes of the immortal boast ! 
Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother ! 
Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your laurels ? 
Ye who wept o'er Carthage bmming, 
Weep not — strike ! for Rome is moumibg.' 



Scipio, the second AMcanui, u said to hare repet ted a vene cf SoviA 
and wept orer the burning of Cortliage. He had ber«i hkwe g*""*"^ ■ ' 
cair^ulaUoD. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 



24a 



6. 



Onward sweeps the varied nations 
Famine long hath dealt their ratio as. 
To the wall with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city, 
Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman ; 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
With thy own hand to thy porcji, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
four worst dwelling with their foot. 

6. 

Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
Ilion's childien find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
Rome's great sire forgot his mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin. 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall, 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 



Now they reach thee in their anger ; 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder, 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes. 
Downward then the ladder crashes. 
With its iron load all gleaming, 
Lying at its foof- blaspheming ! 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbes the barrier. 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall '-^ay per.sh, 
Such manure thy fields whi cherish. 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet be Rome amid thine anguish. 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 

8. 
Yet once more, ye old Penates • 
Let not your quench'd hearths be At6'8 ! 
Yet again, ye shade ,vy heroes, 
Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 
Though the son who slew his mother 
Bhed Rome's blood, he was your brother: 
'Twas the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 
Brennus was a balllcd foeman. 
Yet again, ye saints and martyrs, 
Rise ! for yours are holier charters ! 
Mighty gods of temples falling, 
Yet in ruin still appalling I 
Mightier founders of those altars. 
True and Chrintian, — strike the assaulters! 
Tiber ! Tiber ! let thy torr?nt 
Hhow even nature's self a; horrent. 



Let each breathing heart dilated 
Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 
Rome be crush'd to one wide tomb. 
But be still the Roman's Rome ! 
[Bourbon, Arnold, C^sar, ajid otheis^ arrivA 
at the foot of the wall. Arnold is about U 
plant his ladder. 
Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 
Am. Not so, my lord 

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ' I arjo 
proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourbon plants his ladder and begins to nurunL 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot strikes him and Bov bb DV fal/a. 
Cm, And off! 

Am. Eternal powers ! 

The host will be appaird,--but vengeance! ven- 
geance ! 
Bourb. 'Tis nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Ar7;old by the hand and rises ^ 
but as he puts hiifoot on the step, falls again, 
Arnold ! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it ! 
Fling my cloak o'er what will be dust anon , 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Am. You must be 

Removed ; • th-a aid of — 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy , 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay. 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 
Cff.'S. Would not your highness choose to kiss th« 
cross ? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead : — it did the same for Bayard. 
Bourb. Thou bitter slave! to name him at thin 
time : 
But I deserve it. 

Am. {to Ctesar.) Villain, hold youi peace ! 
■ CcBS. What, when a Christian dies .^ Shall I net 

offer 
A Christian ** Vade in pace i " 

Am. Silence ! Oh ! 

Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the worlu. 
And saw no equal. 

Bourb. Arnold, should'st thou see 

France But hark ! hark ! the assault groV(« 

warmer — Oh ! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome wthout thM 
Arn. And without </«'<; / 

Bourb. Not so ; I'll lead them itill 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe." Away ! and be 
Victorious ! 
Am. But I must not leave theo thus. 

Bourb. You must — foi'ewell — Up ! up I the worW 
is winning. [Boukhon dif* 

Cas. {to Arnold.) Come, Count, to business. 
Arn. True. I'll weep horeaflci. 

[Arnold covers Bouhhon's body with a mantU, 
and mounts the laddeTy cn/ituf 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon! On, Itoys! Rome is outs 
Cms. Good-night, lord constable ! thou wort a mau 
[C.v.HXK follows Arnold; thrynrttch th« battlo 
mmt ; AuNOLU ami C*8Att are struck (du%rn 



244 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Crca A precious someiset ! Is your countship 
injured ? 

A'i'n. No. [Remounts the ladder. 

Go's. A rare bloodhound, when his own is heated ! 
And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar ; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here ? — a Roman ? 

[A man falls. 
f he first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
Dn the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow ? 

Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 

Cas. Blood's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. [Dies 

Cees. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
But 1 must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 

[CjESAr mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 



SCENE 11. 

The city. — Combats between the Besiegers and 
Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in 
confusion. 

Enter C^sak. 

C(23. I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or battle Avith the desperate. 
What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
Their hose as they have doff 'd theii- hats, 'twould be 
A blessing, as a mark^the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 

Enter a party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes. 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and glory. 
Holloa ! hold, Count ! 

Am. Away ! they must not rally. 

Cces. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body, 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
Ajid know thyself a mortal still. 

Am. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable ? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar ? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 

Cees. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood's up ; and if a little's shed, 
Twill serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman who retires 
towards a portico. 

Am. Yield thee, slave I 

promise qiwjter. 

Rom. That'a soon «aid. 



Am. And done-' 

My word is known. 

Rom. So shall je my leeds. 

[They re-engage. C jes ah comes foneafix 

Cces. Why, Arnold ! hold thine ovm : thou h&af 
in hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor: 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my rausqueteer; 'twas he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so ? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. • » I yet 

May live to carve your betters. 

Cces. Well said, my man of marble . BenvenntO 
Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks. 

[Arnold disarms and wounds Cellini, hvi 
slightly ; the latter draws a jnstol, and fires ; 
thenretires, and disappears through theportico, 

Cces. How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, me« 
thinks, 
Of red Bellona's banquet. ' 

Ar?i. (staggers.) 'Tis a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thtis. 

Cces. Where is it ? 

Arn. In the shoulder, not the sword arm— 

And that's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 
A helm of water ! 

Cces. That's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Arn. And my thirst increases ; — ^but 

I'll find a way to quench it. 

Cces. • Or be quench'd 

Thyself? 

Am. The chance is even ; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating ; 
Prithee be quick. [C^s ar binds on the soairf 

And what dost thou so idly ? 
Why dost not strike ? 

Cces. Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be found a Milo. 

Am. Ay, against an oak. 

Cces. A forest, when it suits md. 

I combat with a mass or not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these laborers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

Am. Thou art still 

A fiend ! 

Cces. And thou — a man. 

Arn. Why, such I fain would show me. 

C(BS. True — as men are 

Am. And what is that ? 

Cces. Thou feelest and thou see'st. 

[Exit Any oIjJ), joining in the combat which still 
continues between detached parties. The scene 
closes. 

SCENE 111 

St. Peter's.— The Interior of the Church.^The 
Pope at the Altar. — Priests, ^c, crowding in ccn- 
fusion, and Citizens flying for refuge, fursued 6f 
Soldiery. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



245 



Entei C^SAR. 
A iipanish Soldier. D own with them, comrades ! 
seize upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary's of gold ! 

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge ! revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ ! 

Cies. (interposing.) How now, schismatic I 

\Vhat would'st thou ? 

Luth. Sol. In the holy name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

C<BS. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 
Luth. Sol. I say he is the devil. 
Cees. Hush ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognise you for his own. 

Luth. Sol. Why would you save him ? I repeat he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

Cas. And that's the reason ; would you make a 
quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be qtiiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 

Luth. Sol. That shall be seen ! 

The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a sJwt 
strikes him from one of the Pope's Gtiards, 
and he falls at the foot of the Altar. 
Cces. (to the Lutheran.) T told you so. 
Luth. Sol. And will you not avenge me ? 

C<BS. Not I ! You know that " Vengeance is 
the Lord's." 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sol. (dying.) Oh! 

Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown' d with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feebleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy, 'Tis 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes ! [ The Lutheran dies. 

Goes. Yes, thine own amid the rest. 

Well done, old Babel ! 

\The Guards defend themselves desperately y 
while the Pontiff escapes, by a private pas- 
sage, to the Vatican and the Castle of St. An- 
gela. 
Ccps Ha ! right nobly battled ! 

Vow, priest ! now, soldier ! the two great professions. 
Together by the ears and hearts I I have not seen 
A. more coniic jjantomine since Titus 
r.>ok Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
Now thoy must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

Ff How ! 
Another Sol. They have barr'd the narrow pas- 
sage up. 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to the door. 

CeBS. I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank 
me for't 
tn part. I would not have hia bulls abolish'd — 
Twere worth one half our empire : his indulgences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall ; — and besides, his now esoape may furnish 
A. future miracle, in future proof 
Of his infallibility. [ To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats ! 
What do yom pause for ? If you make not haate, 



There will not be a link of pious gold left 
And you too. Catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By holy Peter 

He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

Cces. And that were shame ! Go to . 

Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the Ckun\ 
others enter. 

Cces. They are gone. 

And others come ; so flows the wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity. 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So another ! 

Enter Oi,iuviK, flying from thepursuit. — She sjmngt 
upon the Altar. 
Sol. She's mine. 

Another Sol. (opposing the former.) You lie, J 
track'd her first ; and, were she 
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [TTiey fight. 
Zd Sol. (advancing towards Olimpia.) You may 
settle 
Your claims ; I'll make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave ' 

You touch me not alive. 
Sd Soldier. Alive or dead ! 

Olimp. (embracing a massive ci'ucifix.) Respect 

your God ! 
Zd Sol. Yes, when he shines in gold; 

Girl, you but grasp your doAA-ry. 

[As he advances, ' Olimpia, loith a strong and 
sudden effort, casts doion the crucijix ; ii 
strikes the Soldi-er, who falls. 
Zd Sol. Oh, great God ! 

Olimp. Ah ! now you recognize him. 
8d Sol. My brain's crush'J 

Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! [Tie dies. 

Other Soldiers, (coming up. J Slay her, although 
she had a thousand lives : 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

Olitnp. Welcome such a death * 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming 

Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him. 
And thee ! 

Enter Aunold. 

Arn. ^Vhat do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 

Cces. (aside and laughing.) Ha! ha! here's eq-.t 
ty ! 'l"he dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the is«ae! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain oir lomrade. 

Am. "With what weapoii \ 

Sol. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; b©* 
hjld him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she ca«t i\ 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy r brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
Ye would have honor'd her. But get yo nonce. 
And lliank your meanness, other (Jtid you have noM 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 



246 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Of those dishcTell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Yvjiir ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sol. (murrmiring.J The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Am. (cuts him down.) Mutineer ! 

Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assaiclt Arnold. 

Am Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show you, 
slaves, 
tlow y\ju should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you are bold within it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost; tJie rest 
throw down their arms. 

Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you 
toho 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

Am. Get you hence ! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace. 

Olimp. (aside.) In my father's 

House ! 

A^-n. (to the Soldiers.) Leave your arms ; ye have 
no further need 
Of such : the city's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find a stream, 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers (deposing their arms and departing.) We 
obey ! 

Am. (to Olimpia.J Lady, you are safe. 

Olimp. I should be so, 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
■ Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd. 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

Am. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 

Olimp. No ! thou hast only sack'd my native 
land, — 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this temple — 
Blippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
No injury ! And now thou would'st preserve me. 
To be — but that shall never be ! 

[She raises her eyes to Heaven., folds her robe 
round her, and prepares to dash herself down 
on the side of the Altar opjosite to that where 
Arnold stands. 

Am. Hold! hold! 

i swear. 

Oi/iip. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would It athe thee. 
I know thee. 

Am. No, thou know'st me not; I am not 

Of these men, though — 

Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 

It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me ! 
A.nd here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Wliere the baptismal font baptized me God's 



I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold nith du 
dain, and dashes herself on the pavement from 
the Altar. 

Am. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now! Help ! help ! She's gone. 

Cces. (approaches.) I am here. 

Am. Thou ! but oh, save her ! 

CcBS. (assisting him to raise Olimpia.J She hatb 
done it well ! 
The leap was serious. 

Am. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

C(ss. If 

She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

Am. Slave ! 

C(es. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one : methinkf 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Arn. Words ! — Canst thou aid her ? 

Cees. I will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet from the font. 

Am. 'Tis mix'd with blood, 

C<jes. There is no cleaner no^ 

In Rome. 

A7yi. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless I 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

Cces. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthesilea : with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Am. She breathes ! But no, 'twas nothing, or the 
last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

CcBS. She breathes. 

Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 'tis truth. 

Cees. You do me right— 

The de^-il speaks truth much oftener than he'« 

deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Am. (without attending to him.) Yes ! her heart 
beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd-^o beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

C(S8. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we ttml 

her? 
I say she lives. 

Ar7i. And will she live ? 

Cces. As much 

As dust can. 

Arn. Then she is dead ! 

Ceps. Bah ! bah . Ton are mx 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Arn. We wiii 

Convey her into the Colonna palace, 
Wliere I have pitch 'd my banner. 

Ctss. Come, then ! raise her up 

Am. Softly! 

Cees. As softly as they bear the dead» 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Am. But doth she live indeed ? 

CVm. Nay, never fear 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFOEMED. 



247 



But, if you rue ft after, blame not me. 

A^Ti. Let her but live ! 

Cees The spirit of her life 

l6 yet wdthiu her breast, and may revive. 
Count ! Count ! I am your servant m all things, 
And this is a new office : — 'tis not oft 
I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Scft 1 bear her hence, 
The beautifuV half-clay, and nearly spirit! 
I am almost enamor'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

Am. Thou! 

Ctss. I ! But fear not. I'll not be your rival. 

Arn. Rival ! 

Cees. I could be one right formidable ; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
'Twas suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 'tis rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — ^what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again : for there's 
The rub I at least to mortals. 

Am. Prithee, peace ! 

Boftly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

CeBS. Like stars, no doubt ; for that's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Am. To the palace 

Colonna, as I told you ! 

C<BS. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Arn. Now onward, onward ! Gently. 

[Exeunt, bearing Olimpia. — The scene closes. 



PART III. 

SCENE I. 

A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but 
smiling country. — Chorus of Peasants singing be- 
fore the Gates. 

CHORUS. 

1. 

The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 

2. 

The spring is come ; the violet's gone, 

The first-born child of the early sun : 

"With us she is but a winter's flower, 

The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower, 

And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 



And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confus* 
Her heavenly odor and virgin hues 

4. 

Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd houm; 
Nor, mid the roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Cjesak. 
C<BS. (singing.) The wars are all over. 

Our swords are all idle. 

The steed bites the bridle, 
The casque's on the wall. 
There's rest for the rover. 

But his armor is rusty, 

And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he, yawns in the hall; 

He drinks— but what's drinking ? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death e4ii 

CHORUS. 

But the hound bayeth loudly. 

The boar's in the wood, 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood : 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest. 
And the air is in trouble 

"With birds from their ne»t 

Cos. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 
Dim image of war ! 

But the chase hath no story, 
Her hero no star. 

Since Nimrod the founder 
Of empire and chase, 

"Who made the woods wonder 
And quake for their race. 

"When the lion was young. 
In the pride of his might. 

Then 'twas sport for the strf ng 
To embrace him in fight ; 
To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear 'gainst the mancjnotL, 
Or strike through the ravine 
At the foaming behemoth ; 
"While man was in stature 

As towers in oiu* time, 
The first-born of nature. 
And, like her, sublime ! 

CHORUS. 

But the wars are over, 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home: 
They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo from every roioe 
{ExewU the Peasantry, sinfim 



HEAVEN AND EARTH; 



A MYSTERY, 



POVNOED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. TI. 



' Aad h cane to psM .... that the loiu of God saw the daughter* of men that they were fair ; and < 
W of all which the/ choM." 



And woman waiUng for her demon loTer."— CS»i«rid;f«. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
Atgeh. — Samiasa. 

AZAZIEL. 

Raphael the Archangel. 

Men. — Noah and his Sons. 
Irad. 
Japhet. 

Women. — Anah. 

Aholibamah 

Ohortu of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 

A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ara- 
rat. — Time, Midnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat ; 
How my heart beats ! 

A?u). Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah But the stars are hidden. 

I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
Of aunLt save thei^ delay. 



Anah. My sister, ttough 

I love Azzaiel more than oh, too much ! 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious 

Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures ? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me . 
This cannot be of good ; and though I ]rnot» itot 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long 
Marry, and bring forth dust ! 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him, 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him. 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 
Mine would be such for him, weie I the seraph, 
And he the perishable. 

Aho. Rather say, 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 

Anah. And if it should be so, and phe loved hin. 
Better thus than that he should weep f *r nie. 

Afw. If I thought thus of Samiasa 'a love, 
All seraph as he is, I'd spurn him ftom me. 
But to our invocation ! 'Tis the ho.tr. 

Anah. Seraph ! 

From thy sphere ! 

Whatever star contain thy glory ; 

In the eternal depths of heaven 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



241 



Albeit thou wrttchest with " the seven " * 
Though tlirough space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 

And though she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thy years, 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
With me thou canst not sympathize, 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great, 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear ! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until 1 know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou foget'st in thine eternity 
Her whose heart death could not keep from o'er- 
flowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 
Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear ! Appear ! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
\nd leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Samiasa ! 

Whereso'er 
I ho-i rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 

Dispute with him 
mio m.'^de all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the 
abyss 
Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling. 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
Or joining with the inferior cherubim. 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not. 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my lot ! 

Though I be form'd of clay, 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams. 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There i« a ray 



The nrc,Sang«Ui mM I" b« lofeii tn number. 

82 



, In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 

I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away, 

Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 

I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
Into my ears this truth — " thou liv'st for ever ! ** 
But if it be in joy 

I know not, nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 

Who folds in clouds the fonts of bHss and wo 
But thee and me he never can destroy ; 

Change as he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 

Of as eternal essence and must war 

With him if he will war with us : with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 

For thou hast ventured to share life with we, 

And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce dm 
through. 

And thou thyself wert like the serpent coil 

Around me still ! and I will smile 
And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend ; and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain! 

Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aho. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 

Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Allah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho, HMt8 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there. 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-color'd bow, 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rippling foam. 

Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home. 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, doAvn, to where the ocean's fountains eloe)>. 

Aho. They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 

Anah. My Aiasiel . 

SCENE II. 



Enler Irad and Japhbt. 



Irad. 



Despond not; whercfoie wilt tkon waeder 

thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the star* t 
They cannot aid thee. 



250 



BYRON'S WOItKS. 



Japh But they sooth me — ^now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Rethinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of imdying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 

Japh. Alas ! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 

Japh. I feel for thee too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride. 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
£t may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad. Nor joy nor sorrow, 

I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love : as 'tis, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies ? 

Irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japh. Anah ! 

Irad. No ; her sister. 

Japh. What other ? 

Irad. That I know not ; but her air, 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 

Irad. WTiate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
WTiat can it profit thee ? 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 

Trad. And so did I. 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not. 

Or think 'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

Irad. Me ! why ? 

Japh. For being happy, 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper. 
And woiild not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us. 
As if such useless and discolor'd trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Bigh to the stars as wolves howl to the moon^ 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth t'aey say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

V^Hiat would'st thou there ? 

Japh. Sooth further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
AJid I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 'tis dangerous ; 

Btrange sounds and sights have peopled it with 

terrors. 
I must go with thee 

Japh. Irad, no ; believe me 

\ feci no evil thought, and fear no evil. 



Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad : 

I must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Irad. 

Japh. (solus.) Peace ! I have sought it where H 
should be found. 
In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A weakness of the spirit — listless days. 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the eaXtt 
Of desolation, and the stillness of 
The unti-odden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs j 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown wicked 
And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
The elements ; this bosom, which in vain 
Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 

While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to her 

Thy ^vrath ! for she is pure amid the failing 
As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 
Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not ; 
And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
By rock or shallow, the leviathan. 
Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
Shall wonder at Ids boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japha: 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shem. He went forth 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers 

nightly. 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race. 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days. 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for ! 

Shem. Go not forward, father ; 

I will seek Japhet. 

Noah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah — let us on. 

Shem To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 

Nor* No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shhk 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



251 



SCENE III. 



rhe Mountains. — A Cavern, and the Rocks of 
Caxuiasus. 
Japh. fsoltis.J Ye wilds, that look eternal ; and 
thou cave 
Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
Bo varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots mth stone 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — ^yes, 
Yc L'^ok eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, reat, hurl'd 
Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 
"Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
Shall have its depth search'd by the sweeping wave, 
And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 

And man Oh, men ! my fellow-beings ! Who 

Shall weep above your universal grave, 
Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 
Alas ! what am I better than ye are. 
That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 
The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 
Scarce less bekved, where I despair'd for her ? 
And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak, 
Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 
Lie Iqw beneath the boiling of the deep ? 
No move to have the morning sun break forth, 
And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
From its tremendous broAv ? no more to have 
, Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 
Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 
No more to be the beacon of the world 
For angels to alight on, as the spot 
Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no more,** 
Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us. 
And the predestined creeping things reserved 
By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 
He jrreserve them, and / Twt have the power 
To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 
A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 
Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd. 
To hiss and sting through some emerging world. 
Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze 
Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 
The salt morass subside into a sphere 
Beneath the sun, and be the monument. 
The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 
Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 
Breath mil be still'd at once ! All beauteous world ! 
So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 
With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 
And night by night, thy numbcr'd days and nights. 
I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 
A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
Buch as— Oh God ! and canst thou [He pauses. 

A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and sJiouta 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

Japh. In the name 

»Jf the Most High, what art thou ? 
Spirit, (laughs.) Ha! Ha! Ha! 

Japh. By all that ^arth holds holiest, speak ! 
Spirit, (laughs ) Ha I Ha I 



Japh. By the approaching deJuge ! by tl. e eartl- 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains ! 
The heaven wliich will convert her clouds to seas, 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
Thou unknown, tenible, and indistinct. 
Yet Awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh i 

Spirit. Why weep'st thou 1 

Japh. For earth and all her childi-en. 
Spirit. Ha! Ha! Ha 

[Spi)'it vanishet 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a wcrl 
The coming desolation of an orb. 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life • 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death I 
Why should they wake to meet it ? What is here, 
Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds . 
[J^arlous Spirits pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice ! 
The abbhorr'd race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place; 

But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power. 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 
Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion, 
Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath. 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot ♦ 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save. 
Or show the place where strong despair hath died 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not • 
All shall be void, 
Dcstroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust bo qucncb'd ; and of c:\oh huf 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, nor of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in Tain: 
All merged within the uuivorsul fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye 
Upon the foam 
^V^^o shall erect a home ? 
Japh. (coming fonvard.) My sii*, ! 
Earth's seed shall not expire! 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
Avaunt ! yc exulting demons of the waste' 
Who hinvl your hideous joy 
Wlien God destroys whom you dare not deatzoy, 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret plaoo, 
And drivA your luUen race 



252 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Forth, to be roird upon the tossing winds 
In restless -wretchedness along all space ; 
Spirit. Son of the saved ! 

VVTien thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent, 
Khali thou and thine be good or happy ! — No ! 
Thy new world and new race shall be of wo — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive, 
And eat, ajid drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named. 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favor'd father, 
And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine, 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

"Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, -wTetch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wTetches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 
Above what they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one ! 
Thyself for being his son ! 

Chorus of SpiHts issuing from, the vavet n. 

Rejoice ! 
No more the human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer ; 
No more 

Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is \'ice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd. 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they. 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Bhall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Bhall cease to prey on man and on each other. 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother; 
Till all things shall be as they were. 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation. 
To gei-erate new nations for his use ; 
This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Ot the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 



When the hot sun hath baked the reeking nil 
Into a world, shall give again to time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — ciime - 
With all companionship of hate and toil. 

Until 

Japh. (interrupting them.) The eternal will 

Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 

Unto himself all times, all things ; 
And, gather'd under his almighty wings 
Abolish hell ! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth. 
Her Eden in an endless paradise. 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondroul 

spell ? 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 

And the'* in glory. 
Spirits. Meantime, still struggle in the mortal 
chain, 
Till earth wax hoary ; , 

War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain. 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but still 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill. 
Shall be among your race in different forms-; 
But the same moral storms 
3hall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giant's graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
The winds, too, plume their piercing wings 
The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken. 

And heaven set wide her windows ; while mankinfl 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were, from the beginning, blind, 
We hear the sound they cannot hear. 
The mustering thunders of the threatening 
sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high 
Yet undisplay'd. 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 

Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth ; 
Tremble, ye mountains ! soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow ! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The little shells, of ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells—* 
How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ;— 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the who?e spaM 
brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave f 



" And there were ^anU In the earth in thow dayi, anJ i 
ami'., which were of old men of renown.' 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



253 



Brethren, rejoice ! 
lind loudly lift each superhuman voice — 
All die, 
Save the slight remftant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future sorrow's sake from deatk. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
Or, floating upward, ^vith their long hair laid 
Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It i« decreed, 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The iiniversal silence shall succeed ! 
Fly, brethren, fly ! 
But still rejoice ! 
We fell ! 
They fall ! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 
[ The Spirits disappear, soaring upwards, 
Japh. (solus. J God hath proclaim'd the destiny 
of earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll* of Enoch prophesied it long 
[n silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief. 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty 

purpose, 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, •' Shine ! " and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
Their matims now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
And they will sing ! and day will break ! Both near, 
So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day, 
Aftsr the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ?— a chaos. 
Which was ere day ; and which renew'd, makes time 
Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 
No more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void : without man, time, as made for man, 
Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
Devour' d by that which drowns his infant world. — 
WTiat have we here r Shapes of both earth and air ? 
So— all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 



Tte book of Eooeh, | 



•, li Mid br I 



I cannot trace their features ; but their foms. 

How lovelily they move along the side 

Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist I 

And after the swart savage spirits, whose 

Infernal immortality pour'd forth 

Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 

Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 

To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 

For which I have so often pray'd — They come I 

Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 

Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and 
Aholibamah. 

Anah. Japhet ! 

Sam. Lo I 

A son of Adam : 

Aza. What doth the earthbom here, 

While all his race are slumbering ? 

Japh. Angel ! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou should'st be on high ? 

Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a 
part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ! 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth. 
Which is condemn 'd ; nay even the evil fly 
The approaching chat)s. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved . 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those horn* 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee : yet, yet 
Forgive me 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no mor# 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japh. The hour may come when thou 

May'stknowme better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts. 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong ? 

Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but 
thou 
Say'stwell, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain ? 

Aza. From what ? 

Japh. And is it to, 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angeU ! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now moft 
Partake his punishment ; or at ths least 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought tiL ix-w 

To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded 
them ? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shilnk 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 

Anak. Sift«r I aister t speak not 



254 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thus. 

Ata. Fearcst thou, my Anah ? 

Anah Yes, for thee : 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Jap/i. It is for kifn, then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if tliou hast not 
Left thy God too, for unions like to these, 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die • and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest : But if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah ! he speaks of death. 

Sofn. Of death to us ! and those who are with us ! 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 

I am safe, not for my own deserts, bvit those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she. 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Aho. And dost thou think that we 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain ! Avho was begotten 
In paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children ? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 
Too much of the forefather whom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not : 'tis a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favor 

Aho. (interrupting him.) And wouldst thou have 
her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If / partook thy thought, 
And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her ! — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth ; and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him ? 

Japh. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our father's father : 

The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
^nd most enduring : — Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
Oiu race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 



Their courage, strength, and length, of days—^— 

Japh. They are number''d 

Aho. Be it so ! but while ye» their hoxirs endure. 
I glory in my brethern and oui fathers. 

Jajjh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees- 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavor patiently to obey.' 
But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
Of universal vengeance, (if such should be,) 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister ! 
What were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, without the sweet past— 
Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
The things which sprang up with me, like the sfajB 
Making my dim existence radiant with 
Soft lights Avhich were not mine ? Aholibamah . 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it ; 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Aho. What ! hath this dreamer, \vith his father'* 
ark. 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 
Shaken mij sister ? Are we not the loved . 
Of seraphs r and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the phantasies engender'd 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm, earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
Who shall do this ? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Ahx). Who heard that word ? 

Japh. Thr universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn ! 
Turn to thy seraphs ; if they attest it not. 
They are none. 

Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 

Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho. 'Tis said so. 

Japh. It is even so. 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Japhet! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the \vicked ? 
Dread' St thou not to partake their coming doom. 

Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earthborn being ; and behold. 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah. These are they, then, 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven. 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch \ 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Wo, wo, wo to such communion f 

Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jehorebf 
image? 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



261 



Did Gcd Lot love what he had made ? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing, 
Even on the very eve "ii perishing, world, 
Cannot be good. 

Aza. "WTiat ! though it were to save ? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
<VTiat he who made you glorious hath condemn d. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Cordemn'd. 

Japh. Oh father ! say it not. 

Noah. Son ! son ! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist ; they soon shall cease to be. 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with this, and them! 

Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt 
not ; he 
Who can redeems thee. 

Sam. And why him and thee. 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 

Noah. Ask him who made thee greater than my- 
self 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 

Enter Raphael the Archangel. 

Raph. Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here ? 
ts thus a seraph's duty to be shown. 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected •' seven 
Your place is heaven. 
Sam. Raphael ! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 

How long hath this been law. 
That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 

Eartli ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ' 
The world he loved, had made 
For love ; and oft have we obcy'd 
III I frcqunit mission with delighted pinions, 

Adorinf^ him in his least works display'd ; 
Watching this youngest star of his dominions ; 
And, as the latest birth of his great word, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe ? 
And when fore speuk'st thou of destruction near ? 
Raph. Had Samiaaa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir, 
"Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
^nd not inquired *keir Maker's breath of me : 



But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow leoe 

As they wax proud within ; 
For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye sts/edt 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid ; 
But ye are pardon' d thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away I 
Or stay. 
And lose eternity by that delay ' 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere. 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That which I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must di« 
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
And much which she inherits ; but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy d, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Om- brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
Rather than long worship dared endure 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest oue, 

Think how he was undone ! 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late !" 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star. 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dna- 

I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven . 
Save his who made, what beauty and what powei 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Yet undcstroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice • 
He hath not tempted you ; he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt: 

But man hath listen'd to his voice. 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is. 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust; but she will dn^* 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law 
Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die ; 
But they 
Shall pass away, 
Wnile ye shall till with shrieks the upper sky ; 

For perishable clay, 
W .ose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day 
Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
In all but suflfering ! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs- 
Bom to bo plough'd with years, and sown with oaret 



256 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



Ajttd reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshortened by God's wrath, 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 

Ah/^. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die 
Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died; 
And that on high • 
An ocean is prepared, 
While from below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister ! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of wo, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Bvtrvive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters are allay'd. 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
Where viands nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die, 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will. 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven. 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
A.nd if I look up with a tearless eye, 
'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep. — 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 

Azaziel ? 
Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The biow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new ; 
But yet depart ! 
Ah! why? 
Yet let me not retain thee — ^fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief ; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deign'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow ; not to us alone, 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
From his once eirchangelic throne 
Into some unknown world : 
And thou, Azaziel ! No— 
Thou shalt not suffer wc 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
May'st suifor more not weeping : then forget 



Her, whom the surges ol the all-strajugling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 

Japh. Oh say not so ! 

Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 

Surely celestial mercy lurks below 
That pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore. 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 

Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong ! 
Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's, 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint : 

Would'st thou have God commit a sin for thee I 
Such would it be. 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 

Japh. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 

And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 

And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 

Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
Who, who, our tears, oxu- shrieks, shall then com 
mand ? 

Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 
Yet while 'tis time 1 
Renew not Adam's fall : 

Mankind were then but twain, 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain, 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would tkeb 
graves, 

Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 

Noah. Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine's n 
crime. 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion ; 
Ye! 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

Sam. » It may not be ; 

We have chosen, and will endure. 

Raph. Say' St thou ? 

Aza. He hath said it, and I say, Am«ai 

Raph. Again ! 

Then from this hour, 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
And aliens from your God. 
Farewell ! 

Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell i 

Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still, 

Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill. 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each bloss(MB . 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 

Noah. Hark, hark! the sea-birds cry ! 

In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
And hover roun.d the mountain, where before 

Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 
Yet dared to soar, 

Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to bra^UL 
Soon it shall be their only shore. 
And then, no more .< 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



•257 



Japh. The sun ! the sun ! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone ; 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone ! 

The olouds return into the hues of night, 
Have where their brazen-color'd edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont to break. 

Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light, 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 

It cometh ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
Its safe and reckless sides. 
Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ! Be- 
gone ! 
Japh. Not I. 

Noah. • » Then die 

"With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 
"With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 
Noah. Blasphemer ! darest thou murmur even 

now? 
Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smooth thy 

brow: 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink ; 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

"With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
But be, when passion passeth , good as thou, 
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's 

daughters. 
AJw. The tempest cometh; heaven and earth 
unite 
For the annihilation of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
.Sam. But ours is with thee ; we will bear ye far 
To some untroubled star, 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot ; 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of 
birth. 
And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are 

not. 
Who shall dry up my tears ? 

Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 

Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but wehV : the flaming sword, 
W)iich chased the flrst-born out of Paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy 
strength ; 
And learn at length 
How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, /lying for refugt 



Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ' oh Go<i i 

"What have we done ? Yet spare ! 

Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their pray'r . 

The di-agon crawls from out his den. 

To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 
And the birds scream *heir agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jehovah! yet Avthdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's despair ! 
Hear not man only but all nature plead ! 

Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons o| 
clay 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'Tis decreed ! 

[Exit Raphael. 

Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their 
prey. 
While others fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which their wrathfill vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen ; 
In the sun's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 

Aza. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded nrison. 
To which the elements again repair. 
To turn it into what it was : beneath 
The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe. 
As was the eagle's nestling once within 
Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore : 
These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[AzAZiEL a7id Samiasa Jly off and disappear 
with Anah and Aholibamah. 

Japh. They are gone ! They have disappear'd amid 
the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
"Whether they live, or die with all earth's life 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 

Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
"What ! wilt thou leave us all — all — all behind f 
While safe amid the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
A mother, {offering her infant to Japhbt.) Qk 
let this child embark ! 
I brought him forth in wo, 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clingmg so. 
"Why was he bom ? 
What hath he done— 
My unwean'd son — 
To move Jehovah's >vrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy, 

And roll the waters o er his placid breath > 
Save him, thou seed of Soth ! 
Or cursed be— with him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray*d I 
Japh. Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, bat fcr 
prayer » 

Chorus of Mortal*. 

For prayer ! ! ! 
\nd wher* 



258 



BYRON'S WOB&H. 



Shall prayer ascend, 
WTien the swoln clouds unto the mountamB bend 

And burst, 
A.nd gashing oceans every barrier rend, 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accurst 
Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
We deem our curses vain ; we must expire : 

But as we know the worst, 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be 

bent 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
Bince we must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 
To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
And with their roar make wholesome nature dumb ! 

The forest's trees, (coeval with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung. 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 

So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopt. 

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopt, 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas. 
And shut our God from our beseeching eyes 

Fly, son of Noah, fly ! and take thine ease, 
[n thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
And view, all floating o'er the element. 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 
A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
W ho die in the Lord ! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 
Yet, as his word. 
Be the decree adored ! 
He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath which is his o^vn : 
^nd though these eyes should be for ever shut. 
Not longer this weak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone, 

Still blessed be the Lord 



For what is past. 
For that which is ; 
For all are his. 
From first to last — 
Time— space — eternity — life — death— 

The vast known and immeasurable unknoiflk 
He made, and can unmake ; 

And shall /, for a little gasp of breath 
Blaspheme and groan ? 

No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
"Where shall we fly ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 

To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
Already grasps each drowning hill. 
Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 
Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more : 

My father and my father's tent. 
My brethren and my brethren's herds, 

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
And sent forth evening songs from sweetest biida 
The little rivulet which freshen'd all 
Our pastures green. 
No more are to be seen. 
When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this monii 

I turn'd to bless the spot, 
And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ;— 

And now they are not ! — 
"Why was I born ? 

Japh. To die ! in youth to die ; 
And happier in that doom, 
Than to behold the universal tomb. 

Which I 
Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
"Why, when all perish, why must I remain i 

[The waters rise; Men Jly in every diraetionf 
matiy are overtaken by the waves ; the Chorut 
of Mortals disperses in search of safety up tht 
mountains : Japhet remains upon a roclk, u>hiU 
the Ark floats towards htm in the distanoe. 



CAIN; 

A MYSTERY. 

iw Stirpeni vu mm lubtUelbBii anj beaat of the field wbkh (he Lord Ood had icAde."— Omatto, ch. ■. «■ i. 



TO 

SIR WALTER 8C0TT, BART. 

THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN IS INSCRIBED, 
BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes are entitled "a Mystery," 
En conformity with the ancient title annexed to 
dramas upon similar subjects, which were styled 
** Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has by no 
means taken the same liberties with his subject 
which were common formerly, as may be seen by 
any reader curious enough to refer to those very 
profane productions, whether in English, French, 
Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavored to 
preserve the language adapted to his characters ; 
and where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from 
actual Scripture, he has made as little alteration, 
even of words, as the rhythm would permit. The 
reader will recollect that the book of Genesis does 
not state that Eve was tempted by a demon, but by 
*' the Serpent ; " and that only because he was " the 
most subtile of all the beasts of the field." What- 
ever interpretation the Rabbins and the Fathers 
may have put upon this, I must take the words as I 
find them, and reply with Bishop Watson upon 
similar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to 
him, as Moderator in tlie schools of Cambridge, 
'♦ Behold the Book ! " — holding up the Scripture. 
It is to be recollected that my jjrosent subject has 
nothing to do with the New Testament, to which 
no reference can be here made •without anachron- 
ism. With the poems upon similar topics I have 
not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty I 
bave never read Milton; bit I had read him so 
frequently bef -re, that this may make little differ- 



ence. Gesner's " Death of Abel " I hare nevei 
read since I was eight years of age, at Acerdetjn. 
The general impression of my recollection is delight; 
but of the contents I remember only that Cain*8 
wife was called Mahala, and Abel's Thirza : in the 
following pages I have called them " Adah " and 
"Zillah," the earliest female names which occur in 
Genesis ; they were those of Lamcch's wives ; those 
of Cain and Abel are not called by their names, 
Wliether, then, a coincidence of subject may havw 
caused the same in expression, 1 know nothing, 
and care as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what few 
choose to recollect) that there is no allusion to A 
futtire state in any of the books of Moses, nor 
indeed in the Old Testament. Vox a reason for 
this extraordinary omission he Aay consult •' War- 
burton's Divine Legation ; " whether satisfactory or 
not, no better has yet been assigned. I have there- 
fore supposed it new to Cain, without, 1 hope, any 
perversion of Holy Writ. % 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it wa« 
difficult for me to make him talk like a clergyman 
upon the same subjects ; but I have done what 1 
could to restrain him within the bounds of spiritual 
politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shap* 
of the Ser])cnt, it is only because the book of Gen- 
esis has not the most distant allusion to any thing 
of the kind, but merely to the Serpent in his ser- 
pentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the MithoC 



260 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



has partly adopted in this poem the notion of 
Cuvier, that the world had been destroyed several 
times before the creation of man. This specula- 
tion, derived from the different strata and the bones 
of enormous and unknown animals found in them, 
is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but rather 
eonfirms it; as no human bones have yet been 
discovered in those strata, although those of many 
Known animals are found near the remains of the 
unKno^^^l. The assertion of Lucifer, that the pre- 
adamite world was also peopled by rational beings 
much more intelligent than man, and proportion- 
ably powerful to the mammoth, &c., &c., is, of 
course, a poetical fiction to help him to make out 
his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " Tramelogedia " 
of Alfieri, called " Abele." — I have never read that 
nor any other of the posthumous works of the 
trriter, except his Life. 



DUAMATIS PERSONS 

Men. — Adam. 
Cain. 

Abel. 

Spiritt. — Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 



first-bom, wherefo\© an 



Women. 



-Eve. 
Adah. 

ZiLLAH. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



L 



'The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 

Ai>AM, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering 
a Sacrijioe. 

Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite ! all-wise ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word— all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from nig'ht, till then divided never — 
tVho didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
r*art of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Abel. God! who didst call the elements into 
Earth— ^cean — air — and fire, and with the day 
And night, and worlds which these illuminate 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloxed, more than all, save thee — 
Let me lor»> thee and them : — All hail ! all hail ! 

Zillah, Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing 
all, 
Fet didst permit the serpent to creep in, 
And drive uy father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 



Adam. Son Cain, my 
thou silent ? 

Cain. Why should I speak ? 

Adam. To pray. 

Cain. Have ye not pray d ? 

Adam. "We have, most fervently. 

Cain. And loudly: I 

Have heard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest-bom, art silent still 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have nought to ask. 

Adam. Nor aught to thank for ' 

Cain. No 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree ol 
knowledge ! 

Cain. And wherefore plucked ye not the tret 
of life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh ! my son 

Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 

Cain. • Why not f 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge. 
It was the tree of life : knowledge is good. 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke in sin* 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so. 
Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son. 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindij 
Her fruits with little labor. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resigned. 
And do as he doth. \ Exeunt Adam and EvE 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brothei ? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy 
brow. 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou fro-OTi even on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah; no; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass : 
Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind, 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I'll follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel, The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

[Exeunt Abel, Zillah, and AoAJk. 

Cain, (solua.) And this is 

Life \ — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ?— because 



CAIN. 



My fathei could not keep his place in Eden. 

Wliat had / done in this ? — I was unborn, 

I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 

To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 

yield to the serj^ent and the woman ? or, 

Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 

The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 

If not, why place him near it, where it grew 

The fairest in the centre ? They have but 

One answer to all questions, " 'twas hu will, 

And he is good." How know I that ? Because 

He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 

I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 

Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 

Whom have we here } — A shape like to the angels, 

Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 

Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 

Why should I fear him more than other spu'its, 

Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 

Before the gates round which I linger oft, 

In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 

Gardens which are my just inheritaiice, 

Ere the night closes o'er inhibited walls 

And the immortal trees which overtop 

The cherubim-defended battlements ? 

If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 

Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 

Yet he seems mightier far than they, nor less 

Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 

As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 

Half of his immortality. And is it 

Bo ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 

He cometh. 

Enter Lucifer. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

L)f dust, and feel for it, and-with you. 

Cain. How ! 

iou know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

Worthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal pai-t 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part ? 

This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste. 
Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 

Cain. I live. 

But live to die : and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A. loathsome and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome— 
A nil ?o I live. Would I had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever ; 
think not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art nov 

Cain. No less and why 

No more ? 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye ? 

Lticifer Axe everlasting, 



261 
Are ye Uippy f 



Cain. 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. No ; art thou I 

Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me ! 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 

Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, wlia< 
art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what mado thee, 
a-nd , 

Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Gain. Ah I 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I an? n< ne, 

And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquer'd ; let him reign ' 

Cain. WLo? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven ft, 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing an^* saf 
on pain 
Of bging that which I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant ir 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made, 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
We are immortal ! — nay, he'd have us so, 
That he may torture : — let him ! He is great. 
But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But let hia» 
Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burdensome to his immense existence ' 
And unparticipated solitude ! 
Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 
Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best boon 
He ever granted : biit let him reign on, 
And multiply himself in misery ! 
Spirits and men, at least we sympathize ; 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
Innumerable, more endurable. 
By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
With all ! but He ! so wretched in his height, 
So restless in his WTetchcdness, must still 
Create, and re-create 

Cain. Thou speak 'st to me of things which wA% 
have swum 
In visions through my thought : I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father luid my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
The gates of what they call their Pjuadise 
Guarded by fiery-8worde<l cherubim, 
Which shut them out, and me: I feel the weighl 
Of daily toil, and constant thought; I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within n»e, as if they 
Could master all things : — hut I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother ha« forgot the 



262 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Which mi.de her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat. 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
'''han the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she too understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
N ow met I aught to sympathize vnih me. • 
"J is well — I rather would consort with spirits. 
Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by thine 
own soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
Cain. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 
Lucifer. I tempt none. 

Save with the truth : was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful ? Did I bid her pluck them not ? 
Did / plant things prohibited vnthin 
The reach of beings innocent, and cm-ious 
By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye 
Because " ye should not eat the fruits of life. 
And become gods, as we." Were those his words ? 
Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
heard them, 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither ! 

Lucifer. One is yours already ; 

The other may be still. 

Cai7i. How so ? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sAvay. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 
Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or ho.w ? 
Cain. They gay the serpent was a spirit. 
Lucifer. Whc 

Baith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One wll not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and.little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those he tempted. 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Slince he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Thi;. k'st thou I'd take the shape of things that die ? 
Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 
Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
WTio guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
Have roU'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 



That bows to him, who made things bntt V> bend 

Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 

But we, who see the trutt , must speak it. Thy 

Fond parents listen 'd to a creeping thing, 

And fell. For what should spirits tempt them .'■ WLai 

Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 

Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space ^but I speak to thee of what thou know'Hi 

not. 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Caifi, But thou canst no! 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 
Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 
Cain. Be it proved. 

iMcifer. Dar'st thou to look on Death ? 
Cain. He has not y«' 

Been seen. 
Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his eyea 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me,, 
And speaks not. 
Lucifer. And thou ? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakabli 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I heai 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
I vvTestled with the lion, when a boy 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb aJl 
things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah ! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being ? 
Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 
Cain. Who ? 

Lucifer. The Maker — call hm) 

Which name thou wilt : he makes but to destroy. 
Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I 
heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The uml)rage of the walls of Eden, checker d 
By the far-flashing of the cherub's swords, 
I watch'd for what I thought his coming ; fo» 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing csjrb» 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure. 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die . 
Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both Ihuii 

and thee. 
Cain. I'm glad of that ; I would not have them dii\ 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot compass ; 'tis denounced against us. 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill— 
What ill ? 
Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth 
Cain. But shall I know it ? 
Lucifer. As I know not death 



CAIN. 



I cannot ansTver. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth, 

rhat were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lucifer. That is a grov'ling wish, 

Less tnan thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree ? 

Iiucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error ! 

Not to snatch first that fruit : — ^but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is. 
And yet I fear it — fea^ I know not what ! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing ; 
see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 

Lticifer. No. 

Cain. His equal ? 

Lucifer. No ; — I have nought in common with 
him ! 
Nor would : I would be aught above— beneath — 
A.ught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart : but I am great ;— 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — ^be thou among the first. 

Cain. I never 

As y(!t have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice :— 
Why should I bow to t*^ee ? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him ? 

Cain. Have I not said it ! — ^need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to me : 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less 

Ihou art my worshipper ; not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 

Cain. Let me but 

Be taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Wliere I will lead thee. 

Cain But I must retire 
To till the earth — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What ! 

Cain. To cull some first-fruits, 

Larifsr. Why ? 

Cain. To o£Fer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Lu/ifer. Saidst thou not 

/hou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 
But Abel's earnest prayer Avrought upon me ; 
The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 

Cain. She is my sister, 

Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
Bhe wrung from mo, with tears, this promise ; aiid 
Rather than see her ireep, \ would methinks. 



Bear all — and worship aught. • 

Lucifer. Then foUow lue . 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labor'd not 
This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
Are ripe and glowing as the light wlu.h ripens ; 
Come away. 

Cain. See'st thou not i 

Adah. 1 see an angel ; 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest ? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others } 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests — ^will he ? 

Cain, (to Lumfer.) Wilt thou ? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 

Cain. Ay ! 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain. Beloved Adah 

Adah. Let me go with thee ? 

Lucifer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Wlio 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree 
that 
Of knowledge ? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief was knowledge— «oh« 
lied not : 
And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth 5 
And truth in its o^vn essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness : 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which Cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit 
Bear -mth what we have borne, and love mt — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 

Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 

Liu-ifer. No, not yei 

It one day will be m your children. 

Adah. AVhat ! 

Must not ray daughter love hex brother Enoch : 

Lxmfer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh, ray God 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that Ioti 
Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom f was not hf, thoir father. 
Born of the same sole won\b, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other ? juuI 
In multiplying onr being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them ? And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 



264 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
A.nd cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 

Mortality. 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 

Sin in itsnlf ? Can circumstance make sin 
Or vu-tue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves ; and 
higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To tie SH ooth agonies of adulation 
Ie hjmns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers 
T : that which is omnipotent because 
It iS omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art 
♦ fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

L'lcifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
Of g-ood and evil ? 

Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 

Has^ p'uck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Tha a to thyself ; thou at the least hast past 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse Avith happy spiiits ; 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear, 
And yet I fly not from him ; in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
Nearer and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me from him ! 

Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill spirit. 

Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs : he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 

The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 

Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Honsists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

I he seraphs love mos^— cherubim know ?nost-^ 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 
< ijucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches 
love, I 

What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
Bince the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
lliat they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other choice : your sire hath chosen already : 
R is worship is but fear. 

Adah. Oh, Cain! choose love. 



Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not— i4 x^vm 
Born with me — ^but I love nought else. 

Adah. Our parents. 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch' d fronj 
the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

Adah. We were not born then — and if we hati 
been, 
Should we not love them and oiir childi-en, Cain ? 
Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister . 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 

Shall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of scie net 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 

Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ■ 

Thy beauty and thy love — ^my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour. 

All we love in our childi-en and each other, 

But lead them and ourselves through many years 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree o{ 

knowledge / 

Hath not fulfill' d its promise : — if they sinn'd. 
At least they ought to have known all things that 

are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that ? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy then alone — 

I will have nought to do with happiness. 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not. 

Nor would be happy ; but with those around us, 
I think I could be so, despite of death, 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldst noi 

Alorte, thou say'st be happy ? 

Adah. Alone ! Oh, my Gk>d 

Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone, and is he b4.p 
Lonely and good ? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy. 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy ? 
What else can joy be but the spreading joy ? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh 
Eden; 
Or of his first-born son ; ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you— 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 



UAIN. 



26.'» 



Maker r.f life and livLxg things ; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
A.nd some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say : but it is worth the trial, 
Since better may not be without : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the mom 

Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
Its beauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore ? 

Ad^ih. Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Baith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ? 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah. No- 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming : as the silent sunny noon. 
All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple; and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing. 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so, 
And I will weep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 

Oouldst thou but know what oceans will be shed-* 

Adah. By me ? 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah. What all ? 

Lucifer. The million millions— 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
Of wbich thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. O Cain ! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will J follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence ho shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lticifer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy'd in few ? 

Cam. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he 

in sooth return within an hour ? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With MS acts ;iro oxoinpt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
Or ttrvtoh an hour into eternity : 
34 



We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! h* alon«» 

Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One) — shall come bacA tt 

thee 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should 1 
dwell ? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled witti 
Those who once peopled or shall people both-- 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me 

Cc, Vi. Spirit, I have said it. 

[Exeunt Lucifek anrf Caht 

Adah (follows, exclaiming) Cain ! my brother 
Cain! 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Abyss of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fea* 

To sink. 

Lticifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt— imvl 
perish ! thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Wlio names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
"Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senflek. 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deen 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their al)asement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The wo'.lds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced, for doubts beyond thy little life, 
With torture of my dooming. There \n\\ oom« 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-dropg, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters ; " and the man shall wall 
The 1)illows and be safe, /will not say, 
TUlieve in m<, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equnj flight, and I will thow 



266 



BYRON'S WORK« 



What thou dar'st not deny, the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art^ 
Is yon our earth ? 

Liicifer. Dost thou not recognise 

The dust which fonn'd your father ? 

Cain. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them ? 

Lrmfer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms. 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 
What wouldst thou think ? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lvcifer. But if that high thought were 
Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Knowing such things, aspiring to suclf things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat, 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
As frail, and few so happy 

Cain. Spirit ! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said, (and I ^vithin 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death. 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

A II die— there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 

Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power, 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
Beyond all power of my bom faculties, 
AHhough 'Bferior still to my desires 



And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they, which d»eli 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwell etx 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. 1 seem thac which I am : 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — ^but since it mast be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Luxiifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain. How r ' 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must torture be immorta* ' 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now 
behold ; 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether ! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eder ' 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion, at which my soul aches to thinK, 
Intoxicated with eternity ? 
Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be !. Let me die, as atoms die, 
(If that they die,) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine 
earth ! 

Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a ma^s 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look ther? i 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That, yonder! 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so • 

Why I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Wliich bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and wotIAk, 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost thinii of 
them ? 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
The little shining fire-fly in its flight. 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Show me 

Lucifer Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I whal 



CAIN 



267 



i dare 6ehold ? as yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not ga/e on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst tliou behold things mortal or immortal ? 

Cain. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : hut what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things X see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 
Nor ever shall — ^the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which 
have died, 
4.8 I lisive shown thee much which cannot die ? 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars 
fade from us ! 
The earth ! where is my earth ? let me look on it, 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it : 
Yet deem not that thou canst es'cape it ; thou 
Slialt soon return to earth, and all its dust ; 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wieck. 

Cain. Wl.at ! is it not then new ? 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere 
thou 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either : many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thon ; and mighter things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can ' 
Surmise ; for momenta only and the sjmce 
Have been and must be all unchamj cable. * 

But changes make not death, except to clay ; 
But thou art clay — and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 

Cain. Clay, spirit ! What thou wilt, I can survey. 

Lucifei'. Away, then ! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast, 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd. 
And wure the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them ? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men ? 

L ucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Gain. Ay ! and serpents t.-»o ? 

Liicifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? 
must no reptiles 
Bre tithe save the erect ones ? 

C mn. How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we ? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

fL e beings past, and shadows atill to come. 

Cai/n. But it grows dark, and dark— the stars are 
gone ! 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 

Cain. 'Tis a fearful light ! 

No sun, no moun, no lights innumerable ; 
The very blue of the cmpurjiled night 
FaJes to a d-«ary twilight, yet I see 



Huge dusky masses ; but unlike the ^ orlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shape* 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which tool 
Like them the features of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death and dead things ? 

Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me. 
Ar.d all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what 1 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold ! 

. Cain. 'Tis darkness 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapors roll 

Apart — what's this ? 

Lucifer. . Enter ! 

Cain. Can I return i 

Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should deaUl 
be peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be. 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wid«5 

And wider, and make widening circles roxmd us 

Lucifer. Advance ! 

Cain. And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst D t have gone beyond thy world. On ! on • 

[They disappear through the clottda 



SCENE II. 
Hades. 

Enter Li cifek and Cain. 

Cai*i. How silent and how vast are these dim 
worlds ! 
For tney seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
So thickly in the upper air, that I 
Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable heaven 
Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
But that on drawing near tluin I beheld 
Their swelling into palpable immensity 
Of matter, wliicli seem'd made for life to dwell on, 
Ratlier than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of dejith. — Wouldst have it present? 

Cai7i. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it he as I hiive heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing— 
Oh God ! I dare not think on't ! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of life, that being life 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it- 
Even for the innocent! 

Lucifer. Dost thou cujrie thy fatiMT^ 



268 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Cain. Cursed ne not me in giving me my birth ? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
lo pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well • 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
Hut for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! \Miat else is 
Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh ye intenninable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes. 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
'live ye, or have ye lived ? 
Ltccifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death ? 

Lucifer. What ? hath not he who made ye 

Said 'tis another life ? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

Fie one day vriL unfold that further secret. 
Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes, happy ! when unfolded 

Through agonies unspeakable, arid clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myrjads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animr ted for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I 
see I 

Floating around me ? — they wear not the foi-m 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's : 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something, which 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape, for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and might)' which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 
Lucifer. Yet they lived 

Cain. 
Lucifer. 
Thou livest. 
Cain. When ? 

Lucifer. 
They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — ^bu^ too mean to be 
The last of these. 
Cain. And what are they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shalt be. 
Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer. Living high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things. 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could ere have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be 
[n its dull damp degeneracy, to 
J'hee and tl.y son ; — and how weak they are, judge 



Where? 



Where 



On what thou callest earth 



By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me ! and did (Aey perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fitdt 

from thine. 
Cain. But was mine theirs ? 
Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now, 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures. 
Lucifer. True, it was more glorious 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 
Lucifer. Ask him who fells 

Cain. But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorat)ls 

Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things. 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity.— 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'Tis awful' 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they 
were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them ? 

Lucifer. Let he who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what thy predecessors are. 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death ; the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness— 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safety. 
Cain. No : I'll stay here. 
Lucifer. How long ? 

Cain. For ever ! since 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou see'st hav« 

pass'd — 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we entered 

Even now ? 

Lucifer. By mine ! but, plighted to return. 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever^ 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely harden' i surface— 'twas — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it wa« .' 



CAIN. 



2e! 



Cam. And is. 

tt is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I leel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. T^Tiat thy world is, thou see'st, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Hoar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
In magnitude and ten-or : taller than 
■ The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches-^what were they ? 

I.ucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it ? 

Lucifet: No ; for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it useless — 
*Twould be destroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why war? 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
"Which drove your race from Eden — war with all 

things, 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
Of the fobidden tree. ' 

Cain. But animals — 

Did th(»y too eat of it, that they must die? 
LuciCer. Your Maker told ye, thexj were made for 
you. 
As you for him. — ^You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought know- 
ledge ! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still . but what knows man ? 
Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest 
knowledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest science ; therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain These dim realms ! 

1 see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Tny hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly— but 'tis something 
To know there are such realms 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 
Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

L*tcifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
A.nd this thou knewost not this mom. 



Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortalit)'. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats Oxi beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is banklea* 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue 
What is it ? 

Ludfer'. There is still some such on earth. 
Although inferior, and thy children sliall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean 

Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun— 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

Lucifer. Are its habitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears his di-ipping mane aTid vasiy 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
lorth from the abjss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on— 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mothei^ best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the otn« 
Had more of beauty. 

Ludf&r. Hast thou ne'er beheld him I 

Cain. Many of the same kind, (at least so call'd ^ 
But hever that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect 

Lucifer. Youj: father saw him' not ? 

Cain. No : 'twas my mothw 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene' er thy wife, or thy 
sons wives, 
Tempt thee or them to aught that's new or strangf 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late: there is no 
more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may temp 

man to, 
And man tempf woman : — let thy sons look to it \ 
My council is a kind one ; for 'tis even 
Given chiefly at my ovm expense : 'tis true, 
'Twill not be foUow'd, so there's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou !— 

Thy world and thou art still too young ! T!iOi 

thinkcst 

Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for paia, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man I 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art ii\\\, 
Of sorrow — and thou sufi'erest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st bo ; and that state again, 
In its redoubled WTetrhedness, a Paradise 
To what tny sons' sons' sons, nccumulatinf , 
In generations like to dust, (which thejr 
In fact but add to,) shall endure and do.— 
Now let us back to earth I 



270 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Cain. And whpiefore didst thou 

ficad me here onlf 'o inform me this ? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Ypk: lis being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same 
A par- of all things. 

Cain. Not of all things. No : 

I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not ? Who 
covets evil 
For its own bitter sake ?—xVowe— nothing ! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which we behold. 
Distant and dazzling, find innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar. 

Cain. And what of that ? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they 
When nearer must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most 
beautiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this;:^ 

'*'he loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

J Miifer. Then there must be delusion — what is 
that 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 

Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of tA\'ilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes with pleasant tears, as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softl_y with him ^ 
Along that western paradise of clouds- - 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's 

voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
And mingles with the song of ch«rubim, 
A.S the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis frail as fair mortality. 

In the first dawn and bloom of young creation, 
And eailiest embraces of earth's parents, 
C ui make its offspring; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

My brotherhood's with those who have no children. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyeS; 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist ? 

Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
"•n I irely never be the task of joy, 



! And yet my sire says he's omnipotent. 
Then why is evil — he being good ? I ask'd 
This question of my father : and he said, 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good. Strange good, that must arise from ctlt 
Its deadly oi)posite. I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam; 
My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 

Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father : but I thought, that 'twere 
A better portion for the animal 
Never to have been stuug at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 
• Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. "WTiat am I ? 

Cain. Dost thour;b love nothing ? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 

Cain. All things, my father says : but I confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore^ thou canst not see if J 
love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose. 
To which particular things must melt like snows. 

Cai7i. Snow's ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

\^1iat thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter f 

Cai7i. But dost thou not love something like 
thyself ? 

Lu/>ifer. And dost thou love thyself f 

Cain. Yes, but love mora 

"What makes my feelings more endiirable, 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautifiilt 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ? how can that be t 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. B'lt time has past, and hith«rt« 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the geraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lticifer. All that must pass awav 

In them and her. 

Cain. I'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinkg 
He who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must petlsb 

Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer And thy brother- 



CAIM. 



i7i 



8ltfl he not near thy neart ? 

Cam. "NVTiy should he not ? 

Lvcifsr. Thy father loves him well — so does thy 
God. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly ! 

Lucifer. He is the second bom of flesh, 

And his mother's favorite. 

Cain Let him keep 

Het favor, since the serpent was the first 
T'j -win it 

Ltunfir. And his father's. 

Cain. What is that 

to me ? should I not love that which all love ? 

Lucifer. And tlie Jehovah — the indulgent Lord 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — , 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. * 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him,^and I knpw not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cam. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere 
now. 

Cain. And if 

. have thought, why recall a thought that {he 

pames as ac/itated) — Spirit ! 
Here we arc in thy world ; speak not of mine. 
Thou hast showi me wonders ; thou hast shown me 

those 
Mighty Pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
Myriads of stary worlds, of which our own 
Is tho dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life: thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast 

shown me much — 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise — or thine: 
Where is it ? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 
Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
Cbiy has its earth, and other worlds their tenants; 
AH temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, 

thou say'st ; 
And the Johf)vah and thyself have thine — 
Ye lo not dwell together ? 

Lwifer. No, we roign 

fogcther; btit our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye! perchance 
An unity of i)ur]Jose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in stonns. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not »>, 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
Infinity with Immortality ? 
J«rring and turning space to misery— 



Foi what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not ell me th»t 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen. 

Yon blue immensity, is boumdless ? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is thcTt 
not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Liwifer. Which ? 

Cain. Thou! fei 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / made ye 
not : 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave na 

IJis creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

lAicifer, I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
Tc the great double Mysteries ! the two Principle* 
And gaze upon them on their secret throne* ' 
Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so \ see them ! 

LvAiifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death ? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
Where thou shalt nmlti])ly the race of Adam, 
Eat, di-ink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these thing* 
Which thou hast'shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not requiib 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I dhow'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself ? 

Cain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to kntnv mortal nature's nothingneM 
Be(|ueath that science to thy children, and 
'Twill spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proutt 
llust a stiperior. 

Lucifer. No ! By heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him— No I 
I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from m«; 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through nil eternity 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades. 
And the interminable realms of space. 



S72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And the infinity of endless ages, 
AH, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
And star by star, and universe by universe 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
And what can quenth our immortality, 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Evil; but what will be the rood he gives ? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
The only e\-il ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce-born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already in your little world ? 
• Cai7i. But few ; and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Df his celestial boons to ye and yours, 
Evil and good are things in their own essence. 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But il he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mirie, 
Till ye know better its true font : and ju4ge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it not be oversway'd 
By tjTannous threats to force yju into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and jiward feeling : 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ;^,^> 
Bo shall your nearer be the spiritual 
Nature,, and war triumphant with your own. 

[They disappear. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 
The Earth, near Eden, as in Act 1. 

Enter Cain and Adah. 

Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will ! but wherefore ? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves beneath the cypress. 

Cain, Cypress ! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut OTit the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last— 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
[n their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

A iah. And his lips, too, 

tlow beavtifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon— 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
Pis closed. 

Cam. You have said well ; I will contain 



My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile t 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unkno^VIl, 
Which were not thine nor mine ? But now sleep on 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream— 
Of what ? Of Paradise !— Ay ! dream of it. 
My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream , 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er oiu 
son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and ovir Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth r 

Cain, yes — death, too, is among the debts we 
owe her. 

Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew 
thee hence, 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
\i6ion8, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him. 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ! 

Adah. 'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and 
seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds. 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents hSm 

With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. 1\on knoVBt— 



CAIN. 



»i7a 



Kven for our pareatft' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ? 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that 
thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

Adah. How know we that some such atonement 
one day 
May not redeem our race ? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
Done that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain ; thy 
words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah, • Never, 

Though thy God lett thee. 

Cain. 5ay> what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he that / would be so ready 
With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator ? 

Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 

Cain. One altar may suflice : / have no offering. 

Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers, and fruits ; 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cam. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the 
sun. 
According to the curse :— must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
For being dust, and grovelling in the dust. 
Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I bp an hypocrite. 
And seem well pleased with pain ? For what should I 
Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed ? 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there. 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ! better "twere 
I snatch 'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let him live to— — 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child— my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

Cain. Fear not! for all the stars, and all the 
power 
Which Bways them, I would not accost yon infant 
VS ith ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
^dr»k Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 



Cain. 1 said 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only sa> — 
'Twere better that he never had been bom. 

Aduh. Oh, do not say so! Where were iLen tL» 
joys. 
The mothers joys of watching, nourishing 
And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch 1 
[She goes to the cMtd 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life. 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
How like to me, how like to thee, when gentle. 
For theti we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his anxM) 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thi.ne, 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as \ving'd with joy. Talk not of pain « 
The childless cherubs well might en^y thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thp<?, boy 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's ciirse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 

Adah. Our brother come* 

Cain. Thv brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 

Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast bee« 
wandering 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Bej ond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken >vith, like to our father ? 

Cain. No. 

A bel. Wliy then commune with him ? he may b« 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 

Ahel. Term him ! your words are strange, to-day 
my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son May his soft spirit. 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

{Exit Ad\h %pith her child 

Abel. Where hiu** thou been ? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thoii hh«t aeon ? 

Cain. The dead 

The imrnortJil, the unbound* d, the omnipotent. 
The overpowering mysteries of spao»»— 
The innumerable worlds thi»t w«»r« anH »r^ 



274 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 

Buns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced 

spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
• Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural 

light— 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed 
together. ^ 

Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that, 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am : 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If as my elder I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The mort my grief ; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems laboring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still' d. My Abel, leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Abel. Neither; we must perform our task together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so — well, then, 

What shall I do ? 

Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cai7i. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. .Choose thou ! 

Cain. I have chosen. 

Abel. 'Tis the highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here — 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Y ield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 

[He gaihers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
[TTiey dress their altars, and kindle a Jiame 
upon tJiem. 

Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
ITiy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel, (kneeling.) Oh God! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath of- life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
/^nd spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His childrer all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not tb} justice been so temper'd with 



The mercy which is thy delight, is to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord oi light 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfilled — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
• Even to the dn.st, of which he is, in honor 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore . 

Cain, (standing erect during this speech.) Spirit . 

whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omcipotent, it may be — and, if good. 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works :— 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Take them ! II thou must be induced with altaifl. 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, whieli 

smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
I spread them on now offers in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favor. 
Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling : if he's evil. 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may's1>— 
For what can he oppose ? If he be good. 
Strike him, or spare him, as thou wilt ! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in thy will; 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endm-e 
Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 

[The fire upon the altar of Abel kindles into « 
column of the brightest fame, and ascends to 
heaven; while a whirlwind throws down thi 
altar of Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad 
upon the earth. 
Abel, (kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah s 

wroth with thee. 
Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them 

return; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit' there ere the summer 
Thy burnt flesh-off 'ring prospers better, see 
How Heav'n licks up the flames, when thick with 

blood ! 
Abel. Think not upon my offering's a'^ceptfuioe. 



CAIX. 



275 



3ut make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

•Jor suffer any.— 

Abel, (rishig.) Cain ! what meanest thou ? 

Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of the clouds, 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy'd in blood. 

Abel, (opposing him.) Thou shalt not : — add not 
impious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His ! 

Bis pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Bhall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shall not touch 
my altar 
With violence ; if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacr'fice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou ? 

Cain. Give — 

Give way ! — thy God loves blood ! — then look to it : — 
Give way, ere he hath more ! 

Abel. In H%$ great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself. 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Abel, (opposing him.) I love God far more 
Than life. 

Cain, (striking him with a brand, on the temples, 
which he snatches from, the altar.) Then 
take thy life unto thy God, 
bmce ne loves lives. 

Abel, (falls.) What hast thou done, my brother ? 

Cain. Brother ! 

Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
H» did. — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and 

tell 
Poor Zillah 

Cain, (after a moment's stupefaction.) My hand ! 
'tis all red, and with — 
What ? [-4 kmg pause. — Looking slowly rotmd. 

» Where am I ? alone ! Where'^ Abel ? where 
Cain ? Can it be that I am he ? My brother. 
Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
'Tia not the liour of slumber : — why so pale ? 

WTiat, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 

Abel ! I pra) thee, mock me not ! I smote 

Too fiercely but not fatally. Ah, why 

Would'st thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — as a blow — 

And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir! 

Why, so — that's well ! — thou breath'st ! breathe 

upon me ! 
3h, God ! Oh, God ! 

Abel, (very faintly, ) What's he who speaks of 
G>d? 



Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God orgive him . Caiii< 

Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel dies, 

Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless 1 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep : and sleep shuts do^vn our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ; 
And yet I feel it not. — His heart !^ his heart ! — 

Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No ! — no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me : — ^what is this ? 'tis wet 
[Puts his hand to his brow, and then look* 9i U 
And yet there are no dews ! '1 is blood — ^my bloo4-« 
My brother's and my own ; and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life 
Since I have taken life from my own flesn ? 
But he cannot be dead ! — Is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake : then let me watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall 1 say to him ? — My brother ! — No : 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 

Zillah. I heard a heavy soimd : what can it be ? 
'Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep ? Oh 

heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No 1 

no ! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what's this ? — who hath done this ? He 

moves not ; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop do>vn from 

mine. 
With stony lifclessness : Ah ! cruel Cain ; 
Why cara'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have stepp'd 

in 
Between him and aggression ! Fathtr ! — Eve !— 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit Zillah, calling on her Parent*, SfC 
Cain, (solus.) And who hath brought him there ?— 

I — who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the mought 
Impoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim witluiut my aid. 
I am awiike at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden 'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 

Adatn. A voice of wo from Zillah brings mc hexe, - 
What do I sec ? — 'Tis true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[ToEvu 

Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fkng« 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin. to take Aim (rem me ' 



J 



276 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Adam. • Who, 

Or what hath done this deed ? — speak, Cain, since 
"^ thou 

Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel. 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand. 
Massy and bloodyi snatch'd from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son ! 

Speak, and assure us, -wTetched as we are. 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou! 

Eve. It was. 

1 see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his breed than ours. 
Mav all his days be desolate ! May 

Adnh. Hold ! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And mybetroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 

Zillah no husband — me no son ! — for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 

Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

Adam. Eve ! let not this, 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve, (pointing to Cain.) His will! ! the will of 
yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And ■wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path- 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim !, 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them Avith his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he lr*e in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him \fho first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain. 
rhrough all the coming myriads of mankind, 
WTio si 1^1 H^hor thee, though thou wert their sire ! 
May the sji-.ss wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny theeshelter I earth a home ! the dust 
4 arrave ! ftie sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 

[Eint Etb. 



Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no moM 

together. 
Depart ! and leave the dead to me — I am 
Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : d< 
not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head I 

Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah! 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart 
[Exeunt Adam and Zillah weeping 

Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. 
I am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me, 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me ! 

Adah. Why, all have left thee 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thoi 
not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah. I feai 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless 
I must not speak of this — ^it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from within exclaims, Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. He^r'st thou that voice I 

TJie Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper ? 

Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 

The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out. 

Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now aH 
thou 
Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall 

not 
Yield thee her strength : a fugitive shalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. 
Behold, thou invest him from the face of earth. 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. • 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. . 

Cain. Would they could ! but who are tne| 

Shall slay me ? where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled ? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father, 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmeared with blood ? 



UAIN. 



271 



the fratricide might wftU engender parricides.— 
But it shall not be so— the Lord thy God 
^d mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

Cain. What 

Would'st thon with me ? 

Angel. To maik upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 

Cain. No, let me die ! 

Angel. It must not be. 

[The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow. 

Cain. It burns 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 

Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from 
the womb. 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 

Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself ; but could I 
With my o\vr\ death redeem him from the dust — 
And why not so ? let him return to-day, 
And I lie ghastly ! su shall be restored 
By God the life to him,he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is 
done. 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds. 
Unlike the last ! [The Angel disappears. 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for ! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 
But the four rivers * would not cleanse my soul. • 
Ihink'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 

Adah. If I thought he would not, I would — 



* The " four riven " which flowed round Eden, and •onwquantly tbo 
«t^ I ttCM w'th viirh Caiia wu aoquainted ujioa ttwt «Mte. 



Cam, (interrupting her.) No l 

No more of threats : we have had too man^ : f them 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead 
Let us depart together. 

Cain. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain "d 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my owr 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou should'st have don« 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave— 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth ! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the Avilderness. 

[Adah stoops down and kisses the body of Abel. 

Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them; 
But yet of all who mourn, none mourn like me. 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and ma> 
our God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children 

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. 1 
Have di'ied the fountain of a gentle race, 
WTiich might have graced his recent marriage couco, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine 
Uniting^with our children Abel's offspring \ 
O Abel ! 

Adah. Peace be with him . 

Cain. But with me . 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE; 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY. 



" Ihut inquieti turWdua Adrue."— Jlonoc*. 



PREFACE. 

The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Faliero is 
one of the most remarkable events in the annals 
Df the most singular government, city, and people 
of modern history. It occurred in the year 13r5o. 
Every thing about Venice is, or was, extraordinary 
— her aspect is like a dream, and her history is like 
a romance. The story of the Doge is to be found 
in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed in 
the " Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which 
is given in the Appendix. It is simply and clearly 
related, and is perhaps more dramatic in itself than 
tny scenes which can be founded upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a- man of 
talents and of courage. I find him commander-in- 
chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara, where 
fas beat the king of Hungary and his army of 80,000 
men, killing 8000 men, and keeping the besieged at 
the same time in check ; an exploit of which I 
know none similar in history except that of Caesar 
at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene at Belgrade. He 
was afterwards commander of the fleet in the same 
war. He took Capo d'Istria. He was ambassador 
at Genoa and Rome, at which last he received the 
news of his election to the dukedom ; his absence 
being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, 
since he was apprized of his predecessor's death 
and his own succession at the snme moment. But 
he appears to have been of an un';overnable temper. 
A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, many 
yeirs before, when podesta and captain at Treviso, 
boxf ] the ears of the bishop, who was somewhqjt 
tardy in biinging the Host. For this, honest Sanuto 
** saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum did 
Square ; but he does not tell us whether he was 
punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage 
at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, 
to have been afterwards at peace >vith the church. 
for we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested 
with the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of 
Treviso, and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo 
Couat-Bishoi of Ceneda. For these facts my 



authorities are Sanuto, Vetter Sandi, Andrea Nav 
agero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first 
published by the indefatigabh Abate Morelli, in hia 
" Monumenti Veneziani di varia Letteratura,* 
printed in 1796, all of which 1 have looked over in 
the original language. The moderns, Daru, Sis- 
mondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the ancient 
chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the conspiracy to 
his jealousy ; but I find this no where asserted by 
the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, 

says, that " Altri scrissero che dalla 

gelosa suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel 
Steno) staccar con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this 
appears to have been by no means the general 
opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto or by Nav 
agero, and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, 
that " per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che 
non il solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia 
congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion sua, 
per cui anel ava a farsi principe independente.' 
The first motive appears to have been excited by 
the gross affront of the words written by Michel 
Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and 
inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, 
who was one of their " tre Capi." The attentions 
of Steno himself appear to have been directed 
towards one of her damsels, and not to the " Doga- 
ressa" herself, against whose fame not the slightest 
insinuation appears, while she is praised for her 
beauty, and remarked for her youth. Neither do 1 
find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be an 
assertion) that the Doge was actuated by jealousy 
of his wife ; but rather by respect for her, and fox 
his own honor, warranted by his past services aitd 
present dignity 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded 
to in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View ol 
Italy. His account is false and flippant, fjiU of stale 
jests about old men and young wives, and wonder- 
ing at so great an effect from so slight a cause. 
How so acute and severe an observer of mankind 
as^the author of Zeluco could wonder at this ii 
inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water spilt 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



279 



on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the duke of Marl 
borough of his command, and led to the inglorious 
peace of Utrecht — that Louis XIV. was plunged 
Into the most desolating wars because* his minister 
was nettled at his finding fault with a window, and 
wished to give him another occupation — that Helen 
lost Troy — that Lucretia expelled the Tarquins from 
Rome — and that Cava brought the Moors to Spain — 
that an insulted husband led the Gauls to Clusium. 
and thence to Rome — that a single verse of Fred- 
e.-ick II. of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a 
jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of 
Rosbach — that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with 
Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery 
of Ireland — that a personal pique between Maria 
Antoinette and the duke of Orleans precipitated 
the first expulsion of the Boiirbons — and, not to 
multiply instances, that Commodus, Domitian, and 
Caligula fell victims not to their public tyranny, 
but to private vengeance — and that an order to 
make Crpmwell disembark from the ship in which 
he would have sailed to America destroyed both 
king and commonwealth. After these instances, 
on the least reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in 
Dr. Moore to seem surprised that a man used to 
eommand, who had served and swayed in the most 
important oifices, should fiercely resent, in a fierce 
age, an unpunished affi-ont, the grossest that can 
be offered to a man, be he prince or peasant. The 
age of Faliero is little to the purpose, unless to 
<avor it. 

" The young man's wrath m liKe straw on fire, 
But like red hot steel is the old man'* ire" 

" Young men soon give and soon forget aifrouta, 
Old age is slow at U>th." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical: — 
•'Tale fu il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua 
ftascita, la sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener 
lontano dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. 
I suoi talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori 
Cnpieghi, la sua capacita sperimentata ne' governi 
e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima 
e la fiducia de cittadini, ed avevano untiti i suffragj 
per collocarlo alfa testa della republica. Innalzato 
ad un grado che terminava gloriosamenta la sua 
vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinu6 
nel suo cuore tal veleno che basto a corrompere le 
antiche sue qualita, e a condurlo al termine dei 
scellerati ; serio essempio, che prova luni esservi etd, 
in cut la prudenza umana sia sicura, e che rwlV uomo 
restano sonpre passioni capaci a disoiiararlo, qtuindo 
non i'jf.vitjili sopra se stesso." — Laugier, Italian 
translation, vol. iv. page 30, 31. 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero 
begged his life } I have searched the chroniclers, 
\nd find nothing of the kind ; it is true that he 
avowed all. lie was. conducted to the place of 
torture, but there is no mention made of any 
apphcation for mercy on hiS part; and the very 
circumstance of their having taken him to the rack 
•eems to argue anything but his having shown a 
▼ant of firmness, which would doubtless have been 
tlso mentioned by those minute historians who by 
to means favor him : such, indeed, would be con- 
hrar> to his character as a soldier, to the a|je in 
•vhich hi lived, and at which he died, as it is to the 
truth of history. I know no justification at any 
iistani e of time for calumniating an historical 



j character ; surely truth belongs to the dead, and to 
the unfortunate, and they who have died upon a 
scafibld, have generally had faults enough of their 
own, Avithout attributing to them that which the 
very incurring of the perils which conducted thenj 
to their violent death renders, of all others, t^ 
most improbable. The black veil which is painted 
over the place of Marino Faliero amceigst the 
doges, and the Giants' Staii-case where he wan 
crowned, and discrowned, and deca.pitatpd, struck 
forcibly upon my imagination, as did his fiery 
character and strange story. I went in 1819, in 
search of his tomb more than once to the cbuich 
San Giovanni e San Paolo, and as I was standing 
before the monument of another family, a priesi 
came up to me and said, "I can show you finer 
monuments than that." I told him that I was ia 
search of that of the Faliero family, and partic- 
ularly of the Doge Marino's. " Oh," said he, 
" I will show it you ; ". and conducting me to the 
outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with 
an illegible inscription. He said that it had been 
in a convent adjoining, but was removed after the 
French came, and placed in its present situation; 
that he had seen the tomb opened at its removal ; 
there were still some bones remaining', but nc 
positive vestige of the decapitation. The eques- 
trian statue of which I have made mention in the 
third act as before that church is not, however, of a 
Faliero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, 
although of a later date. There were two othei 
Doges of this family prior to Marino : Ordelafo, 
who fell in battle at Ziira in 1117, (where hij 
descendant afterwards conquered the Huns,) and 
Vital Faliero, who reigned in 1082. The family, 
originally from Fano, was of the most illustrious in 
blood and wealth in the city of once the most 
wealthy and still the most ancient families in 
Europe. The length I have gone into on this 
subject will show the interest I have taken in it 
Whether I have succeeded or not in the tragedy, i 
have at least transferred into our language an 
historical fact worthy of commemoration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated thih 
work, and, before I had sufficiently examined the 
records, I was rather disposed to have made it turn 
on a jealousy in Faliero. But perceiving no found 
ation for this in liistorical truth, and aware that 
jealousy is an exhausted passion in the drama, I 
have given it a more historical form. 1 was, be- 
sides, well advised by the late Matthew Lewis on 
that point, in talking with him of my intention, al 
Venice, in 1817. " If you make him jealous," said 
he, "recollect that you have to contend with estab- 
lished writers, to say nothing of Shakspears, ajid 
an exhausted subject ; — stick to the old fiery Do55» « 
natural character, which will bear you out, if pit jr 
erly drawn ; and make youi plot as reguhir as yon 
can." — Sir William Drunnnond gave me nearly tht 
same counsel. How far I liave followed those in- 
structions, or whether they have .wailed me, is r.o. 
for me to decide. I have had no view to the stage ; 
in its present state it is, perhaps, no\ a very ex.\ltc»<i 
object of ambition ; besides 1 have been too niuob 
behind the scenes to have thought it so at unj 
time. And I cannot conceive any man of irritable 
feeling putting himself at the monies of an autli 
cnce : the sneering reader, and the loud critic 
and the tart review, are scattered and distao* 



280 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ealancities ; but the trampling of an intelligent or 
of an ignorant audience on a production which, be 
it gcod or bad, has been a mental labor to the 
m'iter, is a palpable and immediate grievance 
heightened by a man's doubt of their competency 
to judge, and his certainty of his own imprudence 
n electing them his judges. Were I capable of 
writing a play which could be deemed stage worthy 
success would give me no pleasure, and failure 
great pain. It is for this reason that even during 
the time of being one of the committee of one of 
the theatres, I never made the attempt, and never! 
will.* But surely there is dramatic power some 
where, where Joanna Baillie, and Milman, and 
John Wilson exist. The "City of the Plague 
and the "Fall of Jerusalem" are full of the best 
* materiel" for tragedy that has been seen since 
Horace Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and 
De Montfort. It is the fashion to underrate Horace 
Walpole ; firstly, because he was a nobleman, and 
secondly, because he was a gentleman ; but to say 
nothing of the composition of his incomparable 
letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he is the 
" Ultimus Romanorum," the author of the Myste- 
rious Mother, a tragedy of the higher order, and 
not a puling love-play. He is the father of the first 
romance and of the last tragedy in oxir language, 
and surely worthy of a higher place than any living 
wri'-er, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I 
forgot to mention that the desire of preserving, 
though still too remote, a nearer approach to unity 
than the irregularity, which is the reproach of the 
English theatrical compositions, permits, has in- 
duced me to represent the conspiracy as already 
foiTned, and the Doge acceding to it, whereas, in 
fact, it was of his o%vn preparation and that of Is- 
rael Bertuccio. The other characters (except that 
of the duchess), incidents, and almost the time, 
which was wonderfully short for sucn a aesign m 
real life, are strictly historical, except that all the 
consultations took place in the palace. Had I fol- 
lowed this, the unity would have been better pre- 
served ; but I wished to produce the Doge in the 
full assembly of the conspirators, instead of monot- 
onously placing him always in dialogue with the 



same individuals. For the real facts, I refer to th< 
extracts given in the Appendix in the Italian, with 
translation. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Ifen.— Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice 

Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Dont 
Li ox I, a Patrician and Senator. 
Bexixtende, Chief of the Councilof Ten. 
Michel Steno, one of the thiee Cajn oj 

the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief 

of the Arsenal, 
Peilip Calendar©, '^ Conspir <a\>ra 
Dagolino, 
Bertram, 

"] " Siqnw 

Signor of the Nighty > 

J 



NoUe," 
one of the Officert 
belonging to tJu 
Republic. 



NZO, ^ 

;ta, ; 



fleers belonging to the 
Du-cal Palace. 



* While I w;is in the suUcommitte* of Driiry I>ane Theatre, 1 can Tcnich 
for my colleiigues, and I hope lor myielf, that we did our best lo liriiig back the 
legitimate drama. 1 tried what I could lo get " De Montfort" reTive<l, but 
n vain, and eijually in vain in favor of Solheoy't " Iv.m," which wai 
bought an acting play ; anil 1 eni.leavore<l also to wake Mr. Coleridge to 
write a tr.igiily. Those who are not in the secret will hanlly believe that the 
" School (or Scandal " is the pl\y which has brought leait money, averaging 
Ihe number of limes it has boen aclt'd since iu produdion : so Manager 
Dil>lin assured me. Of wluit has occurred since Matiirin's " Bertram," I 
un not aware ; so thai 1 may be traducing, Uirough ignorance, some excel- 
lent new writer ; if so, I Ix'g their pardon. I have been absent from England 
Deatly five years, anil, till last year, I nevijr read an Engliah newspaper 
inoe my departure, and am now only aware of theauical matters through 
bte mediuni of the Parisian Gaz' tie of Cialignani, and only (or the l;ist twelve 
M»nths. I^ me then deprecate all cITi-nce lo tragic or comic writers, lo 
whom 1 wish well, -iml of whom 1 know nothing. The long complaints of 
te luuiial tute of Uie drama arise, however, from no fault of the perfonners. 
I can conceive nothing belter than Kemble, Cooke, and Keaii in their very dif- 
ferent n>anncrs, or than Rllioli'U in gentleman^t conxily, and in some parts of 
lrtge<ly. Mias O'Neill I never »;iw, having made and kept a deternination to 
»ee nothing whicli should divide or disturb my recolK'Clion of Sidd'^s. Sidduns 
Knd Kc-^'ile were the ideal of tragic action ; I never saw aiiv thing at all 
ICKmblii.^ jiem even in person ; for this re;isnn, we shall never see again 
Coriolaniia or Macbeth. When Kean is bl;uned for want of iiguity, we 
■houid remember that it is % gnce and not an art, and not to be attained by 
Itudy. lu aL not «up«r-iiatural paru, he is perfect ; even his very defects 
belong, or seem lo telong, to the parts tlieni*>lvi;«, and appear inie; 
■alure. but of Kemlle we may B;iy, witli relerence lo his acting, what 
i;ardinal l)e net2 said o( the Marquis of Montrose, " tltat he was the only 
'>wn be ever t&v wIm icinioded him uf the betous uf Plutarch." 



First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 
Vixcenzo 

PlETRO 

Battista 
Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The 
Council of Ten, The Giants, SjC.f ^e 
Women. — Angiolixa, Wife to the Doye 
Marianna, her Friend. 
Female Attendants, S^t . 

Scene Venice — ^in th« year 1356. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



An Antechamber in the Ducal Palace^ 

PiETRO speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger returned ? 

Bat. Not yet 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded. 
But still the Sigorny is deep in council, 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. * 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge 

Bat. How bears Ui\ 

These moments of suspense ? 

Pie. With ilrigglmg patienoa 

Placed at the ducal table, covf r jd o'er 
With all the apparel of the sXia; petitions, 
Despatches, judgments, actSj reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door. 
Or aught that intimates a corning step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders. 
And he will start up fiom his chair, then pause. 
• to j And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
-^ I Upon some edict ; but I hav<! t)bserved 
I For the last hour he has not turh'd a leaf 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE 



281 



Bat. 'Tis said he is much moved, and doubtless 
'twas 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. . 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. TheL you think 

He will not be judged hardly ? 

Pie. 'Twere enough 

He be judged justly ; but 'tis not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

B^U. And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo ? 

Enter Vincenzo. 
Vin 'Tis 

Decided ; but as yet his doom's unknown : 
I saw the president in act to seal 
The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. 

\Exewnt. 

SCENE II.. 

The Ducal Chamber. 

Mabino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, Beb,- 
Tuccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 

Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori did^ 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such 
an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
Forty ? 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. (addressing Vincenzo, then entering. J 

How now — what tiding!* ? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the 
court 
Hac pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
AS the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is past, you say ? 

Vi7i. It is, your highness : 

The president was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in cue united. 

ber. F. Are you aware, from 6: ghtyou have per- 
ceived, 
U their decision ? 

Vin. no, \>iy lord ! you know^ 
The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F. True ; but there still is something given 
to guess, 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch 

at; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribimal. 
The Forty are but men — most Avorthy men, 
^dwiHC %ndjuHt, and cautious — this I grant- 
ee 



And secret as the grave to vhicb they doom 
The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects— 
At least in some, the juniors of the number— 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced 

Vin. my lord, I came away upon the moment 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which pass'd among the judges, even in seeming 
My station near the accused, too, Michel Steno, 
Made me 

Dog.3, (abruptly.) And how look'd hef delitiei 
that. 

Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
To the decree, whate er it were ; — but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief Magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence past on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 
Contain'd, together with its penalty. 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary a7id Vincenjso. 
Take thou tliis paper 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes : 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. (reading.) " Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession. 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

Doge. Would'st thou repeat them I 

Would'st thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonor of our house, 
Dishonor'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities ? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey- 
( Reads.) *' That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
In close arrest." 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finish'd. 

Doge. How say you ?— finish'd ! Do I dream i 
'tis false — 
Give me the paper — (Snatches the paper and reads)— 

** 'Tis decreed in council 
That Michel Steno " Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uucall'd f Jr- • 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir — Stir not^- 

'Tis past. 

ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence- 
It is not honorable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Wliich was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Wh}, seeing that true justice is ^itbhe*d. 



282 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Will now take up the cause they tncc declined, 
A.nd do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
Bo fii'd ? You heed me not : — I pray you, hear me ! 

Doge, (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offer- 
ing to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is 
withheld by his nephew,) 
Oh . that the Saracen were in St. Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Bttr. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were* ranged axound the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'Tis not well 

m Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me see him. 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Venice 

Doge, (interrupting him.) There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless 

wretch. 
Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all our house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us : — where is our redress ? 

Ber. F. The law, my prince — 

Doge, (inteiTwpting him.) You see what it has 
done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I call'd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects, 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and service. 
Honors and years, these scars, these hoary hairs. 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues, 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest 

stain. 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting ! 
And this is to be borne ! 

Btr. F. I say not that : — 

In case you.? fresh appeal should be rejected. 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son ? 
A scion of the house of Faliero r 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
But thou say'st well — we must be humble now. 

Ber.^ F. My princely uncle ! you are toe much 
moved : — 
[ grant it was a gross ofTence, and grossly 
Left >vithout fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation, 
Or any prove nation ; if we axe wrong'd, 



We will ask justice ; if it be denied. 
We'll take it ; but may do ali this in calmness- 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
I love our house, I honor you, its chief. 
The guardian of my youth, and its instructor— 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

Doge. I tell thee — must I tell thee— what tbj 
father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external s6nse 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soui— 
No pride — no passion — no deep sense of honor ? 

Ber. F. 'Tis the first time that honor has be«| 
doubted, 
And were the last from any other skeptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this bom 
villain. 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon. 
Who threw his sting into a poisonous libel. 
And on the honor of — Oh God ! — my wife. 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor. 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comnients 
And villainous jests, and blasphemies obscene , 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wittoi, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 

Said, " Caesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days—" 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not sufifrr 
That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dandolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Caesars, 
And wore the ducal cap 1 trample on. 
Because 'tis now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 

Doge. It is — it is :—l did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slandrr'd 
Because she took an old man for her lord, 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her, 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
Who hath a name whose honor's all to him. 
When these are tainted by the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment ? 

Doge. Death ! was I not the sovereign of tAn 
state — 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scorn'd 
As a man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



283 



H%d he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Btampt the same orand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had stabbed him on the instant. 

Ber F. Do not doubt it, 

He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday : at present 
I have no further •vvrath against ^his man. 

Ber. F. Whtt mean you ? is not the offence re- 
doubled 
Bj this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him : 
The Forty hath decreed a mouth's arrest— 
We must obey the Forty. 

B&r. F. Obey them ! 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why yes ; — ^boy, you perceive it then at 
last: 
Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it. 
They have defrauded me of both my rights, 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left 
to me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 
I never meant this miscreant should escape, 
But -wish'd you to suppress such gusts of passion, 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 

A.t least, just now, — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th* olden time 
Bome sacrifices ask'd a single victim. 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honor of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 
proof : 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. \Vhy that's my uncle! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years. 
Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The Sim and you, as an ill omcn'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : 
Bo will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'Tie fit I were aloTie. 

Ber. F. (taking up and placing tlte ducal bonnet 
on the table.) Ere I depart, 

I pray you to resume what you have apum'd, 
TUl you can change it haply for a crown. 
Aad row I lake my leave, imploring you 



In all things to rely upon my duty 

As doth become your near and faithful kinsnr.an 

And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Exit Berttjccio Falibbo 
Doge_ (soliis.) Adieu my worthy nephew. — Hoi 
low bauble ! [Taking up the ducal cap 

Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Pw^« it on. 
How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temple! 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to a diadem r 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and the prince 
A pageant.? In my life I have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them. 
Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them? 
Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
I would have dash'd among them, asking few 
In aid to overthrow these swoU'n patricians ; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plaa 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet it is but a chaos 
Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
In her first work, more hearly to the light 
Holding the sleeping images of things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment.— 
The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin. There is one withottl 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I'm unwell — 

I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he's a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley I 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

lExit VlNCENlO 

Doge, (sohis.) This patron may be sounded; ] 
will try him. 
I know the people to be discontented ; 
They have cause, since Sajjienza's adverse day, 
WTien Genoa conquer'd ; they have further cauM* 
Since they are nolliiug in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
To serve the nobles' most patriiian ploasui-e. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised 
And nuirmur deejjly — any hope of change 
Will draw them forward: they shall pay themselret 
With plunder : — but the priests — I doubt the priest- 
hood 
Will not be with us ; thoy have hated me 
Since that rash hotir. when, nuidden'd with thedlODA 
' 1 smote the tardy bishop at Treviso, 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, nc'erthdcss. 
They may be won. at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy ; at my hour 
Of twilight little light of liiiB rcmainii. 



284 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 

1 had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 

Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 

Better that sixty of my fourscore years 

Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 

The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 

They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 

The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make 

me. 
Let me consider — of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Isbael Bertxiccio. 

Vin. May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whom I spake of 
I» here to crave your patience. 

Doffe. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you ? 

T. Ber. Redress. 

Doge. Of whom ? 

7. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doffe. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. . 

/. Ber. 'Twere in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There's blood upon thy face — ^how came it 
there ? 

J. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed fot 
Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. ' 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

I. Ber. Not long- 

But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself; — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would de- 

ls it not so ? 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

/. Ber. He is call'd so : 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
'Tis said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — ^his name and lineage ? 

/. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext ? 

/. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal, employ'd 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree ; I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand : — 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 
Pishonorably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

/. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege. 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns 

there, 
Hometime my general, now the Doge Faliero.— 

Dope, How ! are we comrades ? — the state's ducal 
robes 



Sit newly on me. and you were appointed 

Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 

So that I recognized you not. Who placed you ? 

I. Ber. The late Doge • keeping still my oil 
command 
As patron of a galley: my new office 
Was given as a reward of certain scars, 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say ;) 
I little thought this bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

Doge. Speak out; fear nothing: being stung at 
heart, 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

/. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will 
do. 

Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 

/. Ber. I come for justice. 

Because my general is Doge, and wiU not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any. 
Save Faliero, fill'd the ducal throne. 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto met 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 'Twas denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago. 

/. Ber. How says your highness ? 

Doge Steno is condemn'^ 

To a month's confinement. 

/. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the 
arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink, 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the vile tune of every galley-slave. 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 

/. Ber. Is"t possible ? a month's imprisonment. 
No more for Steno ? 

Doge. You have heard the offence^ 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me .' Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 

/. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 

Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My petty wrong, for what is a mere blow. 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ? 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 

Doge. Yes^f a happy people 

/. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of 
Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sc rsreiG^tjr. 



MARINO FALIERO DOGE OF VENICE. 



285 



Bo that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose envenom'd body 
llave breathed a pestilence upon us all. 
/. Ber. Yet, thou wast born and still hast lived 

patrician. 
Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Bath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
[ lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honor were my guerdon 
1 have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and con- 
quered : 
Hare made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
A.8 it might chance to be our country's vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty, 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men, 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice, 
She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones. 
/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 
Doge. They made me »o : 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy. 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
A.t these laje years decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

/. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will, 
And many thousands more not loss oppress'd, 
^Vho wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 
Doge. You speak in riddles. 
/. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

A.t peril of my life ; if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doge. Say on. 

/. Ber. Not thou, 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs. 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Aje discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops. 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he among them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintain'd 
Witl. the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them further ; 
Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus, 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 
Doge. And sutFcring what thou hast done — foar'st 
thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to bo beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

/. BtfT. No, I will speak 

at every haiard ; and if Venice' Boge 
Should t\u'n delator, be the shame on him, 
knA sorrow too ; for he will lose far mor« 



I Than I. 

Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 
[. Ber. Know, then, that there are met and swora 
in secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
To do so ; having served her in all climes. 
And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
AVould do the same from those within her walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and meant. 
And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient 
courage. 
Doge. For what then do they pause ? 
I. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge, (aside.) Saint Mark's shall strike that hour I 
/. Ber. I now have placed 

My life, my honor, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause. 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so. 
Be our chief now — our sovereign hereafter. 
Doge. How many are ye ? 
/. Ber. I'll not answer that 

Till I am answer'd. 
Doge. IIow, sir ! do you menace 

/. Ber. No ; 1 affirm. I have betray'd myself , 
But there's no torture in the mystic wells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the '* leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi and the Piombi were in vain ; 
They might -wring blood from me, but treacher)' never* 
And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the uiurdcrM, washing 
The prison and the palace wall? • there are 
Those who would live to think on t, and avenge me 
Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in the coiirse 
To do yourself due right ? 

/. Ber. Because the man, 

AVho claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made m« 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 
Doge. What was that ? 

/. Ber. Some riimors that the Doge was greatll 
moved » 
By the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reached me. I had serv'd you, honor'd yoQ 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite the tenfold both good and evil : 'twas 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all : and that I speak the tnitK, 
My peril be the prooi. 
D009. You hare deeply 



'^86 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Rut all must do so ^ho would greatly win : 
j'hus frtx I'll answer you — your secret's safe. 

/. Bar. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted 

Wliat would you have me answer ? 

I. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, 
and numbers : 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthen'd. 

/. Ber. We're enough already ; 

Yon are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your 
chiefs. 

I. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal 
pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. When ? where ? 

/. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apartments 
Two of tlte principals ; a great number 
^ere naziirdous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself among you, 
And leave the palace ? 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

/. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He 
died in arms 
A.t Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

/. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
doubtest 
But will regard thee with a iilial feeling. 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of 
meeting ? 

I. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
WTiere'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive out homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and 
dusky ; 
'Tis a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then. 

Near to the church where sleep my sires ; the same, 
T^^in-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
A gondola, 2 with one oir only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 
Be there. 

/. Ber. I will not fail. 

Doge. And now" retire 

/. Ber. In full hope your highjiess will not falter 
fn your great purpose. Prince,«I take my leave. 

{Exit Israel Bertuccio. 

Doge, (solm.) At midnight, by the church Saints 
John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fatuers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 
Where lie two doges who preceded me, 
A nd pluck nif down among them ? Would they could, 



For I should rest in honor with the honor'd ; 

Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 

Who have made me thus unworthy of a nam^ 

Noble and brave as aught of consular 

On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 

Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 

By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice 

And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 

To all the growing calumnies of time, 

"V\.1ach never spare the fame of him who fails, 

But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 

By the true touchstone of desert— success. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

An Apartment in the Dtccal Palace. 

Angiolina (wife of the DogeJ and MABiAWlfA. 

Ang. What was the Doge's answer ? 

Mar. That he wai 

That moment summon' d to a conference : 
But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
And the last gondola may now be seen 
Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

Ang. Would he were retum'd I 

He has been much disquieted of late ; * 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 
Nor yet enfe&bled even his mortal frame. 
Which seems to be more nourished by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little power 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who, 
In the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in hiro 
An aspect of eternity : his thoughts, 
His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 
Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years 
Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
Would he were come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause; 
But the off"endei*doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

Ang. 'Twas a gross insult; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself. 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul, 
Tke proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me ; I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

Afar. Assuredly 

The Doge cannot suspect you ? 

Ang. Suspect «•«; 

Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd Ms bft 



MARINO FALIERO. DOGE OF VENICE, 



287 



3r< «lliug by stealth in the moon's glimmering 

light, 
Plis own still conscience smote him for the act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar. 'Twere fit 

He should be punish'd grievously. 
Anq. * He is so. 

MdJ. What! is the sentence pass'd ? is he con- 
demn 'd ? 
Ant/. I know not that, but he has been detected. 
Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul 

scorn ? 
Anff. 1 would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
But if ais insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Hare ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 
Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 
Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words .-' 
The dying Romen said, " 'twas but a name : " 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame, 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies. 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Anff. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts. 
And would seem honest as they must seem fair. 
Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician 

dame. 
Ang. And yet they were my father's ; with his 
name 
The sole inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 
Ang. I should have sought none though a 
peasant's bride, 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our doge. 
Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your 

heart ? 
Ang He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 
Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your 
years. 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 
Miglit make the world doubt whether such an union 
.Could make you wisely, permanently happy. 

Anff. The world will think with worldings ; but 
my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
Bnt never difficult. 
Mar. And do you love him ? 

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit 
I nve, nnd I loved my father, who first taught me 



To single out what we should love in others. 

And to subdue all tendency to lend 

The best and purest feelings of our nature 

To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 

Upon Fali-ero : he had known him noble, 

Brave, generous, rich in all the qualities 

Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 

Such have I found him as my father said. 

His faults are those that dwell in the high bosome 

Of men who have commanded : too much pride, 

And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 

The uses of patricians, and a life 

Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 

From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 

A duty to a certain sign, a vice 

When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 

And then he has been rash from his youth upward* 

Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 

In such sort, that the wariest of republics 

Has lavished all its chief employs upon him, 

From his first fight to his last embassy, 

From which on his return the dukedom met him. 

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had youi 
heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er secL 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second ? 

Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray your pardon, if I have off'ended. 

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew 
not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might chcose, 
Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. 'Tis their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

Mar. Here comes the Doge — shall I retue ? 

Ang. It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems rapt 
In thought^ — How pensively he takes his way ! 

[Exit MAaiAXifA. 

Enter the Dooe and Piktho. 

Doge, (mtising.) There is a certain Philip Caleo- 
daro 
Now in the arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular, 
Sudden nnd daring, and yet secret ; 'twould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertucqio has secured him, 
But fain would be— — 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me (ie*»— 
Say in the eocond hour of night. \Ex%t PiiTAa 

Afuj. My lord ! 

Doife. My dearest child, forglre me— why delay 



288 



MYHoN IS WOitKJ. 



Bo long approaching me ? — I saw yn,n ^ot. 

Anff. You were absorb'd in thouj|,_;t, and he who 
now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. ^ From the senate ? 

Anff. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doffe. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 

'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 

Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in 
Venice. 

Doge. He shall. — But let that pass. — "We will be 
•jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
8peak, and 'tis done. 

Anff. You're ever kind to me — 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer? 

Anff. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 

Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
An^ let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doffe. Disclose too much ! — of what ? 

What is there to disclose ? 

Anff. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from Genoese without, 
And malcontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Anff. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have rendered light, nay, a necessity, 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil fury raging in St. Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall. 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow— 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Doffe. Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 

Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels. 
And of all sins more easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 



Doge. I tuid, the pride of honor, of your honor 
Deep at m^ heart But let us change the themb 

Ang. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kind 
ness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress : were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeing now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would sooth you back to what you were. 

Doge. To what I was ! — have you heard Steno* 
sentence ? 

Ang. No. 

Doge. A month's an est. 

Ang. Is it not enough ? 

Doge. Enough ! — ^yes, for a di-unken galley slave 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at bis mastftr; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honor. 

Doge. Such men have no honoi , 

They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 

Ang. You would not have him die for this offence ? 

Doge. Not now : — ^being still alive, I'd have him 
live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges. 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have 

known 
A joyless hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

Doge. Does not the law of heaven say blood tot 
blood ? 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it ;* 
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows. 
That makes such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor ? 
And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
Is't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest 

names ? 

Is't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
In ours ? — but let them look to it who have saved Lull 

Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

Doffe. Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Sataa 
saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

Anff. Do not speak thus wildlf— 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doffe. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

Ang. And will you t 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

Ang. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 



MAKING FALIERO, DOGE OF VENiCE. 



2fe9 



Worr. out, Mcorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; wb at matters 

then 
M/ pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long, — 
But let us change the argument. — My child, 
My injured wife, tho child of Loredano, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little dcem'd 
Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
Ttiat he was Mnking thee to shame ? — Ala^! 
Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst 

thou 
But had a difT'irent husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
80 young, so beautiful, so good, so pure. 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 

Any. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honor me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

Doye. 'Tis well, 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

Any. Why speak you thus ? 

Doye. It is no matter why : 

But I would still, Tehatever others think. 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

Any. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 

Doye. Come hithei, child; I would a word with 
you. 
■your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Wliich bind the good more firmly: when, opprest 
With his laflt malady, he will'd our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils. 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

Any. I have not forgotten. 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak 
If my young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier; nor your offer 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 

Doye. Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nor the false edge of a^ed appetite. 
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I Hway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making thcin ransack to the very last 
The diegs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
Ur buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from mc to choose, and urged in answer 
Your father's choice. 

Any. I did so ; I Would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; foi I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
lu pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 
87 



Doye. I knew my heart woula never treat you 

harshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend. 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again. 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years. 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches. 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right; my best friend'e rhild 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years. 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. 

Any. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes. 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and 

should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 

Doye. I do believe you ; and I know you true •• 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
You had been won, but thought the change yom 

choice, 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct,— 
A trust in you — a patiiarchal love, 
And not a doting homage — friendship. faith- 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Any. And have ever had. 

Doye. I think so. For the difference in our yean 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose : I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father taught 

you — 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues— 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 

Any. You have done well. — I thank you for thai 
trust, ^ 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honor you the more for. 

Doye. Where is honoTi 

Innate and precept-strengthon'd, 'tis the rook 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twero hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 
Although 'twere wod to him it covets moat : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
I u all his marble-ckisell'd beauty, or 



290 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The demi-deity Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'n woman must for ever fall ; 
For vice must have varietj-, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

Ang. And seeing feeling thus this truth in 
others, 
'I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Diequiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno ? 

Doge. You mistake me 

ft is not Steno who could move me thus • 
Had it been so, he should but let that pass 

Ang. What is't you feel so deeply, then, even 
now ? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws, 

Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? 

Doge. I have thought on't till but let me lead 

you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the- world then djd me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kiAgs from their 

thrones 
On foreign shores, m all these things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

Ang. To what does this conduct ? 

Doge. To thus much — ^that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing. 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart. 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
1 nto a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion. 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort. 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

Tk)ge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
Ard his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

Ang With me, my lord ? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel ; I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life cannot be long ; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll. ( Giving her a papei') Fear not ; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them nereafter at the fitting hour. 

Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honor'd still by rae : but may your days 
B« many ret-^and happier than the present! 



This passion will give way, and you will ye 

Serene, and what you should be — ^what you were. 

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing 
But never more — oh ! never, never more, 
O'er the few days or hours which yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life. 
Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to task, or hope, 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
And the soul's labor tnrough which I had toil'l 
To make my country honor'd. As her servant— 
Her servant, though her chief — I would have gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me.— 
Would I had died at Zara ! 

Ang. There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an age ; 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have gjranted once, 
That which scarce one more favor'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hasteoB. 
Ang. Remember what you were. 
Doge. It were in vain ! 

Joy's recollection is no longer joy. 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 
Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me im* 
' plore 
That you will take some little pause of rest • 
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid 
That it had been relief to have awaked you, ' 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumben 

thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toUs 
With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

Doge. I cannot— 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few-^ 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights. 
And I shall slumber well — ^but where ? — no matter, 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant— yet an instant your companion ' 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then. 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert m&de 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweepmf 

shadow. 

When I am gone — ^it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this cit)' 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war,— - 
When I am nothing, let that which I teas 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



291 



WTiich would not ha ^e thee mourn it, but remem- 
ber, — 
fiCt 11 *i begone, my child — ^the time is pressing. 

lExeuni. 



SCENE II. 
A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 

ISBABL Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late com- 
plaint ? 

I. Ber. Why, well. 

Cal. Is't possible ! will he be punish'd ? 

/. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 

I. Ber. With death !— 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 

/. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, 
forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Legiying one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood, 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital But not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men, 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
I must have slain hira, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

/. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not — all had else 
been marr'd : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal. You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he ? 

I. Ber, That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

I. Ber. At least, 

It luU'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the 
Council } 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 

/ Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 

Cal. "WTiy not now ? 

I. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your 
musters, 
And bid our friends prepare their companies :— 
Bet all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a few hours ; wc have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to-morrow's sun ; dolay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctmil at our place of meeting, 
^.nd arrft'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain am )nac th* troops to wait 



The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 
Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethern or ourselves. 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedc m ! 
I'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 

/. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the gra»f 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies complete d 
To sixty r 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

/. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. Whose are 
they? 

Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forwa^id in the cause than we are. 

/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
WTio are not restless, cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them- 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram. 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I'v6 seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater ; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

I. Ber.. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth notbfMithi! 
A soul more full of honor. 

Cal. It may be so : 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife , 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go tlirough the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such ties are no I 

For those who are call'd to the high dcstilue^ 
Which purify corrupted connnonw(<alths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the otw— 
We must resign all passions save our purpose— 
We must behold no object save our country— 
And only look on death as beautiful, 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven 
And draw down freedom on her evenuore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

/. Bei\ They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their limbl 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though yean 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. 
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughU 
Wliich overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom : What were we, 
If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 
Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson - 
A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself thoughout all tim^, 
When Avicked men wax niii;hty, and a state 
Turus ser\-ile : he and his high friend were styled 



J 



292 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



' The last of Romans ! " Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
[nto these isles,, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
To own a thousand despots in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters ! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmaniy creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule them with, a word 
As with a spell. 

/. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 

Xbu say that all things are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round. 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair color to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment, 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet. — Are all supplied with arms ? 

Cal. All who were deem'd trustworthy : there are 
some 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then supply them : 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause. 
But needs must on with those who will surround 
them. 

1. Ber. You have said well. Have you remark'd all 
such ? 

Cal. I've noted most ; and caused the other chiefs 
To use like caution with their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
Commenced to-morrow ; but, till 'tis begun, 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 

/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour, 
Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 

Cal. We will not fail. 

I. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them, 

Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 

/. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 

I. Ber. I have risk'd no man's life exceptmy own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
1» in our power : he comes alone with me, 
And cannot 'scape us ; but^e Avill not swerve. 

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him : 
Is he one of our order ? 

/. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great 

changes ; 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
[n nature, although haughty ; quick, though wary ; 
Vft for al thitt, so full of certain passions, 



That if once dtiir'd and baffled, as he has beetx 

Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 

In Grecian story like to that which wrings 

His vitals with her burning hands, till he 

Grows capable of all things for revenge ; 

And add too, that his mind is liberal. 

He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 

And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 

We have need of such, and such have need of us. 

Cal. And what part would you have him tsjk< 
with us ? 

I. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 

Cal. What . and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

I. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well. 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness. 
And, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts. 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leading qualities ? No, Calendai*o, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge.— 
Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute 
For my own part, I seek no other chief; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with you, as I have ever been. 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell. 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Exewit 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

Scene, the Space between the Canal and the Church 
of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian 
Statue before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal ai 
some distance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 

Doge, (soltis.J I am before the hour, the hem 
whose voice, 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering. 
And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers from some hideoxis dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 
Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood whicb 

makes thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not;. 
And therefore was I punish 'd, seeing this 
Patrician-pestilence spread on and on. 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers. 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall faiw 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



J93 



Inhere sleep mj fethers, whose dim statues shadow 

The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 

Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 

Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 

[n one shrunk heap, what once made many heroes, 

When what is now a handful shook the earth — 

Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 

Vault where two doges rest — my sires ! who died 

The one of toil, the other in the field, 

With a long race of other lineal chiefs 

And sages, whose great labors, wounds, and state 

[ have inherited, — let the graves gape, 

Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 

And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me ! 

I call them up, and them and thee to witness 

What it hath been which put me to this task — 

Their pure high blood, their blazon roll of glories, 

Their mighty name dishonor' d all in me. 

Not by me, but by the ungrateful nobles 

We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — 

And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave, 

Who perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 

Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 

Of thine and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 

By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 

Spirits ! smile down upon me ; for my cause 

Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 

Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 

And in the future fortunes of our race ! 

Let me but prosper, and I make this city 

Free and immortal, and our house's name 

Worthier of what you, were, now and hereafter ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

I. Ber. "Who goes there ? 

Doqe. A friend to Venice. 

I. Ber. 'Tis he; 

Welcome, my lord, — ^you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

I. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased 
to see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since o\ir last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 

Dofje. Not so — but I have set my littlfe left 
Of life upon this cast: the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not ! 
That is the word : I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names. 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. "When 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may. 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

/, Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most un- 
merited : 
I am nc cspy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge We—vje! — no matter — you have eam'd the 
right 
To talk of lis. — But to the point. — If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, rcndcr'd free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves, 
Conducts her generations to our tombs, 
And makes her children with their little hands 
fetrew flowers o'er their deliverers' ashes then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
A.nd we shall be like the two Bruti in 
'Ihe annals of hereafter; but if not, 
If wc should fai'., employing bloody means 
A-nJ iiecret plot, although to a good end. 



Still we are traitors, honest Israel ;--thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Ber. 'Tis not the moment to consider thus. 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Doge. We are observed, and have been. 

/. Ber. We ob4erved 

Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up • 

Here are no human witnesses : look there— 
What see you ? 

/. Ber. Only a tall waiiior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 

I. Ber. My lord, these are mere phantasies ; tUen 
are 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death. 

I tell thee man, there is a spirit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt 
And, if there be a spell to stu* the dead, 
'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure gravp« 
With stung plebeians ? 

/. Ber. It had been as well 

To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embarK'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent ? 

Doge. No — but Ifeel, and shall do to the last 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once. 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be. 
And take men's lives by stealth, without sontf 

pause : 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling. 
And knowing what has ^^Tung me to be thus. 
Which is your best security. There's not ' 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redress : the very means I am forced 
By these foil tyrants to adopt is such. 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which I must do to pay them hack for theirs 

/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes 

Doge. On — oa 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On. 

/. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising pe«i 

Of triumph This way — we are neai* the place. 

[blteumi 

SCENE II. 

The House where the Conspirators meet. 

Daooltno, Doho, Bertram, Fedklk Trbvisawc, 

Calrnuaro, Antonio dellk Bendk, &c., «fcc. 

Cal. (enteritig.) Are all here ? 

Dag. All with you ; except the threi 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Wlu) is expected momently. 

Cal. Where's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 

The fiumber wanting in your company r 



294 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ber I had mark'd out some: but I have not 
dared 
To tr ist them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

C'al. There is no need 

Of ti usting to their faith : who, save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent ? they think themselves ^ 
Eugage-A in secret to the Signory, 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well- 

flt sh'd 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They v.-ill not hesitate to follow up 
Thei] blow upon the others, when they see . 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perished. 

Ber. How say you ? all ! 

Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

Ber. I spare f 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even among these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun 
In the last energy of venomous life, 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as sooUj 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body: 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, 
So let them die as one ! 

Dag. . Should one survive, 

He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber. Who 

Distrusts me ? 

Cal. Not I ; for if I did so, 

Thou wouldst now be there to talk of trust : 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know 

VHio hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A ki:id man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
Ycu, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen me 
Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I'll clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcome. 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
A\ far among the foe as any he 
Wlio h ?ar8 me ; else why have I been selected 



To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honor, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

Dag. Calm thee, Bertram ; 

For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks . 
Such actions from our hands : we'll wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio, and the Doge, disguised. 

Dag. Welcome, Israel 

Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou aif 
late — 
Who is this stranger ? 

Cal. It is time to name him, 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him j 

In brotherhood, as I have made it known t 

That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause 
Approved by thee, and thu5 approved by all. 
Such is our trust in all th:'ne actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

/. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 

[The Doge discovers himselj 

Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the Doge 
Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to. 

Cal. (drawing his sword.) Hold! Hold! 
Who moves a step against them, dies. Hold ! heal 
Bertuccio — What ! are you appall' d to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Among yoTl ? — Israel, speak ! what means this mys- 
tery ? 

I. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
bosoms, 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 

Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, &. death mor« 
fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict. 
I should not now be here : — Oh, noble Courage ! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes yuu bra ve 
Against this solitary hoary head ! 
See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me, 
You can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 
The mighty hearts you spoke of ? look upon them 

Cal. Faith ! he has shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in your true Chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his gueot ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

/. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like hdouC 
Incapable of treachery ; arid the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brousrht 



MARINO FALIERO DOGE OF VENICE. 



29fv 



By me into tliis council had been led 

Xo take his choice — as brothei, or as victim. 

Doge. And which am I to be r your actions leave 
Borne ca-ase to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

/. Bcr. My lord, we would have perish'd here 
together, 
Had thuse rash men proceeded ; but, behold. 
They are ashamed of that mad monfent's impulse, 
And'dioop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them — Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in wonder. 

/, Ber. (addressing the conspirators,) You are 
safe, 
^fay, more, almost triumphant — listen, then, 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You see me here, 

As ons of you hath said, an old, unarm'd. 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know or think you know ; 
Why I am here, he who hath been most wronged. 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for me. 
Asking . >f his own heart what brought him here ? 
You knew my recent story, all men know it, 
And judb of it far differently from those 
"Who sat in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spai me the recital — it is here. 
Here at y heart the outrage — but my words, 
Already )ent in unavailing plaints, 
Would i. ly show my feebleness the more, 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong. 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices 
in this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people. 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
The lords of Lacedemon were true soldiers, 
But ours arc Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
Although drest out to head a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 
A pastime for their children. You are met 
T(t overthrow this monster of a state, 
This mockery of a government, this spectre. 
Which must be exorcised with blood, and then 
Wc will renew the times of truth and justice, 
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
Not rash equality but equal rights,* 
Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 
Giving and taking strength reciprocal, 
And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 
Bo that no part could be removed without 
Infringement of the general symmetry. 
In operating this great change, I claim 
To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 
And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 
Than live another day to act the tyrant, 
A.8 delegate of tyrants ; such I am not, 
And never have been— read it in our aniudi '% 



I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they cau tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and '* the Forty," 

A skeptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of " the Ten," a council- fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. "V\Tiat I sufin 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime I do devote, 

Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power such as it is, not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 

My heart — my hope — my soul- — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I oifer me to you 

And to your chiefs — accept me or reject me — 

A prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so 

Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free ! 

Consp. Long live Faliero ! 

/. Ber. Comrades ! did I well t 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you ? 

Cal. Ay, and the first among us, as thou hast been 
Of Venice — be our general and chief. 

Doge. Chief ! — general ! — I was general at Zara. 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots ; when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'Tis not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it. 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt — is it not so, in; 
friends ? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then "i 

Doge. At sunrise. 

Ber. So soon ? 

Doge. So soon ? so late— each hour accumulate* 
Peril on peril, and the more so now 
Since I have mingled with you ; know you not 
The Council, and " the Ten ? " the spies, the eyas 
Of the patricians dubious of tht'ir slaves, 
And now more dubious of the prince they had mail» 

one? 
I tell you you must strike, and suddenly^ 
Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads willfoUow. 

Cal. With all my soul and sword I yield 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
And all how under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their ditFerent place of renrteivou». 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action to his poB* ' 
And now, my lord, Ae signal ? 

Doye. When you hmx 



296 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The great bell of St. Mark's, which may not be 
Btruck without special order of the Doge, 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince,) 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

/. Ber. And there ? — 

Doge. By different routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dami 
Discern'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house, 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on, 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our waters ! ' 

Cal, I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 

Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower,) 
Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest, 
And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'Twill be butto be taken faint and single, 
When the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we will 
not scotch, 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter ? 

Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure. 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Comp. All! all! 

Is this a time to talk of pity ? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it? 

/. Bei'. , Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty } all then- acts are one — 
A single emanation from one body, 
Together knit for our oppression I 'Tis 
Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart, 
rhe hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but whoe'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
Let him decide if any should be saved 

Doge. Ask me not— tempt me not witfiv such a 
question — 
Decide yourselves. 

/. Ber. • You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression. 
Have made them deadly ; if there be among them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

Doge. Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 
Fought by -ny side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of Veniera- -shall I save it twice ? 
Would tha> I could save them and Venice also ! 



All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects ; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flowei, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk. 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; , 

So, as they let me wither, let tnem perish ! ' 
Cal. They cannot coexist with Venice' freedom 
Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutaa. 

mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
What fatal poison to the springs of life, 
To human ties, and all that's good and dear, 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends ; I loved them, tliej 
Requited honorably my regards ; 
We served and fought; we smiled and wept in 

concert ; 
We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
We grew in years and honors fairlv, till 
Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell ! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
ships, 
•When the survivors of long years and actions. 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirroT 
Of half a century on his brother's brow. 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth 
Flit round them whispering of the days g"ne by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious b( d, 
Which once were one and many, still reta 
A breath to sigh for them, a toneue to sp k 

Of deeds that else were silent, save on ma.ole 

Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 
/. Ber. My lord, you are much moved ; it is not 

now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Doge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour that made me Doge, the Doge THEif 

made me — 
Farewell the past ! L died to all that had been, 
Or rather they to me : no friends, no kindness, 
No privacy of life — all were cut off: 
They came not near me, such approach gare uia- 

brage ; 
They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
They thwarted me, 'twas the state's policy ; 
They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty ; 
They -wrong'd me, for such was to rignt the state ; 
They could not right me, that would give suspicion , 
So that I was a slave to my otvn subjects ; 
So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 
Begirt with spies for guards — with robes forpowex— 
With pomp for freedom — gaolers for a council — 
Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life ! 
I had one only fount of quiet left, 
And that they poisoned I My pure household goda 
Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 
/. Ber. You have been deeply wrong'd, and noH 

shall be 
Nobly avenged before dnotner night. 
Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it— 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



297 



rir this last niniung over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult, 
Not only unredress'd, but sanction 'd; then, 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, long 
Before, #ven in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure and be broken ! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Bi ooding with him in mutual hate and fear ; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To me, then, these men have no private life, 
Nor claim to ties they have cut aff from others, 
A.S senators for arbitrary acts 
A nnenable, I look on them — as such 
Lf t them be dealt upon. 

Cal. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethern, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words : I'd fain be doing ! 
Baint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me 
wakeful ! 

I. Be?'. Disperse then to your posts : be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wi*ongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my band ; let each be prompt to marshal 
His separate chaige : the Doge will now retm-n 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 

Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to 
you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey, 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a. mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy ; he could not — 
He dared not in more honorable days 
Have risk'd it ! I have merged all private wrath 
Against him in the thought of our great purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it. 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance ' 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such deep gratitude, that fain 
[ would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 

Dog'i. You would but lop the hand, and I the head; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
[ cannot pause on individual hate, 
[n the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
Which, like tlie sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
Witliout distinction, as it fell of yore. 
Where the Dead Sea hath queuch'd two cities' ashes. 

/. Bar. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
A mcmemt to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 

Cal. Farewell, then, until dawn ! 

/. Ber. Success ^^o with you i 

Conap. We will not fail— away ! My lord, farewell ! 
[T/u conspiratora aaltUe the Doo£ atui Ibkabl 



Bertuccio, atid retire, headed by Philii 
Calendaro. The Doge ofid Israel Bbb- 
Tuccio remain. 

I. Ber We have them in the toil — it cannot fail 1 
Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now; 
Caesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reach' d patricians ; but until this hoar. 
What prince has plotted for his people's fre&dom ? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For ever, and for ever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; 'tis great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

Doge. And it is then decided ! must they die ? 

/. Ber. Who ? 

Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy 

And many deeds and days — the senators. 

/. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a ju9t 
one. 

Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you ; 
You are a patriot, a plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not, you act in your vocation ; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised 

you; 

So they have me : but you ne'er spake with them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared then* salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see. them smile, nor claim'd their 

smile 

In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These haii-s of mine are gray, and so are theii's, 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's winij, 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And I can see them dabbled o'er with blood ! 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide, 

/. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child ; if you are not in second childliood, 
Call back your nerves to your own purpt)se, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I'd ratbet 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others ; can you shrink thB% 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vanipiies. 
Who but give back what they have drain'd from 
milions ? 

Doge. Beiir with me ! Stop by step, and blow OS 
blow 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver . 
Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let those last and lingering thoughtA have way 
To which you only and the Night are consciotit. 
And both revardless ; when the hour arrived 



298 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tis mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 
Which shall unpeople many palaces, 
And hew the highest genealogic trees 
Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit, 
And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 
This will I — must I — have I sworn to do, 
Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 
But still I quiver to behold what I 
Must be, and think "what I have been! Bear with 
me. 
/. Ber. Re -man your breast ; I feel no such 
remorse, 
I understand it not : why should I change ? 
You acted, and you act on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder; 
YoTX feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-born men were steers for shambles ! 
When all is over, you'll be free and merry. 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 

But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 

In this surpassing massacre, shall be. 

Shall see and feel — oli God ! oh God ! 'tis true 

And thou dost well to answer that it was 

" My own free will and act," and yet you err, 

For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 

Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 

And yet I act no more on my free will. 

Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 

But there is hell within me and around. 

And like the demon who believes and trembles 

Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 

Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 

To gather the retainers of our house. 

Doubt not. Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all 
Venice, 

Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 

Be broad upon the Adriatic there 

Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 

The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 

I am resolved — come on. 
/. Ber. With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rem upon these bursts of passion ; 

Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 

And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 

By ages of prosperity and freedom 

To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 

Would have depopulated empires, nor 

Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung 
you 

To punish a few traitors to the people ! 

Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 

Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord. 
which jars 

All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeimt 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

^aiazzo of the Patrician LioNi. Lioxi laying 
aside the mask and cloak which the Venetian 
Noble% wore in public, attended by a Domestie. 



Lioni. I will to rest, right wear^' of this reve 
The gayest we have held for many moons. 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not ; 
There came a heaviness across my heart. 
Which, in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand uniteft 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
And through my spirit chill'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not b* 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the night. 
Lashing against the outwaj-d Lido's bulwark : 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness, 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

Ant. Yes, my lord* 

Command you no refreshment ? 

Lioni. Nought, save sleep. 

Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 

[Exit Antonick 
Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will trv 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 'cj; 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a 
stillness ! 

[Goes to an open lattice. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloorn which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they wore. 
There Age essaying to recall the past. 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prankt forth in all the pride of ornament, 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
I Of the indignant beams, which show, yet hide. 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of sucll 
Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and healtli. 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasiure. 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes which shoul4 

not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers— 
I'he sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 
The white arms and the raven hair — the braids 
And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace. 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes, 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and 

heaven ; 
The many-twinkling feet so small and sylphlike, 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well- 
All the delxisiun of the dizzy scene. 



MARINO FALIERC, DOGE OF VENICE. 



299 



Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 

Which swarm befoi'e my giddy eyes, that drank 

I he sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 

On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 

A lucid lake to his eluded thirst. 

Are gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 

Worlds niirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 

Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 

And the great element, which is to space 

What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 

Boften'd with the first breathings of the spring ; 

The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 

Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 

Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 

Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 

Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles, 

Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 

Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 

Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 

Than those more massy and mysterious giants 

Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics. 

Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 

No other record. All is gentle : nought 

Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night, 

Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 

The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress. 

And cautious opening of the casement, showing 

That he is not unheard ; while her young hand, 

Fair as the moonlight of which it seems a part, 

So delicately white, it trembles in 

The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 

To let in love through music, makes his heart 

Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dash 

Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 

Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 

And the responsive voices of the choir 

Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 

Some dusky shadow checkering the llialto ; 

Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire. 

Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 

The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — 

How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 

I thank thee, Night ! for thou hast chased away 

Those horrid bodements which, amidst the tluong, 

I could not dissipate ; and with the blessing 

Of thy benign and quiet influence, — 

Now wir. 1 to my couch, although to rest 

Is alrac * ; -vronging such a night as this 

[^1 hwcJuny is heard f rum without. 
Hark ! what is that ? or who at such a moment ? 

E7iter Antonio. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on lugent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 

Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 

Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seera'd familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself ; most eainestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a suspicious 
bearing ! 
And yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in 
Cheir houses noblenun are struck at ; still, 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him *nd retire ; but call up quickly 
Borne of thj 'cUows, who may wait without. — 



t Who ean this man be ? 

{Exit Antonio, and returns with Bebtbah 
muffled. 

Ber. My good lord LioLi, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private ^vith you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, An to 
nio. [Exit Axtonio 

Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Ber. (discovering himself.) A boon, mv nobl* 
patron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

Liom. * Thou hast known mti 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour. 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ?— 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance. 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Liom. But what ? You have noi 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not; 
I would not slay — but then I nmst not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereunto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged 

swurd. 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass ! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? 

What means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning 

But do as I implore thee; — stir not fortli, 
Whate'er be stirring ; though the roar of crowds- 
Thc cry of women, and the sluicks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — the souaa 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell. 
Peal in one wide ahuuni ' — Go not forth 
Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
Till I return ! 

Lioni. Again, what does this moan ? 

Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou holdest dear on earth or heaven — by uU 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emuliite them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thoo- 
Hy all thou hast of blest in ..i>pp or inomory- 
Hy all thou hast to r<'ar here or hert-uftor — 
By all the i;ood deeds thou hnst done to me, 
(iood I would now rei)ay with greatrr gooU, 
Remain within, trust to thy househ*)ld gods. 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As now 1 coxinsel — but if not, thou art lost ' 

Lioni. I am indeed already lost in wonder; 
Surely thou ravest ! what have / to droad ? 



300 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Who are my foes ? or if tLtre be such, wht/ 

AJt ihou leagued with them ? — thouJ or if so leagued, 

Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 

A-nd not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth in spite of this true warning ? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall 
impede me ! 

Bey. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — 
Farewell ! [Going. 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my own 
safety 
Which makes me call thee back : we must not part 

thus. 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

i'ou have been my protector ; in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets. 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold pi erog^tive, we play'd together ; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 

Lioni. Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 

Ber. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state, 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labors of the humble. 
Still you forsook me not : and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 'twas no fault of him 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ? 

Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the 
senate ? 

Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angiy spirits 

And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians. 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns • 
Thou herdest not with such ; 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect 
Wliat hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Borrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
iVliich 8 Treeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with 
thee, Bertram : 



This is not thy own language nor own thoughts ; 

Some wretch has made thee di'unk with disaifectMm 

But thou m,ust not be lost so ■; thou tcert good 

And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 

As vice and villany would put thee too : 

Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature— 

WTiat is it thou and thine are bound to do, 

Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 

Of him who was a friend unto thy father, 

So that our good-will is a heritage 

We should bequeath to our posterity 

Such as ourselves receive! it, or augmented ; 

I say, what is it thou must do, that I 

Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the liouBe 

Like a sick girl ? 

Ber. Nay, question me no further • 
I must be gpne. 

Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say, 

Was it not thus thou said'st, my gentle Bertram ? 

Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I o( 
murder ? — 
'Tis false I I did not utter such a word. 

Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish 
eye. 
So changed from what I knew it, there glares fortli 
The gladiator. If my life's thine object, 
Take it— I am unarm'd, — and then away ! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to thy task 
work. 

Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril mine: 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram • 
I am not worthy to be singled out ■ 
From such exalted h«<;p tombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself. 
And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight ! 

Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But 
now. 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 'tis more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the darlr 

too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee, 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering peopk •. 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here , 

Ber. Is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly, 
And thou art lost ! • thou ! my sole benefactor. 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a 

traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honor ! 

Lioni. vVliere 

Can lie the honor in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more bindui| 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law 



MAUl^O FALIEKO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



301 



And in my mind, there is no traitor like 

Him whosi; domestic treason plants the poniard 

Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 

Liani. And who will strike the steel to mine ! 

Ber. Not I ; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thou, must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
Nay, more, thfe life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
f do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 

Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 

Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my fiiend 
i will disclose — ensnare — betray-7-destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's savior and the 
state's ! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee. 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again: it must not be — I 
love thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof, 
Not-least though last ; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it to my country ! 
Farewell — ^we meet no more in life ! — farewell ! 

Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedi-o — to the door ! 
Bee that none pass — arrest this man ! 

Erttei Antonio and other armed Domestics^ who 
seize Bertram. 

Lioni, (continues.) Take care 

He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak, 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
Ar.d send for Marc Cornaro : — fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 

Ber. "Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lio7ii. Firstly to " the Ten ; " 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? . 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you ? — but we'll know anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make; and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten " and their tribunal. 
And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and the 

dungeons 
A rack. 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perfch piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

Ant. The bark is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Sertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
To the Mig'^.ifico'B, sage Gradenigo. \Bx4UHt. 



SCENE II. 

The Ducal Palace — the Dopes Apartmeni. 

The Doge and his nephew BERTrccio Faliero 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster! 

Ber. F. They are array'd and eager for the signal 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.* 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together, 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. ■* 

Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 'tis better as it xs 
A sudden swelling of our retinue ( 

Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trostyt 
The vassals of that district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 
The secret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has bees 
given, 
These are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 
Their prejudice against or for this noble, 
Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasant*. 
Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
Would do the bidding of their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
Alike to them Marcello or Cornaro, 
A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
They are not used to start at those vain name* 
Nor bow the kneo before a civic senate ; 
A chief in armor is their Suzerain^ 
And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enougt , 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike servTce, 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants ; 
They made the sun shine through the host of Huiift 
When sallow burghers slunk back to theii tents, 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trump«i. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there's much to do, you'll wish with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber F. Thus thinking, I must marvel youresolf<f 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
1 had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn 'd about my heart too fondly yialdlBf 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike ; and. firstly, that 

might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I know not well the courage or the faith : 
To-day might find 'mong them a traitor to at, 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, with their hilts hot in their handi, 
They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke strtkd 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts, 
Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance, 
Will urge the rest on like to wo1t©8 ; the tight 



iS()2 



BYRONIS WORKS. 



Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than lu-ge them when they have commenced, but 

till 
That moment a mere voice, a straw, a shadow. 
Are capable of turning them aside. — 
How goes the night ? 

Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Doye. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are ; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through uie in person. 

Doge. 'Tis well. — "Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens ? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so, 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire. 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
And trembled at the thought of this dread duty, 
Butnow I have put down all idle passion, 
And look the growing tempest in the face, 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman ?J it hath been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
lo steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former wis- 
dom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
ifou were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around me : this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection. 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injiared souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong. 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is it not so ? look. 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me. 
The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength ; here I will meet 

you — 
The Sixteen and their companies vdll move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself by the great gate ; 
I would not trust " the Ten " except to us — 
the lest, the rabble of patricians, may 



Glut the more careless swords of tnnse leagued 

with us. 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark'. 
The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
Saint Mark and liberty ! " — Now — now to action 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we willmee. 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 

Doge. Come hither, my Bertuccio — one embrace-- 
Speed, for the day grows broader — Send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound- 
sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 

{_Exit Bektuccio Falibbo. 

Doge, (solus.) He is gone, 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'Tis done. 
Now the destroying Angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial. 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey, 
And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings. 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day ! 
j That slowly walk'st the waters ! march — march on— 
' I would not smite i' the ^rk, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice fiow'd too, but victorious*: 
Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us noyr 
Unto that horrible incarnadine, 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 
I, at whose name the million's oaps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings, 
And fame, and length of days — to see this day ? 
But this day, black within the calendar. 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo svirvived to ninety summers 
To vanquish empires, and refuse th^ crown. 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Rvjnew its freedom — but oh ! by what means ? 
7 he noble end must justify them — What 
Are a few drops of human blood ? 'tis false, 
The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours. 
Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 
Which they have made so populous. — Oh world I 
Oh men ! what are ye, and om- best designs, 
That we must work by crime to punish crime ? 
And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 
When a few years would make the sword super 

fluous ? 
And I, upon the verge of th' unknoAvn realm, 
Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 
I must not ponder this. [ApauH 

Hark ! was there not 
A paurm,ur as of distant voices, add 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
VrTiat phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ! 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses it ? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal. 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell. 
Which never knells but for a princely death. 



MARINO FALIERO. DOGE OF VENICE. 



3oa 



Oi for a state in peril, peaiing forth 

Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 

A.nd be this peal its awfullest and last. 

Bound till the strong tower rock ! — What ! silent 

still ? 
I would go forth, but that ray post is here, 
To be the centre of reunion to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict ; 
For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken ; 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The master-mover. Hark ! he comes — he comes, 

My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings ? Is he marching } huth he sped ? — 
Tiey here ! all's lost — yet will I make an effort. • 

Enter a Signor of the Night,^ with Gitards, 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Do(/e. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason ? — "Wlio are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order ? 

Siff. (showing his order.) Behold my order from 
the assembled Ten. 

Doge. Aud^vhere are they, and why assembled ? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

S/g. Duke ! it may not be ; 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Doge. You dare to disobey me then ? 

Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Doge. And till that warrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as now applied, 
Ret)ellious — Hast thouweigh'd well thy life's worth, 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 

Sig. 'Tis not my office to reply, but act— 
I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge, f aside. J 1 must gain time — So that the 
storm-bell sound 
AlII may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — 

speed I — 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Wj to the vanquish'd ! be th^y prince and people, 
Oi slaves and senate — 

[ The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls. 

L'oge, ( afoud J Hark, Signor of the Night ! and 
you, ye hirelings, 
H7.J \Tield your mercenary staves in fear. 
It is j'our knell— Swell on, thou lusty peal '. 
N'>w. knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 

St^, Confusion ! 

8tand to your arnis, and guard the door — all's lost 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose, 
Or met some ur.forseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the tower ; the rest remain with me. 

[Exit a part of the Guard. 

Iktge. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
implore it * 



It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
They never shall return. 

Sig. So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Doge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobki game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 

Sig. And learn thou to be captive — It hath cewied,: 
[The bell ceases Uj tcV, 
The traitorous signal, which was to have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey-- 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's . 

Doge, (after a pause.) All's silent, and all's loi5t ! 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty ? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and.earn'd the price 
Of blood, and they who use thee will reward thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate, 
As thou said'st even now — then do thine offiep 
But let it be in silence, as behoves thee. 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 

Doge, (aside.) There now is nothing left me save 
to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen. 
And proudly, in the hour of ti-iumph, but 
To miss it thus ! 

Enter other Signors of the Night, with Bebtcc 
CIO 'F\lji'E.ViO prisoner. 

2d.. Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, whej-c, at his orde/ 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus hegun to sound. 

1*^. Sig Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ' 

2d. Sig. They are— besides, it masters not : «ne 
chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on trials 
Tlteir followers are dispersed, and many taken 

her. F. Uncle ! 

Dogs. It is in vain to war with FortuM , 

The glory hath departed from our house. 

Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it ? — Ah ! one 
moment sooner ! 

Doge. That moment would have changed the f«ot 
of ages ; 
T/tis gives us to eternity — We'll meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all. 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
But a brief passage— I would go alone, 
Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, togothei 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 

Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 

1st. Sig. Lords, cur ordcrit 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chamb«n, 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Oiir trial ! will they keep tlu'ir mockery ap> 
Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us, 
As we had dealt on thorn, but with loss pomp. 
'Tis but a game of mutual homicides, 
Who hav* <^att lots for lh« first death, and the« 



304 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Have won with false dice.— Who hath been our 
Judas ? 
1st. Siff. I am not warranted to answer that. 
Bar. F. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain 
Bertram, 
ji^iven now deposing to the secret giunta. 
Doge. Bertram, the Bergamask ! With what vile 
tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honors, and be stamp'd in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rone awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was 

east 
From the Tarpeian. 

' 1st. Sig. He aspired to treason. 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved the state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 

But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

1st. Sig. Noble Bertuccio, we must now remove 
you 
Into an inner chamber. 

Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go 
forth. 
And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath 

fail'd in ! 
They cannox quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty 

thrones. 
And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Council of Ten assembled with the 
additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the 
Conspirators for the Treason of Marino Ia- 
LIEKO, composed what was called the Giunta. — 
Gxuirds, Officers, S^c., ^rc— Israel Bertuccio 
and Philip Calendaro as Prisoners. — Ber- 
tram, Lion I, and Witnesses, Sgc. 

The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 
Ben. There now rests, after such conviction of 
Their manifold and manifest oifences. 
But to pronounce on these obdurate men 
The sentence of the law : a grievous task 
To those who hear, and those who speak. Alas ! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of office F.hould be stigmatised through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To this most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun,, and not less barbarous Frai k ; 
A. city which has open'd India's wealth 
Xo Europe ; the last B^/man refuge from 
U'erwheluiing Attila; the 'jean's queen 



Proud Genoa's prouder rival. 'Tis to sap 
The throne of such a city these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives- 
So let them die the death. 

/. Ber. We are prepared ; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 

/. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak. • 

Ben. Your crime* 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we wotild hear from your own lips complete 
Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of that di-ead gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

I. Ber. Justice ! 

Ben. Wlut 

Your object ? 

/. Ber. Freedom. 

Ben. You are Irief, si^. 

I. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps ypu think by this blftnt brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sentence r 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

/. Ber. Go, ask your racks what they have wrung 
from us. 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood 

left, 
And some slight sense of pain in these wrenchJ 

limbs : 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there— 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already^ 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
Ye would appal your slaves to further slavery ! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent. 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a lie. 
For a short respite — ^must we bear or die ? 

Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 

/. Ber. The senate. 

Ben. What do you mean ? 

/. Ber. Ask of the suiFerlng people 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven \\' crime. 

Ben. You know the Doge ? 

/. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
To present office ; we exposed our lives. 
While you but hazarded the lives of others. 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults 

Ben. You have held conference with him ? 

7. Ber. I am weary, 

Even wearier of your questions than your tortures ; 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming.— 

And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you should not be doom'd? 

Cal. I never was a man of many words. 
And now have few left worth the utterance. 

Ben. A further application of yon entjine 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



305 



May change your toue. 

Cal. Most true ; it will do so, 

A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did — 

Ben. What then ? 

Cal. "Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 

Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 

Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to 
trial. 

Cal. And on this testimony would he perish ? ' 

Ben. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life. 

Cal. Then look well to thy proud self, President 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
If I be stretch 'd there for the second time. 

One of the Giunta. Lord President, 'twere best 
proceed to judgment ; 
There is no more to be drawn from these men. 

Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite — 
Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony . 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday}* 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
Let them be justified ; and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
To the full view of the assembled people ! — 
And b.javen have mercy on their souls ! 

The Giunta. Amen ! 

. /. her. Signers, farewell ! we shall not all again 
Meet in one place. 

Ben. And lest they should essay 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd,'' even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 

Cal. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend. 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
But, for your friends, such interviews would be 
Painful to them, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
That, in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
Would not now be denied to us ; but sinc e 

/. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave Cal- 
endaro ! 
What matter a few syllables ? let's die 
Without the slightest show of favor from them ; 
Bo shall our blood more readily arise 
To heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear ! — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 

Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
The cowaid Bertram, would 

/. Bei. Peace, Calendarol 

iThat brooks it now to ponder upon this ? 



Ber. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this task ; 'twas forced upon me : 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — fro^vn not thus ! 

/. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 

Cal. (spitting at him.) I die and scorn thee 

\Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip Cai 
ENDARO, Guards, S^c. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have beer di* 
posed of, 
'Tis time that we proceed to pass our sent?7*i?e 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be call'd in to receive the award ? 

The Giunta. Ay, ay. 

Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 

Be brought before the Council. 

07i€ of the Giunta. And the rest, 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Ben. ' When all the chiefi 

Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozz* 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treason 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, S^c, Sfn- 

Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the la"» 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown movf 

noble 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honor. 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers. 
Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appeared against you ; and more ampli 
Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a "traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
You are at once offenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 

Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many ; but 

The first now stands before you in the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him? 

Doge, (looking at him contempt uoiutly.) I'lo. 

Ben. And two others, Israel BertuoeiOi 

And Philip Calendaro, have adniit^od 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Dogt And where are they ? 

Ben. Gone to their place, and noH 

Anawerng to Heaven for what they did on earth. 

Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone? 
And the quick Cussius of the arsenal ?— 
How did they meet theff doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own 

It is approachin(r. 7ou decline to plead, then } 

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 



306 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Can recrgnize yotir legal power to try me 
Show me the law ! 

Ben. On great emergencies, 

The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
Om- fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
I'hat nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their 

realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught ti^aitors, 
As would mth treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge suflScient for ye ? 
What's nobler than the signory of Venice ? 

Dof/e. The signory of Venice ! You betray'd me — 
You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
From my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action, 
You drew me from my honorable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — in field— in cities — 
You singled me out like a -v-ictim to 
Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 
I sought not — wish'd not — dream'dnot the election. 
Which rcach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led you 
To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
Yon had, even in the interregnum of 
My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
And mutilated the few privileges 
Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
And he, the ribald, whom I see among you — 
Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Be7i. (interrupting him. J Michel Steno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty ; " the Ten " having craved 
A Glunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law, 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates ! 

Do(/e. His PUNISHMENT ! I rather see him there, 
Whei2 he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, 
WTaich your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
Twas purity compare d with your protection. 

Ben And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
With t hree parts of a century of years 
And ht)nors on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
AH feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last irop 
Which makes the. cup run over, and mine was full 
Already : you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
I would h»ve freed both and have fail'd in both : 



The price of such success would have been glor> 

Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 

As would have made Venetian history 

Ri-^al to that of Greece and Syracuse 

When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after. 

And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybiilus : — 

Failing, I know the penalty of failure 

Is present infamy and death — the future 

Will judge, when Venice is no more or free ; 

Till then the truth is in abeyance. Pause not; 

I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none ; 

My life is staked upon a mighty hazard, 

And, being lost, take what I would have taken ' 

I would have stood alone amidst your tombs ; 

Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 

As you have done upon my heart while living. 

Ben. You do confess, then, and admit the justiot 
Of our tribunal ? 

Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
Were not withheld ; the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 

Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with 
questions. 
I am resign 'd to the worst ; but in me still 
Haye something of the blood oi brighter days, 
And -am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further inteiTogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no echo ; 
But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues ; 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things. 
And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made me live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ;— 
I deny nothing — <iefend nothing — ^nothing 
I ask of you but silence for myself, 
And sentence from the court ! 

Ben. This full adm'ssioff 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The tortvire to elicit the whole truth. 

Doge. The torture ! you have put rae there alreadj 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limhs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain yo^l 
engines. 

Enter an Officer. 
Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 
Ben. Say, cons( ript fathers,** shall she he ad 

mitted ? 

One oj the Giunta. She may have revelation* o j 
uuportant*^. | 

1 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



30T 



Onto the state, to justify compliance 
Witli her request. 

Ben. Is this the general will ? 

All. It is. 

Doffe. Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
Bit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape. 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess enters. 

Ben. Lady ! this just tribunal has resolved, 
Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 
Place a chair instantly. 

Ang. A moment's faintness— 

Tis past ; I pray you pardon me, I sit not 
In presence nf my prince and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady ? 

Ang. Strange rumors, but most true, if all I hear 
(\nd see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — ^but you answer it ere spoken, 
With eyes averted, and \vith gloomy brows — 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 

Ben. (after a pause.) Spare us, and spare thyself 
the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
fs he condemn'd i* — 

Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was he guilty ? 

Ben. Lady ! the natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 
Were deep offence. But question even the Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Ang. Is it so ? 

My lord — ^my sovereign — my poor father's friend— 
Tkc mighty in the field, the sage in cotincil ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

Ben. He hath already own'd to his own guilt, 
Nor, aa thou see'At, doth he deny it now. 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Sparc his few 
years. 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
One day of baflled crime must not efface 
Near sixtgcn lustres crowded with brave acts. 

Ben. Tlis doom must be fulfill'd without remission 
O.*" tin-e or penalty — 'tis a decree. 

Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be 
mercy. 

"Ben. Not in this ca.se with justice. 

Ang. Alas ! rngnor, 

Ke who is only j'lsl is cruel ; who 



Upon the earth would live were all judged juttly ? » 

Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state 
He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state 

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd 
the state. 

Ang. And, but for him, there now had been ac 
state 
To save or to destroy ; and you who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverei, 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters ! 

One of the Council. No, lady, there are othen 
who would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Ang. If there are 80 

Within these walls, thou art not of the number: 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
Is there no hope } 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. f turning to the Doge. J Then die, Falicro 
since it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence. 
Half cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them— 
Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be answer'd as they answer 
Had it been fitting for thy name or mine. 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wi-ath within 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 

Doge. I have lived too long not to know how tc 
die! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not tj^ke 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanie* 
I sought to free .the groaning nations ! 

AI. Ste?io. Doge, 

A word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
Whom I have grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my pait. 
Could cancel the Ir'^xoraKIe past I 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace: with full eontrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you. 
And give, howe>"'er weak, my pravers for both. 

An/;. Sage Beiiitende, now chief judge of Venice 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald vSteno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
A single life of others lost for tliat 
Which nothing human can impugn — th? 
Of virtue, looking not to wha*. is call'd 
A good name for reward, but to it"*pif. 
To me the scorner's words wore as the wind 
Unto the jock : but as there are — alas ! 
Spirits more sensitive, on whieh such thing* 
Light as the whirlwind on tltc waters; HouI^ 
To whom dishonor's shadow is a substanrt* 



308 



byro:n'8 works. 



r»lore terrible than death here and hereafter ; 

Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 

And who, though proof against all blandishments 

Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 

When the proud name on which they pinnacled 

Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 

Of her high aiery ; let what we now 

Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 

To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 

Witli beings of a higher order. Insects 

Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 

I' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 

A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy; 

A wife's dishonor unking'd Rome for ever ; 

An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 

And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 

An obscene gesture cost Caligula 

His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties ; 

A virgin's -wrong made Spain a Moorish province ; 

And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 

Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 

A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 

Discrown'd a prince, cut off his croAvnless head, 

And forged new fetters for a groaning peopie ! 

Let the poor wi-etch, like to the courtesan 

Who fired Perscpolis, be proud of this, 

If it so please him — 'twere a pride fit for him ! 

But let him not insult the last hours of 

Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 

By the intrusion of his very prayers : 

Nothing of good can come from such a source, 

Nor would we aught with him, nor now, nor ever : 

We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 

Of human baseness. Pardon is for men, 

And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 

And no resentment : things like him must sting, 

And higher beings suffer ; 'tis the charter 

Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 

May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger : 

'Twas the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 

In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 

Doge, (to Ben.) Signor ! complete .that which you 
deem your duty 

Beit. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
We would request the princess to withdraw ; 
'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 

A7ig. I know it will, and yet I must endure it, 
For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit, 
Except by force, my husband's side. — Proceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear; 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak ! 
I have that mthin which shall o'ermaster all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Ccunt of Val di Marino, Senator, 
And sometime General. of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by the state with high employments, 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs, 
And by thine own confession, of tlie guilt 
Of treacher}' and treason, yet unheard of 
Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy goods are confiscate imto the state, ' 
Tliy name is razed from out her records, save 
Upon a public day of thanksgiving 
Fur this our most miraculous deliverance, 
When thou art noted in our calendars 
With earthquikes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 
Atd the great enen y uf man, as subject 



Of grateful masses for Heaven's gi ace in snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place wherein as Doge thou shouidst be painted 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, 

" This place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge. " His crimes ! ' 

But let it be so : — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments. 
Shall di-aw more gazers than the thousand portraiti 
Which glitter round it in their pictured trapping*-^ 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
"Decapitated for his crimes ! " — What crimes ? 
Were it not better to record the facts. 
So that the contemplator might approve. 
Or at the least learn whaice the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired. 
Let him be told the cause — it is your history. 

Ben. Time must reply to that : our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap. 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giant's Staircase, 
"Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first ausumed. 
Thy head shall be struck off ; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 

Doge. Is this tae Giunta's sentence ? 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. I can endure it — And the time ? 

Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thv peace with 
God; 
"Within an hour thou must be in his presence. 

Doge. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it.— 
Are all my lands confiscated ? 

Ben. They are ; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

Doge. That's harsh. — I would have fain reserved 
the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and- heirs. 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil. 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

" Ben. . These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephe<V 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will' St a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signors, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, kr.O(» 
I am devoted unto God alone. 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

Doge. Come ! 

The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
Have I aught else to undergo save death ? * 

Ben. You have nought to do, except coufegs and 
die. 
The priest is robed, the scimetar is bare, 
And both await without. — But, above all, * 

Think not to speak unto the people ; they 
Are now by thousands swarming a* the gate« 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. 



309 



But these arc closed ; the Ten, the Avogadori, 
The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom, 
And they axe ready to attend the Doge. 

Doge. The Doge ! 

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shaltdie 
A. sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
The seperation of that head and trunk, 
That ducal crown and head shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so we. 
Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shaltfall 
A.S falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
And motirn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be pai'ted from thee 
As such for ever, on the self-same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

T%€ Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge as Prisoner, and the Duchess attending 
him. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless 
all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pangkof parting from thee-. 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand, 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour, 
Btill falling — I have done with Time. 

Afig. Alas ! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union. 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish. 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seaPd thine 
own. 

Doge. Not so ; there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse : 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

Ang. How foretold you ? 

Doqe. Long years ago — so long, thoy are a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals: 
U'hon I was in my vouth and serv'd the senate 
And signory as podcsta and captain 
Of tlie town of Tvcviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Oonvey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof! I raised my linnd and smote him 
Until he roel'd beneath his holy burden ; 
And as he roso from earth again, he raised 
His tremtilous hands in pious wrath towards heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Ilost, which had fallen from 

him, 
He tum'd to me, and said, " The hour will come 
vMienhp thou hast o'ertlirown sliall o'orthrow thee: 
Jlie glory shall depart from out thy house, 
riio w\4«om shall bo shakei* from thv soul. 



And in thy best maturity of mind 
A madness of the heart shall seize upon hee : 
Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 
And majesty, which decks all other heads, 
Shall crovsm to leave thee headless ; honors shall 
But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saying he pass'd on. — That hour is ctme 

Ang. And with this warning couldst thcu act hav 
sti'iven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone 
By penitence for that which thou hadjt t jne ? 

Doge. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
That I remember'd them amid the maze 
Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
To pull in resolution : what must be 
I could not change, and would nor fear. — Nay more 
rhou canst not have forgot, what all remember. 
That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
On my retura from Rome, a mist of such 
Unwonted density went on before 
The bucentaur like the columnal cloud 
Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
The pilot was mi^d, and disembark'd us 
Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'ti6 
The custom of the state to put to death 

ts criminals, instead of touching at 
The Riva bella Paglia, as the wont is, — 
So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen, 

A7ig. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Doge. And yet I find a comfort in 

The thought that these things are the work of Fate . 
For I would rather yield to gods than men. 
Or cling to any creed of destiny. 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust. 
And weak as worthless, more than instnunents 
Of an o'erruling power ; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them ! 

Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wTetches take thy flight to HeaTOa 

Doge. I ai)i at peace : the peace of certainty 
That a s\ire hour will come, when their sons' sons, 
And this proud city, and these azure waters. 
And all which makes them eminent and bright 
Shall be a desolation, and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ' 

Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of pa»dO 
still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost doceire 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

Doge. I ^tand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, palpable as I sec thy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

(ruard, (vominn forirnrd.) Doge of Venlot 
The Ten are in attendance on yotir highne.H«. 

Ihtgr. ThiMi farewell, Angiolina ! — one on-brac» 
Forarive the old man who hath been t(» thee 



310 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A fmd but fatal husband — love my memory — 

I would not ask so much for me still living, 

But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 

beeing my evil feelings are at rest. 

Besides, of all the fruit of these long years, 

Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name. 

Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 

Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 

A little love, or friendship,, or esteem, 

No not enough to extract an epitaph 

from ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 

[ have uprooted all my former life, 

And outlived every thing, except thy heart. 

The lure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 

With unimpair'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep thouturn'st so pale ! — Alas ! she faints. 

She hath no breath, no pulse !— Guards lend your 

aid — 
I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal.— Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand !— as cold as mine 
Shall bf^ ere she recovers.— Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

[The Atteyidants of Angiolina enter and sur- 
round their mistress, loho has fainted. — 
Exeunt the Doge, Guards, &-c., ^c. 

SCENE III. 

The Court of the Ducal Palace: the outer gates are 
shut against the people. — The Doge enters in his 
ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten 
and other Patricians, attended by the Guards till 
they arrive at the top of the " Gianfs Staircase," 
^ where the Doges took the oaths ;) the Executioner 
is stationed there loith his sioord. — On arriving, a 
Chief of the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the 
Doge's head. 

Doge. So now the Dogeis nothing, and at last 
I am again Marino Faliero : 
'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was 1 crown'd, and here, bear witness. Heaven ! 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

07ie of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'Tis with age, then,* 

Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to com- 
mend, 
C'^mpatible with justice, to the senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their 
mercy. 
My consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

B^-n. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard-of! ay, there's not a history 
Bvtt shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Agaitist the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of 
Venice— 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Ben. Hast thou more 



1 To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak r 

Ben. Thou may ai ; 

But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved, 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! wi^^ich bore my bann*i 
Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, 
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. 
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth, 
Which di-ank this willing blood from many a wo-ontt 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these ':hings, and Thou 
Who kindlest and who quenchest sans ! — Attest I 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be. 
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 
On her and hers for ever ! — Yes, the hours 
Are silently engendering "f the day. 
When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 
Unto a bastard Attila, without 
Shedding so much blood in her last defence 
As these old veins, oft di-ain'd in shielding her, 
Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 
And sold, and be an appanage to those 
Who shall despise her ! — She shall §toop to be 
A province for an empire, petty to-wn 
In lieu of capitol, with slaves for senates, 
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! '<* 
Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, ii 
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ! 
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 
Make their nobility a plea for pity ! 
Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 
Of their great fathers^ heritage shall fawn 
Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vicegerent, 
Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereignSj 
Even in the palace where they slew their sovereigii, 
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 
From an adultress boastful of her guilt 
With some large gondolier or foreign soldier. 
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 
To the third spurious generation ; — when 
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. 
Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanqnish'd by the victoru, 
Despised by cowards for greater cowardice. 
And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 
As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 
Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 
Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom, 
All thine inheritance shall be her shame 
Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 
A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 
When all the ills of conquer'd states shall eling then ^ 
Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude. 
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness, 
Depraving nature's frailty to an ait ;— 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



311 



WHen these and more aie heavy on thee, when 
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 
Youth without honor, age without respect, 
Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo 
'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not 

murmxir. 
Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, 
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! 12 
Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 
\Hcrs the Doge turns, and addresses the Executioneer. 

Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
.*^trike — and but once ! 

[The Doge throios himself upon his knees, and 

as the Executioner raises his sword, the scene 

closes. 

SCENE IV. 

The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint Mark's. — The 
People in crowds gathered round the grated gates 
of the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 

First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can 
discern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the 
Doge. 
Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
effort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight ^ 
Is thus prohibited unto the people, i£ 

Except the occupiers of those ba,rs. » 

First Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, and now 
they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 



He raises his keen eyes to heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move— Hush ! hush ! — ^no 
'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ' 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 
But gather a sole sentence ! 
Second *^it. Hush ! we perhaps may catch thi 

Sf-und. 
First Cit. 'Tis vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 
Streams on the wind like foam upon the wavte '. 
Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air ^Ah ! Hark ! it falls ! 

[The people murrn\« 
Third Cit. Then they have murder'd him ^ho 

would have freed us. 
Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons 

ever. 
Fifth Cit. "Wisely they did to keep their portala 
barr'd. 
"Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were summon'd here, we would have brought 
"Weapons and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo ! what havo 
we here ? 

Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which front* 
Saint Mark's Place, a Chief of the Ten,'' with 
a bloody sword. He waves it thrice before^ the 
People, and exclaims, 
" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor ! '' 
[The gates are opened ; the jxtpuluce rush tn 
towards the " Giant's Staircase," where th» 
execution has taken place. The foremost of 
them exclaims to those behind. 
The gory head rolls down the " Giants' Steps ! '' 

\The curtain falls 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO, 



i smote the tardy bishop at Treviso. 

Page 283, line 120. 

An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of 
9ie Doges. 

2. 

A gondola with one oar only. 

Page '286, line 46. 
A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as 
»a8ily rowed with one our as with two, (though of 
course not so swiftly,) and often is so from motives 
of privacy ; and (since the decay of Venice) of 
WMJUoniy. 

3. 

They think themselves 
Eyufoged in secret to the Si</tu)ry. 

PaKc 294, liacb 7 and 8. 



An historical fact. 

4. 
Within our palace precituts at Snti Poh. 

Page 301, lino 61 

The Doge's private family palace. 

6. 

** Signor of ths Nioht." 

Pago 303, line 17 
" I Sicnori di Notte " held an i.)u..>vt.int iha.rg« 
I the old Republic. 



Festal Thursday. 

Page 805, line 26. 

"Giovedi Grasao," "fat or greasy Thursday," 
which 1 cannot literally tranalatt in the text, WM 
the day. 



S12 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd, even in the act. 
Page 306, Uiie 37- 

Historical fact. See Sanuto, in th.e Appendix to 
this tragedy. 

8. 
SaVf conscript fathers, shall she be admitted f 
Page 30e Une 128. 

The Venetian senate took the same title as the 
Roman, of " Conscript Fathers." ^ 



' Tis with age, then. 

Page 310, line 33. 

This was Ihe actual reply of Bailli, maire of 
,1 aris, to a Frenchman who made him the same re- 
proach on his way to execution, in the earliest part 
of their revolution. I find in reading over, (since 
the completion of this tragedy,) for the first time 
these six years, " Venice Preserved," a shnilar re- 
ply on a different occasion by Renault, and other 
coincidences arising from the subject. I need 
hardly remind the gentlest reader, that such coin- 
cidences must be accidental, from the very facility 
of their detection by reference to so popular a play 
on the stage and in the closet as Otway's chef- 
d'oeuvre. 

10. 
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 
^^ -^ Page 310, line 86. 

Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the 
reader Took to the historical, of the period prophe- 
sied, or rather of the few years preceding that pe- 
riod. Voltaire calculated their " nostre benemerite 
Meretrici " at 12,000 of regulars, without includ- 
ing volunteers and local militia, on what authority 
I know not ; but it is perhaps the only part of the 
population not decreased. Venice once contained 
200,000 inhabitants, there are now about 90,000, and 



THESE ! ! few individuals can conceive, and nMW 
could describe the actual state into which the more 
than infernal tyranny of Austria has pl^inged tkifl 
unhappy city. 

11. 

The7i when the Hebrew's in thy palaces. 

Page 310, line 87. 

The chief paHces on the Brenta now belong to 
the Jews ; v.-ho in the earlier times of the republic 
were only allowed to inhabit Mestri, and not to en- 
ter the city of Venice. The whole commerce is in 
the hands of the Jews and Greeks, ar.d the HunA 
form the garrison. 

12. 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes 
Page 311, line 9. 

Of the first fifty Doges, ^ve abdicated— ^ re were 
banished with their eyes put out— ;/j?;«^were massa- 
cred — and nine deposed; so that nineteen out of 
fifty lost the throne by violence, besides two who 
fell in battle : this occiirred long previous to the 
reign of Marino Faliero. One of his more imme- 
diate predecessors, Andi-ea Dandolo, died of vexa- 
tion. Marino Faliero himself perished as related. 
Among his successors, Foscari, after seeing his 
son repeatedly tortured and banished, was deposed, 
and died of breaking a blood-vessel, on hearing 
the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the election of hnj 
successor. Morosini was impeached for the loss ol 
Candia ; but this was previous to his dukedom, dur- 
ing which he conquered the Morea, and was styled 
the Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say " Thou 
den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! " 



13. 



Chief of the Ten. 

Page 311, line 47. 



* Un^apo de' Dieci ' 
Chronicle. 



are the words of Sanuto'<i 



APPENDTX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



I. 

MCCCLIV. 

MARINO FALIERO DOGE XLIX. 

" Ftj eletto da quarantuno Elettori, il quale era Ca- 
raliere e conte di Valdemarino in Trivigiana, ed era 
ricco, e si trovava ambasciadore a Roma. E a di 9, 
di Settembre, dopo sepolto il suo predecessore, fu 
chiamato il gran Consiglio, e fu preso di fare il Doge 
giusta il solito. E furono fatti i cinque Correttori, 
Ber Bernardo Giustiniani Procuratore, Ser Paolo 
Lorcdano, Ser Filippo Aurio, Ser Pietro Trivisano, 
e Ser Tommaso Viadro. I quali a d) 10, niisero 
queste correzioni alia promozione del Doge : che i 
ConsigUeri non odano gli Oratori e Nunzi de' Sig- 
nori, senza i Capi de' quaranta, ne possano rispon- 
dere ad alcuno, se non saranno Quattro ConsigUeri 



e due Capi de' Quaranta. E che osservino la forma 
del suo Capitolare. E che Messer lo Doge si metta 
nella miglior parte, quando i giudici tra loro non 
ifossero d' accordo. E ch' egli non possa far ven- 
dere i suoi imprestiti, salvo con legittima cauea, e 
col voler di cinque Consiglieri, di due Capi de' Qua 
ranta, e delle due parti del Consiglio de' Pregati. 
Item, che in luogo di tre mila pelli di Conigli, che 
debbon dare i Zaratini per regalia al Doge, non tro 
vandosi tante pelli, gli diano Ducati ottanta 1' anno. 
E poi a di 11, detto, misero etiam allre correzioni, 
che se il Doge, che sara eletto, fosse fuori di Venp- 
zia, i savj possano provvedere del suo ritorno. B 
qiiando fosse il Doge ammalato, sia Vicedoge una 
de' Consiglieri, da essere eletto tra loro. E che il 
dctto sia nominato Viceluogotcnente di Messer, 1» 
Doge, quando i giudici faranno i suoi atti. E nota< 
perchc fu f;itto Doge uno, ch' era assente, che fy 
Vicedoge Ser Marino Badoero piu vecchio de Coa- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



313 



Bi^lieri Item, che 11 governo del Ducato sia com- 
messo a Consiglieri, e a' Capi de' Quaranta, qiiando 
vachera il Ducato finche sara eletto 1' altro- Doge. 
E cosi a d) r ii Settembre fu create il prefato Ma- 
rino Faliero Doge. E fu preso, che il governo del 
Ducato sia commesso a' Consiglieri e a' Capi de' 
Quaranta. I quali stiano in Palazzo di continue, 
fino che verra il Doge. Sicch<^ di continue stiano 
•n Palazzo due Consiglieri e un Capo de Quaranta. 
• E subito fuvouo spedite lettere al detto Doge, il 
quale era a Roma Oratore al Legato di Papa Inno- 
>enzo VI. ch' era in Avignone. Fu preso nel gran 
Consiglio d' cleggero dodici ambasciadori incontro a 
Mxrino Faliero Doge, il quale veniva da Roma. 
E g;-iuto a Chioggia, il Podesta mand6 Taddeo 
GHustin:u,ni sue .figliuolo incontro, con quindici 
Ganz<4ruoli. h. poi venuto a S. Clemente nel Bucin- 
toio, venne un gran caligo, adeo che il Bucintoro 
lior. ;.i f,. te levare. Laonde il Doge co' gentiluemini 
nelle piatte vennero di lungo in questa Terra a' 
5 d'Ottobve del 1354. E dovendo smontare alia 
nva della Paglia per lo caligo andarono ad ismon- 
♦.are alia riva della Piazza in mezzo alle due coloune 
divve si fa la Giustizia, che fu un malissimo augurio. 
E a' 6, la mattina venne alia Chiesa di San Marco 
alia laudazione di quelle. Era in questo tempo 
Canceilier Grande Messer Benintende. I quaran- 
tU!io Elettori furon'), Ser Giovanni Contarini, Ser' 
Andrea Giustiniani, Ser Michele Morossini, Ser 
Simone Dandolo, Ser Pietro Lando, Ser Marino 
Gradenigo, Ser Marco Dolfino, Ser Nicol6 Faliero, 
Ser Giovanni Quivini, Ser Lorenzo Soranzo, Ser 
Marco Bembo, Sere Stefane Belegne, Ser Francesco 
Lorcdano, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Giovanni Me- 
cenigo, Ser Andrea Barbaro, Ser Lorenzo Barbarigo, 
Ser Bettino da Mollino, Ser' Andrea Arizzo Procu- 
ratore, Ser Marco Celsi, Ser Paolo Donate, Sor Ber- 
tucci Grimani, Ser Pietro Steno, Ser Luca Duodo, 
Ser' Andrea Pisani, Ser Francesco Caravello, Ser 
Jac'opo Trivisano, Sere Schiavo Marcello, Ser Mafleo 
Aimo, Ser Marco Capello, Ser Pancrazio Giorgio, 
Ser Giovanni Foscarini, Ser Temaso Viadro, Sere 
Scniava Polani, Ser Marco Polo, Ser Marino Sagre- 
de. Sere Stefane Mariani, Ser Francesco Suriano, 
Ser Orio Pasqualigo, Ser' Andrea Gritti Ser Buono 
da Mosto. 

" Tnittato di Messer Marino Faliero Doqe, tra^' 
da una Cronica antica. Elssendo venuto il Gioved. 
della Caccia, fu fatta giusta il solito la Caccia. E 
a' (jue' tempi dope fatta la Caccia s'andava in Pa- 
lazzo del Doge in una di quelle sale, e con donne 
facevasi ^na fcsticciuola, dove si bellava tine alia 
prima campaua, e veniva una celazione ; la quale 
spesa faceva Messer le Doge, quando v' era la Doga- 
ressa. E poscia tutti andavano a casa sua. Sopra 
la qual festa, pare, che Ser Michele Steno, molto 
giovane e povero gentiluomo, ma ardito e astute, il 
quale era innauiorato in certa donzella della Dega- 
ressu, esscndo sal Solaje api)resso le donne, faeesse 
cert' atto non cenvcniente, adeo che il Doge ceman- 
do ch' e' fosse buttato gin dal Solajo. E cosi quogli 
scudiori del Doge lo spinsero gin di quel Solajo. 
Laonde a Ser Michele parve, che fessegli stata fatta 
'.toppo grande ignominia. E non censiderando al- 
tiamente il fine, ma sopra quella passione fornita la 
feata, e andati tutti via, qnella notte egli and.\ e 
Bulla cadroga, dove sedeva il Doge nolla Sala dc^ll' 
Udien/a (porchi' allora i Dogi non tenevano pfjinno 
ii seta sopra la cadrega, ma sedevano in una cadre- 
ga di legiio) scrissc alcunc parole disoneste del 
Doge e della Dt)g;frcss;i, cio<': Marin Faliero 
dal la bet La inoiilii: : Altri la i/odc, ed e(jli la mantieiw. 
E la mattina fnrono vcdtite tali parole soritte. E 
parve una brutta cosa. E per la Signoria fu coin- 
moh^a lacosa agli Avvogadori del Comuno con 
grande elHcacia. I (juali Avvogadori siibito diedero 
taglia tcrande per venire in chiaro della veiita di chi 
avea scritto tal lettcra, E tandem si si'p])e, che 
Michele Steno aveale scritte. K fu i)er Ii Quaranta 
preso di ritenorio ; e ritenuto confess.'), che in quella 
paHKiuuA d' esscre statu upiuto gin d&l Sulujo, pre- 
-10 



sente la sua amante, egli aveale scritte. Onde poj 
fu placitate nel detto Consiglio, e parve a'. Consiglio 
SI per rispetto all' eta, come per la caldezza d'amore, 
di condannarlo a cempiere due mesi in prigione ser- 
rate, e poi ch' e' fosse bandito di Venezia e dal dis- 
tretto per un' anno. Per la qual condennagiena 
tanto piccola il Doge ne prese grande sdegno, paren- 
dogli che non fosse stata fatta quella estimazioufl 
deila cosa, che ricercava la sua diguit i del Ducato. 
E diceva, ch' eglino doveano averlo fatto appiccare 
per la gola, o saltern bandirlo in pcrpetuo da Vene- 
zia. E perche (quando dee suceedere un' efFetto ^ 
necessarie che vi concerra la cangione a fare tal' 
effetto) era destinato, che a Messer Marino Doge 
fosse tagliata la testa, perci6 occorse, che entiata la 
Quaresima il giorne dope che fu condannato il detto 
Ser Michele Steno, un gentiluomo da Ca Barbaro, 
di natura collerico, andasse all' Arsenale, doman- 
^asse certe cose ai Padroni, ed era alia presenza de' 
Signeri I'Ammiraglio dell' Arsenale. II quale in 
tesa la domanda, disse, che non si pete v a fare 
Quel gentiluomo venne a parole coll' Ammuagiio, 
e diedegli un pugno su un'occhio. E perch - uvea 
un'anello in dito, coll' anello gli ruppe la pelle, e 
fece sangue. E I'Ammiraglio cosi battuto e msan- 
guinato and5 al Doge a lamentarsi, acciocchc il Doge 
facesse fare gran puniziene centra il detto da C^ 
Barbaro : II Doge disse : Che vuoi che ti faccia t 
Guarda le icjnoininiose parole scritte di nie, e il niodo 
cK<^ stato p\mito quel ribaldo di Michele Steno, chs 
le scrisse. E quale stima hanno i Quaranta fatto 
della persona nostra f Laonde 1' Ammiragli'o gli 
disse : Messer lo Doge, se voi volete Jarvi Sic/uore, t 
fare tagliare tutti questi becchi qentiluoinini a pezzi, 
\ ttii bas'ta Vanimo, dandomi voiajuto, difarvi Siatiort 
di questa Terra. E allora voi potrcte castii/are tuttt 
rostoro. Inteso questo il Doge disse. Come si pits 
fare una simile cosa f E cosi entrarono in ragiona- 
mento. 

" II Doge mandiS a chiamere Ser Bertuccio Faliero 
sue nipote, il quale stava con lui in Palazzo, e eiy 
trarono in questa macchinaziene. Ne si partirono 
di 11, che maudarono per Filippe Calendaro, uomo 
marittimo e di gran seguite, e per Bertuccio Israel- 
lo. ingegnere e uomo listutissime. E consigliatisi 
insieme diede ordine di chiamare alcuni altri. B 
COSI per alcuni giorni la notte si riducevano insieme 
in Palazzo in casa del Doge. E chianxarono a parte 
a parte altri, videlicet Niccol5 Fagiuolo, Giovanni 
da Corfu,, Stefane Fagiano, NiccoK> dalle Bendoj 
NiccolO) Bionde, e Stefano Trivisano. E ordino df 
fare sedici o diciassctte Capi in diversi luoghi della 
Terra, i qualiavessero cadaun di lore (juarant' uomini 
provvigionati, preparati, non dicende a' detti suoi 
quaranta quelle, chexolessero fare. Ma eho il giorno 
stal)ilito si mostrasse di far quistione tra lore in di- 
versi luoghi, acciocche il Doge faccss« sonaro a San 
Marco le campane, le quali non si possono suoiuire, 
s' egli nel cemanda. t E al sueno dolle campan* 
questi sedici o diciasette co' suoi uommi vnnissero a 
San Marco alle strade, che buttano ii. t*ia?,ia. B 
cosi i nobili e primarj cittadini, che venissoro in Pi 
azza, per sapere del romore ciC) ch'era, Ii tagliassero 
a pezzi. E seguito questo, che f()sse chianiato pei 
Signore Messer Marino Faliero Doge. K fermatf 
le cose tra lore, stabilito fu, che (|uesto dovoss' es* 
sore a' lo d'Apiile del 13.').> in giorno di Mori-oledi 
La quale macchinazione trattata fu tra lert) ta»tc 
se^retamente, che mai ne pure so ne sospt tti», non 
che se ne sai>esse cos' alcuna. Ma il Signer" Iddio, 
che ha sempre njutato questa gloriosissima citta A 
che per le santiinonie e giusti/.io sue mai non I'ha 
al)ban(lonata, inspinN a un Bcltramo HtM-gamasco i^ 
(luale fu messe Capo di (piarant* uomini per uno do' 
(lotti congiurati (il quale intose qualche paroliu 
sicch. com]>rese relfoto, che d.n'ova suiTcdcre, o i« 
(pial era di casa di Ser Niocol.^ Lioni di Santo Sto 
fano^ di an dare a dl •*♦♦ d'Aprile a rasa del tU'tto 
Sit XiccolN Lioui. E gli disse ogni cosa doll' ordilj 
date. II quale inteso lo ooso, rimaso como morto J 
o iutese iuoH<^ purticoluxila, il detto Ueltriimo il 



314 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



orego che lo tenesse segreto, e glielo disse, accicoc- 
chi' il delto Ser Niccolo non si partisse di casa a di 
15, acciocche egli non fosse morto. Ed egli volendo 
partirsi, il fece ritenere a>suoi di casa,.e serrarlo in 
una camera. Ed esso and5 a casa di M. Giovanni 
Gradenigo Nasone, il quale fu poi Doge, che stava 
anch' egli a Santo Stefano ; e dissegli la cosa. La 
quale parendogli, com'era, d'una grandissima im- 
portanza, tutti e due andarono a casa di Ser Marco 
Cornaro, che stava a San Felice. E dettogli il tutto 
tutti e tre deliberarono di venire a casa del detto 
Ser Niccolo Lioni, ed esaminare il detto Beltramo 
E quello esaminato, intese le cose, il fecero stare 
serrato. E andarono tutti e tre a San Salvatore in 
Bacristia, emandorono i loro famigli a chiamare i 
Consiglieri, gli Avvogadori, i Capi de' Dieci, e que' 
del Consiglio. E ridotti insieme dissero loro le cose. 
I quali rimasero morti. E deliberarono di mandare 
pel detto Beltramo, e fattolo venii-e cautamente, ed 
esaminatolo, e verificate le cose, ancorche ne sen- 
tissero gran passion*, pure pensarono la provvisione. 
E mandarono pe' Capi de' Quaranta, pe' Signori di 
notte, pe Capi de' Sestieri, e pe Cinque .della Pace. 
E ordinato, ch' eglino co' loro uomini trovassero 
degli altri buoni uomini, e mandassero a casa de' 
capi de' congiurati, ut supra mettessero loro le mani 
addosso. E tolsero i detti le Maestrerie dell' Arse- 
Hale, accioche i provvisionati de' congiurati non 
potessero offenderli. E si ridussero in Palazzo ver- 
BO la sera. Dove ridotti fecero serrare le porte della 
corte del Palazzo. E mandarono a ordinare al cam- 
panaro, che non sonasse le cumpane. E cos fu ese- 
guito e messe le mani adosso a tutti i nominati di 
sopra, furono que' condotti al Palazzo. E vedendo 
il Consiglio de Dieci, che il Doge era nella cospira- 
aione, presero di eleggere venti de' primarj della 
Terra, di giunta al detto Consiglio a consigliare, 
non pero che potessero mettere pallotta. 

*' I Consiglieri furono questi : Ser Giovanni Moce- 
nigo del Sestiero di San Marco ; Ser Almoro Veni- 
ero da Santa Marina, del Sestiero di Castello ; Ser 
Tommaso Viadro, del Sestiero di Caneregio ; Ser Gio- 
vanni Sanudo, del Sestiero di Santa Croce ; Ser 
Pietro Trivisano, del Sestiero di San Paolo ; Ser 
Pantalione Barbo il Grande, del Sestiero d'Ossoduro. 
Gli Avvogadori del Comune furono Ser Zufredo Mo- 
rosini, e Ser Orio Pasqualigo, e questi non ballotta- 
rono. Que' del Consiglio de' Dieci ; furono : Ser Gi- 
ovanni Maroello, Ser Tommaso Sanudo, e Ser Miche- 
eletto Dolfino, Capi del detto Consiglio de' Dieci ; 
Ser Luca da Legge, e Ser Pietro da Mosto, Inq\iisi- 
tori del detto Consiglio : Ser Marco Polani, Ser Ma- 
rino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, Ser Nicoletto 
Trivisano da Sant' Angiolo. Questi elessero tra 
loro una Giunta, nella notte ridotti quasi sul romper 
del giorno, di venti nobili di Venezia de' migliori, 
de' piu savj, e de' piu antichi, per consultare, non 
pert) che mettessero pallottola. E non vi vollero 
alcuno da Ca Faliero. E cac^iarono fuori del Con- 
siglio Niccolo Faliero, e un' altro Niccol6 Faliero, 
da San Tommaso, per essere della casata del Doge. 
E quosta provigione di chiamare i venti della Giunta 
fu molto commendata per tutta la Terra. Questi 
furono i venti della Giunta, Ser Marco Giustiniani, 
Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore. Ser 
Lion.ardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Con- 
tariv.i, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe Ser 
Giovanni Loredano Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni 
Gradenigo, Ser' Andrea Cornaro, Cavaliere, Ser 
Marco Soranzo, Ser Rinieri da Mosto, Ser Gazano 
Marcello, Ser Marino Morosino, Sere Stefano Be- 
legno. Ser Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Mar- 
cc Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni 
Foscarini. E chiamati questi venti nel Consiglio 
de' Diecci, fu mandate per Messer Marino Faliero 
Doge, il quale andava pel Palazzo con gran gente, 
gentiluomini, e altra buona gente, che non sapeano 
ancora come il fatto stava. In questo tempo fu 
oondotto, preso, e legato, Bertuccio Israello, uno de' 
Capi del trattato per que' di Santa Croce, e ancora 
ru preso Zanello del Brin, Nicolett ^ di Rosa, e Ni- 



coletto Alberto, il Guardiaga, e altri uon.ini da mare 
e d' altre condizioni. I quali furono esamii.ati, t 
trovata la verita del tradimento. A di 16 d'Aprile 
fu sentenziato pel detto Consiglio de' Diecci, che 
Filippo Calandario, e Bertucci Israello fossero appic- 
cati alle colonnerossedelbalconate del Palazzo, nelle 
quali sta a vendere il Doge la festa della Caccia. B 
cosi furono appiccati con spranghe in bocca. E nel 
giorno seguente' questi furono condannati, Nic- 
coIl) Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, 
Marco Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto. Fe- 
dele figliuolo di Filippo Calendaro, Marco Torello, 
detto Israello, Stefano Trivisano, cambiatoie di 
Santa Margherita, Antonio dalle Bende. Furono 
tutti presi a Chioggia, che fuggivano, e dipoi in di- 
versi giorni a due a due, ed a uno a uno, per sen- 
tenza fatta nel detto Consiglio de' Diec?, furono ap- 
piccati per la gola alle colonne, continuando dalle 
rosse del Palazzo, seguendo fin verso il Canale, B 
altri presi furono lasciati, perche sentirono il fatto, 
ma non vi furono tal che fu dato loro ad intendere 
per questi capi, che venissero' coll' arme, per pren- 
dere alcuni malfattori in servigio della Signori, nd 
altro sapeano. Fu encora liberato Nicoletto Alberto, 
il Guardiaga, e Bartolommeo Ciriuola, e suo figliuolo, 
e molti altri, che non erano in celpa. 

" E a di 16 d'Aprile, giorno di Venerdi, fu sen 
tenziato nel detto Consiglio de' Dieci, di tagliare la 
testa a Messer Marino Faliero Doge sul pato della 
scala di pietra, dove i Dogi giurano il primo sagra- 
mento, quando montano prima in Palazzo. E cosl 
serrato il Palazzo, la mattina seguente a ora di ter 
za, fu cagliata la testa al detto Doge a di 17 d'Aprile. 
E prima la berretta fu tolta di testa al detto Doge, 
avanti che venisse giii dalla scala. E compiuta la 
giustizia, pare che un Capo de' Dieci andasse alle 
Colonne del Palazzo sopra la Piazza, e mostrasse la 
spada insanguinata a tutti, dicendo : E stata fatta la 
gran giustizia del Trdditore. E aperta la porta, tutti 
entrarono dentro con gran furia a vedere il Doge, 
ch' era statu giustiziato. E' da sapere, che a fare la 
detta giustizia non fu Ser Giovanni Sanudo il Consi- 
gliere, perche era andato a casa per difetto della 
persona, sicche furono quattordici soli, che ballot 
tarono, cioe cinque Consiglieri, e nove del Consig- 
lio de' Dieci. E fu preso, che tutti i beni del 
Doge fossero confiscati nel Comune, e co&i degli al- 
tri traditori. E fu conceduto al detto Doge pel 
detto Consiglio de' Dieci, ch'- egli potesse ordinare 
del suo per ducati due mila. Ancora fu preso, che 
tutti i Consiglieri, e Avvogadori del Comune, que' 
del Consiglio de' Dieci, e della Giunta, ch' erano 
stati a fare la detta sentenza del Doge, *e d'altri, 
avessero licenza di portar' arme di di e di notte in 
Venezia e da Grado fino a Gavarzere, ch' e sotto il 
Dogato, con due fantfi in vita loro, stando i fanti 
con essi in casa al siio pane e al suo vino. E chi 
non avesse fanti, potesse dar tal licenza a' suoi 
figliuoli ovvero fratelli, due pert) e non piu. Ezian- 
dio fu data licenza dell' arme a quattro Notaj della 
Cancelleria, cioe della Corte Maggiore, che furono 
a prendere le deposizioni e inquisizioni, in perpetuo 
a loro soli, i quali furono Amadio, Nicoletto di Lo- 
reno, Steffanello, e Pietro de' Comj ostelli, Scrivani 
de' Signori di notte. Ed essendo stati impiccati i 
traditori, etagliata la testa al Doge, rimase la Terra 
in gij^n riposo e quiete. E come in una cronica ho 
trovato, fu portato il corpo del Doge in una barca 
con otto doppieri a seppelire nella sua area a San 
Giovanni e Paolo, la quale al presente e in quell' 
andito per mezzo la Chiesuola di Santa Maria della 
Pace, fatta fare pel Vescovo Gabriello di Bergamo, 
e un cassone di pietra con queste lettere : Heicja- 
cet Dominus Mitrinvs Faletro Dxix e nel gran Con- 
siglio non gli e state fatto alcun brieve, ma il luogo 
vacuo con lettere, che dicono cosi : Hie est loctu 
Mariiv Faletio, decapitati pro cri/ninibus. E pare, 
che la sua casa fosse data alia Chiesadi Sant' Apos* 
tolo, la qual era quella grande sul ponte. Tamen 
vedo il contrario che e pure di Ca Faliero, o che i 
Falieri la ricu perassero con danari dalla Chiesau 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIEKO. 



'616 



Ne lOjr'lo res car d' sciivere almmi, che volevano, 
f.he fosse messo nel suo breve, oioe: Marinics Fa- 
letro Dux, temeritan me cepit pocnas lu , decapitatus 
pro eriminibus. Altri vi fecero un distioo assai deg- 
no al suo merito, il quale e questo da cessere josto 
RU la sua sepoltura : 

" Dux Venetum ja..e: heic, pairiam qui prodere ten ins, 
Sceptra, decus, •tr^um, perdidii, atque caput." 

" Non voglio restar di scrivere quello che ho letto 
m una cronica, cioe, che Marino Faliero trovandosi 
Podesta e Capitano a Treviso, e dovendosi fare una 
processione, il vescovo sette troppo a far venire il 
Corpo di Cristo. II detto Faliero era di tanta su- 
perbia e arroganza, che diede un buffetto al prefato 
Vescovo, per modo ch' egli quasi cadde in terra. 
PeiL) fu permesso, che il Faliero perdette I'intelletto, 
t fece la mala marte, come ho scritto di sopra." 
*' « * * « * * 

Cronica di Sanuto — Muratori S, S Herum Itali- 
sarum— vcl. xxii. 628—639. 



II. 

MCCCLIV. 

MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 

On the eleventh day of September, in the year of 
OUT Lord 1354, Marino Faliero was elected and 
chosen to be the Duke of the Commonwealth of 
Venice. He was Count of Valdemarino, in the 
marches of Treviso, and a Knight and a wealthy 
man to boot. As soon as the election was complet- 
ed, it was resolved in the Great Council, that a dep- 
utation of twelve should be despatched to Marino 
Faliero, the Duke, who was then on his Avay from 
Rome ; for, when he was chosen, he was ambassa- 
dor at the court of the Holv Father, at Rome, — 
the Holy Father himself held his court, at Avign- 
non. When Messer Marino Faliero, the Duke, was 
about to land in this city, on the 5th day of Octo- 
ber, 1354, a thick haze came on, and darkened the 
air ; and we was enforced to land on the place of 
Saint Mark, between the two columns, on the spot 
where evil doers are put to death ; and all thought 
this was the worst of tokens. — Nor must I forget to 
write that which I have read in a chronicle. — When 
Messer Marino Faliero was podesta and captain of 
Treviso, the bishop delayed coming in with the holy 
sacrament, on a day when a procession was to take 
place. Now the said Marino Faliero was so verj' 
proud and wrathful, that he buffeted the bishop, 
and almost struck him to the ground. And there- 
fore. Heaven allowed Marino Faliero to go out of 
his right senses, in order that he might bring him- 
self to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom dxiring 
tiine months and six days, he being wicked and am- 
bitious, sought to make himself lord of Venice, in 
the manner which I have read in an ancient chron- 
icle. When the Thursday arrived upon which they 
were wont to hunt the bull, the bull-hunt took place 
%8 usual ; and, acccnding to the usage of those 
vimes, after the bull-hunt had ended, they all j)ro- 
ceeded unto the palace of the Duke, and assembled 
together in one of his lialls ; and they disported 
themselves with the women. And until the (irst 
bell tolled they danced, and the'j a baiuiuet wjis 
served up. My lord the Duke paid the expenses 
thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after the 
Dan (] net they all returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Scr Michele 
Pteno, a gentleman of poor estate and very young, 
Dut crafty and daring, and who loved one of the 
damsels of the Duchess. Ser Michele stood among 
thi women upon the a^V^o ; and he behaved indis- 



creetly, so that my Lord the Duke >rdered thi.t \n! 
should be kicked off the solajo ; and the esquirei 
of the Duke flung him down from the solajo accord- 
ingly. Ser Michele thought that such an affront 
was beyond all bearing ; and when the feast waj 
over and all other persons had left the palace, he, 
continuing heated with anger, went to the hall ol 
of audience, and wi-ote certain unseemly words re 
lating to the Duke and the Duchess, upon the 
chair in which the Duke was used to sit ; for in 
those days the Duke did not cover his chair with 
cloth of sendal, but he sat in a chair of wood. Ser 
Michele wrote thereon : — " Marin Falier, the hus 
hand of the fair wife ; others kiss her, but he Aeepj 
her.^^ In the morning the words were seen, and 
the matter was considered to be very scandalous ; 
and the Senate commanded the Avvogadori of thfi 
Commonwealth to proceed therein with the greate.sn 
diligence. A largess of great amount was iuiine 
diately proffered by the Avvogadori, in order to dis- 
cover who had written these words. And at length 
it was known that Michele Steno had \\Titten them. 
It was resolved in the Council of Forty that he 
should be arrested; and he then confessed, that in 
a fit of vexation and spite, occasioned by his being 
thriist off the solajo in the presence of liis mistress, 
he had written the words. Therefore the Council 
debated thereon. And the Council took his youth 
into consideration, and that he was a lover, and 
therefore they adjud;j:ed that he should be kept ir. 
close confinement during two months, and that 
afterwards he should be banished from Venice 
and the state during one year. In consequence of 
this merciful sentence the Duke became exceedingly 
wroth, it appearing to him that the Council had not 
acted in such a manner as was required by the re- 
spect due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that 
they ought to have condemned Ser Michele to be 
hanged by the neck, or at least to be banished for 
life. 

Now it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was 
to have his head cut off. And as it is necessary, 
v.hen any effect is to be brought about, that the 
cause of such effect must happen, it therefore came 
to pass, that on the very day after sentence had 
been pronounced on Ser Michele Steno, being thr 
first day of Lent, a gentleman of the house of Bar 
baro, a choleric gentleman, went-to the arsenal and 
recjuired certain things of the masters of the gal- 
leys. This he did in the presence of the admiral of 
the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, answered, 
— No, it cannot be done. — High words arose Oeiweeii 
the gentleman and the admiral, and the gentleman 
struck him with his tist just above the eye, am', aa 
he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the admiral and drew blood. The admiral, all 
bruised and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to 
complain, and with the intent of pniying liini to 
inflict some heavy punishment upon the gentleman 
of Ca Barbaro. — '" What wouldst thou have me do 
for thee ? " answered the Duke ; — " think upon the 
shameful gibe wliicli hath heen written concerning 
me ; and think on the manner in which they have 
punished that ribald Michele Steno, who wrote it , 
and see how the Council of Forty respect our per- 
son." — Upon this the admiral' answered ; — "My 
Lord Duke, if you would wish to make yourself a 
prince, and cut all those ouckoldv gentlemen to 
pieces, I have tlie heart, if you do hut hell) me, to 
make you jirince of all this state; and tht>n you 
may punish tlieni all. — Hearing this, tlie Duke said; 
— '' How can such a matter be brought about ? "— 
and so they discoursed tliereon. 

The Duke called for his nejjheu Ser Bertuecio 
Faliero, who lived with him in tlie i)aiace, and tlicy 
communed al)out this plot. And. witiiout leaving 
the phicc, tliey sent l\)r IMiilij) Caletulari). a seaman 
of great rei)ute, and for Hrrtuccio Israello who wa« 
exceedingly wily ami cunning. Tlun taking coun- 
sel among themselves, they agreed to call in seui# 
others ; and so for soreral iiiguts successively, then 



316 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



met with the Duke at home in his palace. And the 
fjHowing men were called in singly ; to wit : — Nic- 
colo Fagiiiolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiano, 
Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo Biondo and Stefano 
Trivisano. It was concerted that sixteen or seven- 
teen leaders should be stationed in various parts of 
the city, each being at the head of forty men, armed 
and prepared ; but the followers were not to know 
tneir destination. On the appointed day they were 
to make affrays among themselves here and there, 
in order that' the Duke might have a pretence for 
tolling the bells of San Marco : these bells are 
never rung but by the order of the Duke, And at 
the sound of the bells, these sixteen oi seventeen, 
with their followers, were to come to San Marco, 
through the streets which open upon the Piazza. 
And when the noble and leading citizens should 
come into the Piazza, to know the cause of the riot, 
then the conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; 
and this work being finished, my Lord Marino Fali- 
ero the Duke was* to be proclaimed the Lord of 
Venice. Things having been thus settled, they 
agreed to fulfil their intent on Wednesday, the 
afteenth day of April, in the year 1355. So covertly 
did they plot, that no one ever dreamt of their 
machinations. 

' But the Lord, who hath always helped this most 
glorious city, and who, loving its righteousness and 
holiness, hath never forsaken it, inspired one Bel- 
tramo Bergamasco to be the cause of bringing the 
plot to light in the following manner. This Beltra- 
mo, who belonged to Ser Niccolo Lioni of Santo 
Stefano, had heard a word or two of what was to 
take place ; and so, in the before-mentioned month 
of April, he went to the house of the aforesaid Ser 
N'iccolo Lioni, and told him all the particulars of 
the plot. Ser Niccolo, when he heard all these 
things, ivRs struck dead, as it were, with affright. 
He hea- d all the particulars, and Beltramo prayed 
him to keep it all secret ; and if he told Ser Nicco- 
lo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo might stop at 
home on the fifteenth of April, and thus save his 
life. Beltramo was going, but Ser Niccolo ordered 
his ser' ants to lay hands upon him and lock him 
up. Ser Niccolo then went to the house of Messer 
Giovai) ai Gradenigo Nasoni, who afterwards became 
Duke, and who also lived at Santo Stefano, and told 
him all. The matter seemed to him to be of the 
•very greatest importance, as indeed it was; and 
they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, 
who lived at San Felice ; and, having spoken with 
him, they all three then determined to go back to 
the house of Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said 
Beltramo ; and having questioned him, and heard 
all that he had to say, they left him in confinement. 
And then they all three went into the sacristy of 
San Salvatore, and sent their men to simimon the 
Councillors, the Avvogadori, the Capi de' Dieci, and 
those of the Great Council. 

When all were Assembled, the whole story was 
to id to them. They were struck dead, as it were, 
with affright. They determined to send for Beltra- 
mo. He was brought in before them. They ex- 
amined him, and ascertained that the matter was 
true ; and, alt^ough they were exceedingly troubled, 
yet they deten.nned upon the'r measures. And 

della Pace ; and they were ordered to associate to 
their men other good men and true, who were to 
pioceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the con- 
spiracy and secure them. And they secured the 
foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspira- 
tors might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they 
assembled in the palace. When they were assem- 
bled in the palace, they caused the gates of the 
quadrangle of the palace to be shut. And they 
^cnt to the keeper of the bell tower, and forbade the 
tolling of the bells. All this was carried into effect, 
the before-mentioned conspirators were secured, 
md they w-^re brought to *hi*. palace ; and as the 



tliey sent for tue Capi de' Qnaranta, the Signori 
di Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri, and the Cinque 



Council of Ten saw that the Duke was in the plo* 
they resolved that twenty of the leading men of tht 
state should be 'associated to them, for the purpose 
of consultation and deliberation, but that thoj 
hould not be allowed to ballot. 

The counsellors were the following: Ser Giovanni 
Mocenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Al- 
moro Veniero da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero ol 
Castello ; Ser Tommaso Viadro, of the Sestiero ol 
Caneregio ; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, of the Sestiero ol 
Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Trivisano, of the Sestiero 
of San Paolo ; Ser Pantalione Barba il Grande, ol 
the Sestiero of Ossoduro. The Avvogadori of the 
Commonwealth were Zufredo Morosini, and Ser 
Orio Pasqualigo ; and these did not ballot. Those 
of the Council- of Ten were Ser Giovanni Marcello, 
Ser Tommaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto Dolfino, 
the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. Ser 
Lucca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisi- 
tors of the aforesaid Council. And Sei Marco Po- 
lani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo. md 
S-^j: Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant'Augelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, hey 
chose a junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from 
among the wisest and the worthiest and the oldest. 
They were to give counsel, but not to ballot. And 
they would not admit any one of Ca Faliero. And 
Niccolo Faliero, and another Niccolo Faliero, of San 
■^ommaso, were expelled from the Council, because 
they belonged to the family of the Doge. And this 
resolution of creating the junta of twenty was much 
praised throughout the state. The following were 
the members of the junta of twenty : — Ser Marcc 
Giustiniani, Procuratore, Ser' Andrea Erizzo, Pro- 
curatore, Ser Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, 
Ser' Andrea Contarini, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser 
Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giovanni Loredano, Ser Marco 
Dicdo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser Andi-ea Corna 
ro, Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, Se- Rinieri da 
Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, Ser Marin«j Morosini, 
Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, Se^ Filippo 
Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino^ 
Ser Giovanni Foscarina. 

These twenty were accordingly called into the 
Council of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marine 
Faliero the Duke : and my Lord Marino was thcr 
consorting in the palace with people of great estate, 
gentlemen, and other good men, none of whom 
knew yet how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertuccio Israello, who, as one 
of the ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in 
Santa Croce, was arrested and bound, and brought 
before the Council. Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto dj 
Rosa, Nicoletto Alberto, and the Guardiaga, were 
also taken together, with several seamen, and people 
of various ranks. These were examined, and the 
truth of the plot was ascertained. 

On the sixteenth of April, judgment was given ia 
the Counc'l of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and 
Bertuccio Israello should be hanged upon the red 
pillars of the balcony of the palace, from which the 
Duke is wont to look at the bull-hunt : and they 
were hanged with gags in their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned:— 
Niccolo Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Biondo, Nicoletto Doro 
Marco Giuda, Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fi- 
dele, the son of Philip Calendaro, Marco Torello, 
called Israello, Stefano. Trivisano, the money- 
changer of Santa Margherita, and Antonio dalle 
Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, for thtj 
were endeavoring to escape. Afterwards, by virtue 
of the sentence which was passed upon them in the 
Council of Ten, they were hanged on successive 
days, some singly and some in couples, upon the 
columns of the palace, beginning from the red col- 
unms, and so going onwards towards the canal 
And other prisoners were discharged, because, al 
though they had been involved in the conspiracy, 
yet they had not assisted in it : for they were given 
to understand by some of the heads of the plot, that 
they were to come armed and prepared for the ser- 



APPENDIX TO MARINO FALIERO. 



an 



Yicu ot the state, and in order to seeure certain 
i;iiiainHls, and they knew nothing else. Nicoletto 
Allterto, the Guardiaga, and BaitoU)mmeo Ciriuola 
and his son, and several others, who were not guilty, 
were discharged. 

On Friday, the sixteenth day of April, judgment 
was also gi\en, in the aforesaid Council of Ten, 'that 
my Lord Marino Faliero, the Duke, should have his 
head cat ott', and that the execution should be done 
on the landing-i)lace of the stone staircase, where 
the Dukes take their oath when they first enter the 
palace. On the following day, the seventeenth of 
April, the doors of the palace being shut, the Duke 
hid his head cut off, about the hour of noon. And 
the cap of estate was taken from the Duke's head 
before he came down stairs. When the execution 
was over, it is said that one of the Covincil of T 
went to the columns of the palace over against the 
place of St. Mark, and that he showed the bloody 
Bword unto the people, crying out with a loud voice 
— " The terrible doom hath fallen upon the traitor !" 
—and the doors were opened, and the people all 
rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke who had 
beer^ beheaded. 

It must be known, that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the 
councillor, was not present when the aforesaid sen- 
tence was pronounced ; because he was unwell and 
remained at home. So that only fourteen balloted ; 
that is to say, five councillors, and nine of the 
Council of* Ten. And it was adjudged, that all the 
lands and chattels of the Duke, as well as of the 
other traitors, should be forfeited to the state. And, 
as a grace to the Duke, it was resolved in the Coun- 
ril of Ten, that he should be allowed to dispose of 
two thousand ducats out of his own propeuty. And 
It was resolved, that all the councillors and all the 
Avvogadori of the • commonwealth, those of the 
Council of Ten, and the members of the junta who 
had assisted in passing sentence on the Duke and 
the other traitors, should have the privilege of car- 
rying arms both by day and by night in Venice, and 
from Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to be 
allowed two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid 
footmen living and boarding with them in their own 
houses. And he who did not keep two footmen 
might transfer th'e privilege to his sons or his 
brothers ; but only to two. Permission of carrying 
arms was also granted to the four Notaries of the 
Chancery, that is to say, of the Supremo Court, who 
took the depositions ; and they were Amedio, Nico- 
letto di Lorino, Steffanello, and Pietro de Compos- 
telli, the secretaries of the Signori di Notte. 

After the traitors had been lianged, and the Duke 
had his head cut off, the state remained in great 
tranquillity and peace. And, as I have read in a 
chronicle, the corpse of the Duke was removed in a 
barge, with eight torches, to his tomb in the church 
San Giovanni e Paolo, where it was buried. The 
tomb is now in that aisle in the middle of the little 
church of Santa Maria della Pace, which was built 
Dy Bishop Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of 
Btone, with these words engraved thereon : Heic 
jacci Dominiu Marinus Falctro Dux." — And they 
did not paint his portrait in the hall of the Great 
Jouncil : — But in the place where it ought to have 
been, you see these words : — " Hie est locus Marini 
Falelro, decapitati pro crindnihus" — and it is thought 
that his house was granted to the church of Sant' 
Apostol: ; '.t was that great one near the bridge. 
Yet this cou'.d not be the case, or else the family 
Dought it back from the church ; for it still belongs 
to C^ Faliero. 1 must not refrain from noting, that 
Bome wished to write the following words in the 
place where his poitrait ought to have been, as 
aforesaid: — *^ Marinus Faletro Dux, temeritas me 
iepit, nomas lui, decapitatus pro cnmiuihiis." Others, 
also, indited a couplet, worthy of being inacribea 
ipon his tomb. 

" l>uz Venatuni )iM( hale, paUlun qui prodare inuliuu, 
lonMk. <iMi», oawum, pnriUiU, K«|ua caput." 



1 1 am obliged for this excellen. minglation of tho old chn kie k) Mr. J 
Cohen, to whom the roador will fine! liinuicir ir.dcbted for & venion th»* 
Could no: niysell' (though aftei inaiiv yeare' intercounie willi Italian,) ba\< 
ifiven by any means so purely iiid so Ctithfully.] 



III. 



"Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succede*ti 
un vecchio, il quale tardi si pose al tiiwone della re- 
pubblica, ma sempre prima di (juel, che facea d i:opo 
a lui, ed alia patria : egli ; Marino Faliero pirscn- 
naggio a me noto per antica diinestiche'/za. Falsa 
era I'opinione intorno a lui, giacchc egli si mostr6 
fornito piii di coraggio che di senno. Non pago 
della prima dignit i, entr;> con sinistro piede nel 
pubblico Palazzo : imperciocche questo Doge dci 
Veneti, magistrato sacro in tutti i secoli, che dagU 
antichi fu sempre venerato qual nume in quella citta 
r altr' jcri fu decoUato nel vcstibolo dell' istesso 
Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal principio le cause di 
un tale evento, se cosi vario, ed ambiguo non ne 
fosse il grido. Nessuno pero lo scusa, tutti alfer- 
mano, che egli abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa 
Tieir ordine della repubblica a lui tramandato dai 
maggiori. Che desiderava egli di piii ? lo son 
d'avviso, che egli abbia ottenuto cii^, che non si con- 
cedette a nessun altro : inentre adempiva gli ufiicj 
di legato presso ii pontefice, e sulle rive del llodano 
travata la pace, che io prima di lui avevo indaruo 
tentato di conchiudere, gli fu conferito 1' onore del 
Ducato, che nc chideva, ne s' aspcttava. Tomato 
in patria, penst) a quello, cui nessuno non pose 
mente giammai, e soffri quello che a niuno accade 
mai de soffrire : giacchc in quel luogo celebcrrimo, 
e chiarissimo, e bellissimo infra tutti quelli, che io 
vidi, ove i suoi antenati avevano riccvuti grandis 
simi onori in mezzo alle pompe trionfali, ivi egli fu 
trasc'uato in modo servile, e spogliato delle insegne 
ducali, perdette la testa, e macchi5 col proprio san- 
gue le soglie del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le 
scale mariiioree rendute spesse volte illustri o dalle 
solenni festivita o dalle ostili spoglie. Ho notato il 
luogo, ora noto il tempo : «' 1' anno del Natale d) 
Cristo 13'>5, fu il giorno 18 d'Aprile. Si alto e ii 

•ido sparse, che se alcuno esaminer'i la disciplina. 

le costumanze di quella citta, e quanto mutamento 
di cose venga minacciato dalla morte di un sol uomo 
((luantunque molti altri, come narrano, essnido 
complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o lo aspet- 
tano) si accorgera, che nulla di pin grande avvenne 
li nostri tempi nell Italia. Tu forse qui attcndi il 
mio giudizio; assolvo il popoh), se credere alia fama, 
benche abbia notuto e castigare uin mitamente, e 
con maggior dolcezza vendicare if «uo dolore : ma 
non cosl facilmente, si modera un' ira giusta in- 
sieme, e grande in un nuineroso popolo principal- 
mente, nel (juale il precipitoso, ed instubile volgo 
iguzza gli stiinoli dell' iracondia con rapiili, e scon 
sigliati elamori. Compatisco, e nell' istesso tempo 
mi adiro con quell' infelico uomo, il (jual(> adorno dl 
un' insolito onofe, non so che cosa si volesse negli 
estreini anni della sua vita : lu ealamit.t di lui divi- 
ene sempre piu grave, perchi' dalla sontenza contra 
di csso promulgata aneriri^, che egli fu non solo 
misero, ma insano, e aeinento, c che eon vane iirti 
si usurp6 per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli succedenmno, rhe 
questo «^ un esempio posto innanzi ai loro occai, 
quale specehio nel quale veggano di cssere non Sig 
nori, ma Duci, anzi nemmeno Duei nui onorali ser^l 
della Repubblica. Tu sta saim : e giaoche tluttuano 
le publicche cose, sforziamoci di governar inodestii 
simamento i privati nostri ati'ari." — Lkvati Viaggt 
di Petrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

The above Italian translation from the Latin opi*> 
ties of Petrarch, proves — 
lutly, That Marino Faliero was a personal fticiU 



313 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



r>f Petrirch's : " antica dimestichezza," old inti- 
macy, is the phrase of the poet. 

2dly, That Petrarch thought that he had more 
courage than conduct, " piu di coraggio che di 
uenno." 

Sfdly, That there was some jealousy on the part 
of Petrarch ; for he says that Marino Falierd was 
treating of the peace which he himself had '* vainly 
ittempted to conclude." 

4thly, That the honor of the dukedom was con- 
ferred \ipon him, which he neither sought nor 
expected, "che ne chiedeva n< s' aspettava," and 
which hai never been granted to any other in like 
circumstanoes, " c\b che non si concedctt-' a nessun 
Rltro ; " "proof of the high esteem in which he 
3lust have been held." 

Gthly, That he had a reputation for tvisdom, 07ily 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, " si surp^ 
per tanti anni una falsa fania di sapionza." — "He 
bckd usurped for so many years a false fame of wis- 
dom ; " rather a difficult task, I should think. 
Pnople are generally found out before eighty years 
of age, at least in a republic. 

From these, and the other historical notes which 
I have collected, it may be inferred that Marino Fa- 
liero possessed many of the qualities, but not the 
success of a hero ; and (,hat his passions were too 
violent. The paltry and ignorant account of Dr. 
Moore falls to the gi'ound. Petrarch says, "that there 
had beeiKuo greater event in his times," {our times 
literally,) " nostri tempi," in Italy. He also differs 
from the historian in saying that Faliero was "on 
the banks of the Rhone,'" instead of at Rome, when 
elected; the other accounts say, that the deputaticm 
of the Venetian senate met him at Ravenna. How 
this may have been, it is not for me to decide, and 
is of no great importance. Had the man succeeded, 
he would have changed the face of Venice, and 
perhaps of Italy. As it is, what are they both ? 



IV. 



Bxtrait de Vovvrage. — Histoire de la Republique de 
Ve?iise, par P. Daru, de I'Acad^-mie Francaise, 
tom. V. liv. XXXV. p. 95, &c. Edition de Paris, 
MDCCCXIX. 

" A CES attaques si frequentes que le gouverne- 
ment dirigeait contre le clerge a ces luttes ctablies 
entre les ditf rens corps constituces, a ces entre- 
prises de la masse de la noblesse contre les d posi- 
taries du pouvoir, i\ toutes ces propositions d'inno- 
vation qui se terminaient toujours par des coups 
d'< tat ; il faut ajouter une autre caus:-, non moins 
propre a propager le m^pris des anciennes doctrines, 
c^etait Vexes de la corruption. 

" Cette libcrtf de moeurs, qu'on aVait long-temps 
vantf-e comme le charme prir cipal de la socicte de 
Venise, ttait devenue un d'sordre scandaleux ; le 
lieu du mariage etait raoirts sacre dans ce pays ca- 
tholique que dans ceux on les lois civiles et religi- 
e\%es permettcnt de le dissoudre. Faute de pouvoir 
rcmprfl le contrat, on supposait qu'il n'avait jamais 
exist", et les moyens de nullit", allf gu!\s avec impu- 
deur par les < poux, ctaient admis avec la mene fa- 
cilite pir des magistrats et par des pretres egale- 
mcnt corrompus. Ces divorces color(>s d'un autre 
nora devinrent si fp-quents, que I'acte le plus im- 
portant de la societe civile se trouva de la compe- 
tence d'un tribunal d'exception, et que ce fut a la 
police de r primer le scandale. Le conseil des dix 
ordonna,. en 1782, que toute femme qui intenterait 
une deinande en disssolution de mariage serait obli- 
K<'e d'en attendre le jugement dans un convent que 
le tribunal designerait.* Bientot apres il evoqua 



• CorTe«pon((uoe de M. Schllel ■i\axf(6 d'affalw* de France, depeehe du 



devant lui toutes les causes de cette nature.* Cei 

Bet eimpi'^tement sur la jurisdiction ecclesiastiquc 
ayant occasione des reclamations de la part de la 
cour de Rome le conseil se r< serva le droit de dcbou 
ter les epoux de leur demande ; et consentit a k 
renvoyer devant Tofficialite, toutes les foies qu'il n€ 
I'aurait pas rejet* e.f 

" II V eut un moment ou sans doute le renverse- 
ment des fortunes, la perte des jeunes gens, les dis- 
cordes domestiques, d' terminerent le gouvernement 
a s'ccarter des maximes qu'il s'etait faites sur la 
libertp de mreurs qu'il permettait a ses sujets : on 
chassa de Venise toutes les courtisanes. Mais leiii 
absence ne suffisait pas pour ramener aux bonnes 
m(j?urs toute une population elevee dans la plus 
honteuse licence. Le desordre p^netra dans I'iuto- 
rieus dec families, dans les cloitres ; et Ton se crut 
oblige de rappeler, d'indemniser memej des femmes 
qui surprenaient quelquefois d'importants secrets, 
et qu'on pouvait employer utilement a ruiner dea 
hommes que leur fortune aurait pu rendre dangereux. 
Depuis, la licence est toujours allee croissant, et 
Ton a vu non seulement des meres trafiquer de la 
virginitf> de leurs filles, mais la vendre par un con- 
trat, dont I'authenticite etait garantie par la signa- 
ture d'un officier public, et I'execution mise sous la 
protection des lois.§ 

' ' r^es parloirs des couvents ou <^taint renfermeea 
les filles nobles, les maisons des courtisanes, quoi- 
que la police y entretint soigneusement 'un grand 
nombre de surveillans, etaint les seuls points de re- 
union de la socif te de Venise, et dans ces deux 
endroits si divers on etait egalement libre. La mu- 
sique, les collations, la galanterie, n'etaicnt pai 
plus interdites dans les parloirs que dans les casins. 
II y avait un grand nombre de casins destines aus 
reunions publiques, ou le jeu etait la principale oc- 
cupation de la socit'te. C'etait un singulier specta- 
cle de voir autoir d'une table des personnes des 
deux sexes en masque, et de graves personnages en 
robe de magistrature, implorant le hasard, passant 
des angoisses du desespoir aux illusions de I'espe- 
rance, et cela sans proft^rer une parole. 

" Les riches avaient des casins parti cullers ; mais 
ils y vivaient avec mystere ; leurs femmes d( laissea 
trouvaient un dedommagement dans laliberte dont 
elles jouissaient ; la corruption des mojurs Itss avait 
priv es de tout leur empire: on vient de parcourir 
toute I'histoire de Venise, et on ne les s\ pas vups 
une seule fois exercer la moindre influence ." 



Extract from the History of the Bepiihlie of Venice 
by P. Daru, Member of the French Academy, vol. 
V. t). XXXV. p. 95, &c. Paris E^t. 1819. 

" To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the 
government against the clergy, — to the continual 
struggles between the different constituted bodies, 
— to these enterprises carried on by the mass of the 
nobles against the depositaries of power, — to all 
those projects of innovation, which always ended 
by a stroke of state policy ; we must add a cause 
not less fitted to spread contempt for ancient doc- 
trines ; fJiis was the excess of corruption. 

" That freedom of manners which had been long 
boasted of as the principal charm of Venetian soci- 
ety, had degenerated into scandalous licentiousness : 



* Ibid. D^peche du 31 AoQl. 

t Ibid. Depeehe du 3 Septembre, 1785. 

X Le decret de rappel les desijnait sous le nom de nottr* 
nuretrid. On leur assigna un fonds et des maisons appeUes Co** ) 
d'oii vieiit la denomination injurieuse de Carampane. 

$ Mayer, Description de Venise, tom. ii. el M. Archenhoitz, TMtan 11 
Vllatis, lorn. i. chap. 3. 



APPENDIX TO MART.S-O FALIERO. 



3iy 



the tie oi Tnamag«- was less sacred in that Catholic 
eountry, than amcng those nations where the laws 
and religion admit of its being dissolved. Because 
they could not break the contract, they feigned that 
it had not existed ; and the ground of nullity, im- 
modestly alleged by the married pair, was admitted 
with equal facility by priests and magistrates, alike 
corrupt. These divorces, veiled under another 
name, became so frequent, that the hiost important 
act of civil society was discovered to be amenable 
to a tribunal of exceptions; and to restrain the 
open scandal of such proceedings became the office 
of the police. In 1782 the Council of Ten decreed, 
that arery woman who should sue for a dissolution 
of her maiTiage should be compelled to await the 
decision' of tne judges in some convent, to be 
named by the court.* Soor. afterwards the same 
council summor-ied all causes of that nature before 
itself. t This infringement on ecclesiastical jurisdic- 
tion having occasioned some remonstrance from 
Rome, the council retained only the right of reject- 
vyg the petition of the married persons, and con-! 
Ben ted to refer such causes to the holy office as it 
should not previously have rejected. J 

" There was a momeut in which, doubtless, the 
destruction of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, 
the domestic discord occasioned by these abuses, 
determined the governmont to depart from its 
established maxims concern mff the freedom of man- 
ners allowed the subject. Ail the courtesans were 
banished from Venice; but their absence was not 
pnough to reclaim and bring back good morals to a 
(vhole people brought up in the most scandalous 
licentiousness.^ Depravity reached the very bosoms 
■of private families, and even into the cloister; and 
they found themselves obliged to recall, and even I 
to indemnify^ women wno sometimes gained pos- 
session of important secrets, and who might be| 
usefully employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes j 
might have rendered them dangerous. Since that I 
time licentiousness has gone on increising, and we; 
ha%'e seen mothers, not only selling the innocence 
of their daughters, but selling it by a contract, • 
R".*h«>'it'.o;'.ted by the signature of a public officer, I 
and the performance of which was secured by the j 
protection of the laws.]! | 

"The parlors of the convents of noble ladies, and 
the houses of the courtesans, though the police 
carefully kept up a number of spies about them, 
were the only assemblies for society in Venice ; and 
in these two places, so ditferent from each other, 
there was equal freedom. Music, collations, gal- 
lantry, were not more forbidden in the parlors than 
at the casinos. There were a number of casinos for 
the purpose of public assemblies, where gaming 
was the principal piirsuit of the company. It was 
A vtrange sight to see persons of either sex Tiasked, 
or grave personages in their magisterial robes, 
round a tal)le, invoking chance, and giving way at 
one instant to the agonies of despair, at the next 
to the illusions of hope, and that without uttering 
a siTU'le word. 

'•The rirli had private casinos, but they lived 
incgnito ii. them ; and the wives whom tliey 
ibandcncd found compensation in the liberty they 
^::jojed The corruption of morals had deprived 
them of their empire. We have just reviewed the 
whole history of Venice, and we have not once 
^ten them exercise the slightest infinencc." 

From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under th( b irbarians, there are some honorable 
Individual exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the 



last, and alas ! posthumous son of the marriagp ot 
the Doges with the Adriatic, who fought his friijatP 
with far greater gallantry than any of his French 
coadjutors in the memorable action off Lissa. I 
came home in the squadron with the prizes in 1811, 
and recollect to have heard Sir William Iloste, and 
the other officers engaged in that glorious conflict, 
speak in the highest terms of Pasqualigo's behavior. 
There is the Abbate ]Morelli. There is Alvise 
Querini, who, after a long and honorable diplomatic 
career, finds some consolation for the wTongs cf his 
country, in the pursuits cif literature, witl. his 
nephew, Vittar Benzon, th*- son of the celebrrned 
beauty, the heroine of "La Biandina in Gond- lf;t- 
ta." There are the patrician poet Morosini .iriJ 
the poet Lamberti, the author of the " Biondiiia,' 
&c., and many other estimable productions ; and 
not least in an Englishman's estimation, MaJ^mc 
Michelli, the translator of Shakspeare. There are 
the young Dandolo, and the iinprovisatore Ca. rer, 
and Giuseppe Albriw.i, the accomplished son of 
an accomplished mother. There is Aglietti, and, 
were there nothing else, there is the immortality 
of Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxithi, Bucati, ^-c, 
&c., I do not reckon, because the one is a GrccK, 
and the others were born at least a. hundred miles 
off, which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not 
z. foreigner at least a stranger, fforestiere.) 



• CoTrenpondencn of Mr. Sshlick, French charg<S d'nffiklre*. Dfipateh ol 
atth Kupxtu 178-2. 

t Ihld. I>^(piilch, 31it Au)Out. 

j lUd. Dr.p«lch, 3d Spplemiwr, 17ft? 

( The decree for lh>-lr r.>oill dnlcr v^f* th«»m ni nor 
VV». A fund nnd w)n>r hoiin'* cullcl out rampant wcrr M«lj:n«-d to them 
iWDOe Oil* opiiru'iruiu fipprlhitlon of drampnnt. 

Majit /i«» rirfcOfi ■)/ *''-ifi», Tol. U. nnd M. ArcheoholU, PUImt ^f 



VI. 



Extraif de Vouvrage — TTistoire Ktt^aire (Vltnlxe^ 
par P. L. Gingnni'^, torn. ix. chap, xxxvi, p. 144, 
Edition de Paris. MDCCCXIX. 

" II y une prf-diction fort singuliere ?ur Venise 
' Si tu ne changes pas,' dit elle a cctte r^ublique 
alticre, *ta libert-", qui d^ja s'enfuit, ne compters 
pas un sitcle apr*'s la milli'me ann»"e.' 

" En faisant remonter I'.'poque de la liberty 
Venitienne jusqu'a I't'tablissemcnt du gouverne 
ment sous lequel la repuuiique a fleuri, on trouvera 
que r lection du premier Doge date de 697, et si 
Von y ajoute un siecle apr^s mille, c'est-ri-dire onze 
cents ans, on trouvera encore que le sens de la 
pr'diction est litteralement celui-ci: 'Ta liberie ne 
comptera pas jusqu'a I'an 1797. Rap]H'lez-vou3 
inaintenant que Venise a cesse d'etre lihre en I'an 
cinq dt' la Republique trancaise, oti en 1799; vou9 
verrez q a'il n'y eut jamais de prediction plus precise 
ct plus ponctuellement suivie de I'effet. V(ms note- 
rez done comme tr< s remarquablcs ces trois vers de 
I'Alamani, adressrs a Venise, que personne pourtant 
n'a remarquos : 

'Si; lion cnrifri pennler, I'un iipcoI solo 
Noil conteri xipra '1 niillfiinio riiiio 
Tua ilberU, clic tr fngircndo a volo.' 

Bien des prophctie? ont passe pour te'.les, et b'cn 
des gens ont ete appelcs proph<tos a mtilleiti 
marc he." 



Vll. 



Extract from the Liferarg TTistnn/ of Ttnly, by P 
L. GingU'ii'', vol. ix. p. 144. Paris Edit. 181'J 

"TuKHK is one very singuLir nrophery concern 
ing Venice: * If thou dost not cnanije,' it says to 
that proud republic, 'thy liberty, which is uln ndj 
on the wing, will not reckon a century more than 
the thousandth vear.' 

" If we carry hack the epocha of Venetian Irre- 
dom to the establishment of the governnuMit ui.de" 
which the republic flourishes, we shall find that tho 
date of the election of the first Doge is 697 ; and U 
we add one centurv to a thousand, that is. elcver 
hiuidrrtd year*, we 'ghaU find the 8cn»e t' the pie 



320 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



diction to be literally this: *Tny liberty will not 
last till 1797.' RacoUect that Venice ceased to be 
free in the year 1796, the fifth year of the French 
republic ; and yon will peceive that there never was 
prediction more pointed, or more exactly followed 
by the event. You will, therefore, note as very 
remarliable the three lines of Alamanni, addressed 
to \ enice, which, however, no one has pointed out : 

' Se noil cangi pensier, I'un secol solo 
Non contera sopra, '1 millesimo anno 
Tu? liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 

Many prophecies have passed for such, and many 
mon have been called prophets for much less." 



li the Doge's pri^phecy seem remarkable, 
ilai iwmi two hundred and seventy years a^o. 



to the above, made by 



The author of " Sketches Descriptive of Italy," 
&c., one of the hundred tours lately published, is 
extremely anxious to disclaim a possible charge of 
plagiarism from " Childe Haroki " and " Beppo." 
He a^Hs, that still less could this presumed coinci- 
dence ai'ise from "my conversation," as he had 
repeat dly declined an introduction to me while in 
Italy. 

Who this person may be, I know not ; but he 
must have been deceived by all or any of those who 
*' repeatedly offered to introduce " him, as I have 
invariably refused to receive any English with whom 
I was not previously acquainted, even when they 
bad letters from England. If the whole assertion 
is not an invention, I request this person not to sit 
down with the notion that he could have been 
lutro<iuced, since there has been nothing I have so 



carefully avoided as any kind of intercoutse wilh 

his countrymen, — excepting the very few who were 
a considerable time resident in Venice, or had been 
of my previous acquaintance. Whoever made him 
any such offer was possessed of impudence equal to 
that of making such an assertion without having 
had it. The fact is, that I hold in utter abhorrence 
any -contact with the travelling English, as my 
friend the Consul-General Hoppner, and the Coun- 
tess Benzoni, (in whose house the Conversazione 
mostly frequented by them is held,) could amply 
testify, were it worth while. I was persecuted by 
these tourists even to my riding-ground at Lido, 
and reduced to the most disagreeable circuits to 
avoid them. At Madame Benzoni's I repeatedly 
refused to be introduced to them ; — of a thousand 
such presentations pressed upon me, I accepted 
two, and both were to Irish women. 

I should hardly have descended to speak of such 
trifles publicly, if the impudence of this " sketcher" 
had not forced me to a refutation of a disingenuous 
and gratuitously impertinent assertion ; — so meant 
to be, for what could it import to the reader to be 
told that the author "had repeatedly declined an 
introduction," even had it been true, which, for the 
reasons I have above given, is scarcely possible 
Except Lords Lansdowne," Jersey, and Lauderdale; 
Messrs Scott, Hammond, Sir Humphrey Davy, the 
late M. Lewis, W. Bankes, Mr. Hoppner, Thomas 
Moore, Lord Kinnaird, his brother, Mr. Joy, and 
Mr. Hobhouse, I do not recollect to have exchanged 
a word with another Englishman since- I left theii 
country ; and almost all these I had known before. 
The others — and God knows there were some hun- 
dreds — who bored me with letters or ^^its, I refused 
to have any communication with, and shall be proud 
and happy when that wish becomes mutual 



THE TWO FOSCAllI: 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY 



The ftJiKtr Mfteni, but the govrtior't reaolved. 

CRITIC. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men —Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarioo, a Senator. 
Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, At- 
tendants, s^., 4fc. 

Voman. — ^Mariki, Wife of young Foscari. 

Scene- -the Ducal Palace, Venice. 



ACT 1. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarioo, meeHn{f 

Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 

Bar. Reposing from 

The Question. 

Lor. The hour's past — ^fix'd yesterday 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Bejoin our colleagues in the council, and 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



32] 



Vrg<6 ais recall. 

Bar. Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrou<?ht by the Question yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 
Lor. Well ! 

Bar. I yield not to you in love of justice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
but the poor wi-etch has sufFer'd beyond nature's 
Most stocial endurance. 
■ Lor. Without owning 

His crime ? 

Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

Lor. We shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extirmination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say this. — Let's in to council , 

Bar. Yet pause — the number of our colleagues is 
not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge ? 

Bar. No — ^he 

With more than Roman fortitude, is ever 
First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

Lor. True — true — 

His last. 

Bar. Will nothing move you ? 

Lor. Feels he, think you ? 

Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I have mark'd that — the wretch ! 

Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
The old man fainted. 

Lor. It begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 

Lor. And should be all mine^ 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they 
died 
By poison. 

Lor. When the Doge declared that he 
Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken^ shortly ;— he is sovereign. 

Bar. A wre'ched one. 

Lor. Wliat should they be who make 

Orphans ? 

Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 

Lor. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs ? 

Lor. When princes set themselveB 

lo work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

Bar. But you will move by law ? 

Lor By all the Uw« 

<Vhich he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such In thii 

Out state as render retribution easier 
TLau mongst remoter nations. It is tra« 



That you have written in your books of commerce, 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles,^ 
" Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Mai CO and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle ? " 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And will you leave unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced- 

Bar. And how ? 

[ Two Senators pass over the stage, as in thetl 
way to " the Hall of the Couivcil of Ten.*' 

Lor. You see the number is complete 

Follow me. [£x2Y Lcredano 

Bar. (solus.) Follow thee ! I have follow 'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they vt 
Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee ? 

Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner, bf9. 

Guard. Let him rest. 

Signer, take time. 

Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I'm feebl* j 

But thou may'st stand reproved. 

Guard. I'll stand the hazardi 

Jac. Fos. That's kind : — I meet some pity, but nc 
mercy : 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might be the last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar. (advancing to the Chiard.) There is one wb» 
does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser ; though the hour is past. 
Wait their last summons — I am of " the Tel. ' 
And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds, 
We'll in toecether. — Look well to the prisoner ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that ? — 'Tis Barbarigo's 
Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be. 
Thy father sits among thy judges. 

Jac. Fos. True 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

Jac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'crlooks the wat»r«. 

Enter an Officer who trhiapera Barbarioo. 
Bar. (to the Guard. ) Let him approach. I mam 
not speak with him 
Further than thus ; I have transi^ress'd ray duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [Exit IIarba&igo 

[Guard cotuiuctitt^ JaOopo FoacARi to the tn'tirfow 
Guard. There, lir. 'tia 



822 



BlUCN'S WORKS. 



Open — How feel you ? 

Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh fenice ! 

Gttard. And your limbs ? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skinmi'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength • 
While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as pati-ician, cheer'd us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast m.ore daring, 
The Avave all roughen'd ; -nath a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip the ^udacious brine, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft. 
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As show'd that I had search'd the deep : exulting. 
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then. 

Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. (looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, 
my own, 
My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy breeze, 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
The very winds feel native to my veins. 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

Gv.ard. I see the color comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to 

bear 
What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on't. 

Jacs Fos. They will not banish me again ? — No — 
no. 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Gvard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confess'd 

Once — twice before: both times they exiled me. 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. ' 

Jac. Fos. Let them do so, 

^0 I be buried in my birthplace: better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
hates you ? 

Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the 
soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
k dungeon, what they will, so it be here 

Enter an Officer 
O^ Bring in the prisoner ! 



Guard. Signor, you hear the orde* 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a suinmons : 'tin 
The third time they have tortur'd me — then lend mfl 
Thine arm. [To the Guar'' 

Offi. Take mine, sir ; 'tis my duty to 
Be nearest to youi- person. 

Jac Fos. You ! — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I'll walk alone. 

Offi. As you please, signor: 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 
They 

Joe. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrfj 
engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching. 
And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if — 
But onward — I have borne it— I can hear it. — 
How looks my father ? 

Offi. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, tho blue ol 
ocean. 
The brightness of our city, and her domes. 
The mirth of her Piazzi, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknvnvn and the unnumber'd 
Judged and destroy'd in silence, — all things wear 
The self-same aspect, to my very sire I 
Nothing can sympathize with Foscari, 
Not even a Foscari,— ^ir I attend you. 

[Exeunt JxcoPQ Foscari, Officer^ i^c 

Enter Memmo and another Senator. 

Mem. He's gone — we are too late : — think yoii 
" the Ten " 
Will sit for any length of time to- day ? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate. 
Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 
Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the pec pie. 

Sen. Save the wonted rumors. 

Which (like the lales of spectres that are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings) never have been pioved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathom'd mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it 

Sen. 'Tis the first station of the state, r.nd may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain'd by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I'd rather be an unit 
Of an united and imp'erial " Ten," 
Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cypher.— 
Whom ha^e we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



323 



Enter Marina, loith a female Attendant. 

Ifar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are 
two ; 
But they are senators. 

Afem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I command ! — Alas ' my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

Mem. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

Mar. (fiercely.) True — none dare answer here save 

on the rack, 
Question, save those 

Mem. (interrupting her.) High-bom dame! be- 
think thee 

nere thou now art 

Mar- Where I now am ! — It was 

husband's father's palace. 

Mem. TJie Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ; — true, I have not for- 
got it ; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, Avould thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

Mem. Be calm ! 

Mar. (looking, up towards heaven.) I am ; but 
oh, thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world ? 

Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is. 

In heaven. I pray you, signer senator. 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office. 
So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
A^i hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit ; 
Will lie condemn him f 

Mem. I trust not. 

Mar. But if 

tie does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Mem. They can. 

Mar. And \vith them power and will are one 

in wickedness : — my husband's lost ! 

Mem. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

Mar. If it were so. 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
^ive on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's " is quicker, 
A.nd we must wait on't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry toithin. 

Sen. Hark; 

Mem. 'Twas a cry of — ' 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 

Mem. The voice was — 

Mar. Not his : no. 

He shriek ! No ; that should bo his father's part, 
Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 

[Afaiyit groan again toithin. 

Mem. What ! 

Again ? 

Mar. His •^oice ! it scem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
\ fearful pang, which wrung a gro.^n from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, 
wouldst thou 
Have him loar more than mortal pain, in silence ? 

Mar. "\^ « all must bear our tortures. I have not 



Left barren the great house of Foscari, 

Though they sweep both the Doge and son firom 

life ; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs ; * 
And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd 
But did not, for riiy hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 

Me?n. All's silent now. 

Mar. Perhaps all's over i b«t 

I will not deem it : he hath nerved Liraself, 
And now defies them. . 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

Mem,. ' How now, friend, what seek yoa 1 

Ofi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

[Exit Office^ 

Mem. Lady, 

'Twere better to retire. 

Sen. (offering to assist her.) I pray thee do so. 

Mar. Off! / will tend him. 

Mem. You ! Remember, lady . 

Ingress is giveri to none within those chambers, 
Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter 'd — many never ; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem. Alas ! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse, 
And worse suspense. • 

Mar. \Vho shall oppose me ? 

Mem. The; 

Whose duty 'tis to do so. 

Mar. 'Tis their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet I'll pass. 

Mem. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hoett 
With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way 
This is the Doge's palace; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem. It \\\\\ only serre 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. What 

Are Judges who give way to anger ? they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Erii Mauka 

Sen. Poor lady ! 

Mem. 'Tis mere desperntion ; she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 
[The Officer passes over the stage trifh another peraom 

Mem. I hardly 

Thought that "the Ten" hnd even this touch of pity 
Or woul permit assistance to the suflorer. 

Sen. 1 ty ! Is't pity to recall to feeling 
The wre h too happy to escape to death 
By the a 'npassionate trance, ])Oor nnture> loil 
Kesource >gainst the tyranny of pain ? 



324 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

8en. That's not their policy ; they'd have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
Because all earth, except his native land, 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. 

Meyn. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

8en. None, save the letter, which he says was 
written 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
And thus he should be reconveyed to Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country ; 

, And that was all he sought, so he avouches. 
! Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

.Sew. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of " the Ten." 

Mem. Then why not clear him ? 

Sen. . That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donato, as I said. 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 

Mem, There must be more in this strange process 
than • 

The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of " the Ten ; " let us retire. 

, [Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 

Eft, '>^ LoREDANo and Bakbarigo. 

Bar. (addressing Lor.) That were too much . 
believe me, 'twas not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

Lor. And so the Council must break up, and 
Justice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

Thft's not the cause; you saw the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd ? 

Bar. To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor.^ 'Twas not tried. 

Bar. 'Tis vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir. 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 

Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
Makes me wish 

Lor. What ? 

Bar. That yow would sometimes feel, 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, yau're a child. 
Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman ■y 
Be partner in my policy ! 

Bar. He shed 

*fo tears 

Lor. He crie<: out twice. 

B.ir. A saio Had done so, 



Even with the crown of glory in his ej j. 

At such inhuman artifice of pain 

As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 

For pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him, 

And those two shrieks were not in supplication, 

But wrung from pangs, and follow'd by no prayert 

Lor. He mutter'd many times between his tectU, 
But inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not, 

You stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar. Methought, 

To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy* 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say, 
With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 

Lor. Wouldst thou hav€ 

His state descend to his children, as it taust. 
If he die unattainted ? 

Bar. Wax with them too ? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine an 
nothing. 

Bar. And the deep agony of his pale vdfe, 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not.? 

[Exit LoREDANO 
He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved mf 
More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
Could have affected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 
When his distracted wife broke through into 
The hall of our tribunal, and -beheld 
What we could scarcely look upon, long used 
To such sights. I must think no more of this 
Lest I forget in this compassion for 
Our foes their former injuries, and lose 
The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 
For him and me ; but mine would be content 
With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 
And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 
To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 
Has a short hoiu-ly respite, granted at 
The instance of the elders of the Council, 
Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 
The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come 
How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 
To look on them again in this extremity : 
I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

[Exit Babbabicm 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Doge's Palace 

The Doge and a Senator. 
Stn. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 



NoW; or postpone it till to-morrow ? 



THE TWO FOSUARI. 



323 



Dope. Now ; 

I overlock'd it yesterday : it wants 
Mert^Y the signature. Give me the pen— 

[The Doge sits iown and signs the paper. 
There, signer. 

Sen. (looking at the paper.) You have forgot ; it is 

not sign'd. 
Doffe. Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
Thiit I had dipp'd the pen without effect. 

,'ien. (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 
paper before the Doge.) Your hand, too 
shakes, my lord : allow me, thus — 

Doge. 'Tis done, I thank you. 

Se7i. Thus the- act confirm'd 

By you and by the *' Ten," gives peace to Venice. 

Doge. 'Tis long since she enjoy 'd it : may it be 
A.S long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'Tis almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt : 

I found her queen of ocean, and I leave her 
Laiy.of Lombardy ; it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Breccia and Ravenna ; Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hc^s ; her realm 
By land has grown by thus mu ^h in my reign, 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'Tis most true, 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Doge. Perhaps so. 

Sen. Which should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have n§t complain'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For me, signor ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sew. It must have way, my lord. 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Doge. Was this 

[n your commission ? 

Sen. What, my lord ? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty's signed ; 
Return with it to them who sent you. 

Sen. I 

Obey. I hud in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this 
moment, 
If it 80 please thom 

Sen. They would 

Doge. I have no 
cause 
The loss 3f an hou s time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Whei'e I should be, and wfiat 1 have been ever. 

[Exit Semitor 
[Ths DooK remains in silence. 

Enter an . ittctidavi. 

Att. Prince 

Doge. Say on. 



I am the state's servant, 
cord some time for your repose, 
pose, that is, none which shall 



Att. The illustiious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! [Esdt Attendant 

[The 1 ooE remains in silence as hefofi^ 

Enter Marina.. 

Mar. I have ventui-ed, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband ? 

Mar. And your son. 

Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 

Mar. I had obtain'd permission from the '* Ten" 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. 'Tis revoked. 

Doge. By whom ? 

Mar. ** The Ten." — When we had reach'd *' toa 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
" The Ten ; " but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in ^vl•iting, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that high tribunal had reassembled, 
The dungeon walls would still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd, and till it raeetS; 
'Tis dubious. 

Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 

They'll torture him again ; and he and / 
Must purchase by renewal of the rack 
The interview of husband and of wife, 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God I 
Dost thou see^his ? 

Doge. Child— child 

Mar. (abruptly.) Call me not '• child ! ' 

You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Iheir boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Stretch'd forth a hand to save them .' 

Doge. You behold mn : 

I cannot weep — I would I coiild ; but if 
Each white hair on this head wore a young life, 
rhis ducal cap the diadem of earth. 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisnian to still them — I'd give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he sijrely might be ««T(»d. 

Doije. That answer only shows you know DO 
Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself, 
In all her mystery. Hear mo — tlicy who aim 
At Foscari. \\\\\\ no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the hon , 
They work by dillerent means to the same end» 
And that is but tl.cy have lot conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they ha>e crush'u. 

Doge. Nor orush'd \\% yet — I Ut^ 



326 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mar. A.nd yo\ir son, — how long will he live ? 

Do(,e. I trust, 

For aL that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy 
With womanish impatience to return. 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter : 
A. high crime which I neither can deny 
Nor p-xlliate, as parent or as Duke : 
Kad he but borne a little, little longer 

His Can iiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them — 
He must return. 

Mar. To exile ? 

Doge. I have said it. 

Mar. And can I not go with him ? 

Doye You well know, 

1 ais prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled ** Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request, 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of yom- lord renders them still more austere. 

Mar. Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fiends, 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they couucil. 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
Ln their accursed bosoms. 

Doge. You know not- 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
That these are demons : could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have 

given 
Their hands in sacred vo\vs — ^have danced their babes 
Upon their knees, perhaps have muurn'd*above them 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
Or were at least in seeming human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
You, who abet them ? 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. • 

Mar. You know it well. 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much, 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not ; 
And after that what are a woman's words ? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thinC; I tell 
thee, 
l-i no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity tby son ! Thou pity ! — 'tis a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
wrong me. 
Goulds t thou but read 

Majr. 'Tis not upon thy brow, 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
should I behold this sympathy ! or shall ? 

Dnge, (pointing downwards, J There ! 

Mar. ^ In the earth ? 

Doge. To which I am tending : when 



It lies upon this neart, fal lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts whicl 

it 
Now, you •will know me better. 

Mar. Are, you then, 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

Doge. Pitied ! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name : that name shall be, 
As far as I have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. * 

Mar. But for the poor childr'jn 

Of him thou canst not, or thou ■wilt not save, 
You were the last to bear it. 

Doge. Would it were so. 

Better for him he never had been born, 
Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonor 'd. 

Mar. That's false ! a truer, nobler, trustier hearty 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'dt 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonor'd ! — he dishonor'd ! 
I tell thee. Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonor'd ; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile. 
You'd fling yomselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. Ht, was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again r 

Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would 
hope so. 

He was my pride, my but 'tis useless now— 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : those drops were ominous 

Mar. I say he's innocent ! And were he not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments ? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those dniaei | 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused : 
They must then be fulfill'd. ' 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A essage from 

The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it ? 

Att. N le Loredano. 

Doge. He !— but^admit him. {Exit Attendant 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 
Concerns your husband, and if not — Well, signor. 
Your pleasure ! To Loredano entering 

Lor, I bear that of " the Ten " 

Doge. Tbey 

Have chosen well their envoy. 



THE TWO FOSCAKl. 



32: 



Lot. *Tis their choice 

WThich leads me here. 

Doge, It does their wisdom honor, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

hor. "We have decided. 

Doge. We ? 

Lor. " The Ten " in council 

Doge. What ! have they met again, and met 
without 
Apprising me ? 

Lor. They ^vish'd to spare your feelings, 

No lesa than age. 

Doge. That's new — when spared they either 

[ thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor. You know well 

That they have power to act at their disjcretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'Tis some years since I learn'd this, long 
before 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement. 
You need not school me, signer : I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time; I have heard 
him and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them ; they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

60 die than V re on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No aoubt ; yet most men like to live their 
days out. 

Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 

A3 I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange, 

That you repeat the word emphatically ? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there 
death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so ? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumors were abroad ; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'T18 perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so ? 

Doge. I ' -'Tis tri* 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bittei 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Oabal in commonwealth, rar secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or diug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
were I 
I'hat you would have me thought, you long ere now 
Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 

Lor. 1 never yet knew that a noble's life 
In "Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by op«»n means. 



Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke, 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they kno\» 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure. 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would nave made you nothing. But in all thing* 
I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
(I do not speak of you but as a single 
Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority, 
Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
Safety, and all save honor, the decrees. 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'Tis decreed. 

That, without further repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial. 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt u>, 
('* The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan's his,) 
James Foscari return to banishment. 
And sail in the same galley which convey'd him 

Mar. Thank God ! At least they will not drag 
him more 
Before that horrible tribunal. Would he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my 
daugliter. 

Mar. No, 'twas too human. May I share his 
exile ? 

Lor. Of this ** the Ten " said nothing. 

Mar. Solthoagai* 

That were too human, also. But it was not 
Inhibited ? 

Lor. It was not named. 

Mar. (to the Doge.) Then, father, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To LUKBDAHW 
And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavor. 

Mar. And you, signor ? 

Lor. Laat 

Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of the tribunal. 

Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 

Doge. Daughter, know you 

In what a presence you pronounce those things i 

Mar. A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor. Subject ! 

Mar. Ob 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think ; b\it that you are not, nor would bo. 
Wore he a peasant : — well, then. >ou'ie a pr"nc»f. 
A princely noble ; and what then lun 1 ? 

Lor. The otfspring of a noble house 



328 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What or whose, then is 
The presence that should silence my free thoughts ?\ 

Lor. The presence of yoiir husband's judges. 

I>oge. And 

The deference due even to the lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens. 
And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
Yoiu- spies, your galley and your other slaves, 
To whom your midnight caiTyings off and drovmings, 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level ; your mysterious meetings. 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
Your "Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, 

and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to fear from you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not ? 

Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady ! words 

Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 

Doge. Something from 

The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 

The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember mine, — Farewell ! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady, 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano. 

Mar. Are you content ? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

Mar. And that's a mystefy. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who can 
read them 
Save he who made ; or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain. 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, heahh, beauty, are her accidents. 
And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
We should remember Fortune can take nought 
Sa-se what she gave — the rest was nakedness, 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
The imiversal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want. 
And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions The people sway'd by senates 



And false, and hollow — clay from first to last. 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days. 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not ws .' — So, we are slaves. 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
And still towards death, a thing which come* a4 

much 
Without ou] act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world. 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other. 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of "Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. And Foscari ? I do not think of such thingSi 
So I be left with him. 

Doge. You shall be so : 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

Mar. And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly ? 

Mar. I know not, reck not— 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thftu have a renegade io* 
husband, 
And turn him into traitor ? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No ; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as make old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. I found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the Ahartef 
Left by our fathers. 

Mar. Did they make 't for 

The ruin of their children ? 

Doge. Under such laws, Venio« 

Ha.s risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add. 
In glory, (for we have had Roman spirits 
Among us,) all that history has bequeathed 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 



.Alool save fe>ix of famine ! 5^11 is low. 



Ma^ 



Rather sav 



THE TWO FOSCARl. 



d^^ 



uioan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so ; 

But yet subdued the world • in such a state 
A.n individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
ihe policy, irrevocably tending 
lo one great end, must be maintained in vigor. 
Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than 

father. 
Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
[ trust, have still such, Venice were no city. 
I Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
I Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

A.3 I have years, I would have given them all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism, 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
Rhe might decree. 

Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

j To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
I Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
I With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
1 So far with a weak woman as deny me 
I A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. I'll 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father ? 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? "Will you not see him 
Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 
Doqe. The last ! — my boy ! — the last time I shall 
' see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 
The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 

Jac. Fas. fsoltis.) No light, save yon faint gleam, 

which shows me walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
The sigh of long imprisonmnent, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair ! 
And yet for this I have rcturn'd to Venice, 
With some faint iVope, 'tis true, that time, which 

wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's heartK, but I knew them not, and here 
Musi I consume my own, which never beat 
For Venice but with such a yearning as 
The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
High in the air on her return to greet 
Hpt callow brood. What letters are those which 

[Ajyproaching the toall. 



Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 

Will the ^^eam let me trace them ? Ah ! the nama* 

Of my sad predecessors, in this place. 

The dates of their despair, the brief words of 

A grief too great for mary. This stone page 

Holds like an epitaph their history. 

And the poor captive's tale is graven on 

His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 

Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 

His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 

I recognize some names familiar to me. 

And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 

Fittest for such a chronicle as this. 

Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches. 

[He engraves his nanu 

Enter a Familiar of ** the Ten." 

Fam. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you set it down ; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd — 
The water ! 

Fam. There. 

Jac. Fos. (after drinking.) I thank you : I aa 
better, 

Fam. I am commanded to inform you 
That your further trial is postpc ned. 

Jac. Fos. Till when ? 

Fam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! they relent, then — I had ceased tc 
hope it : 
'Twas time. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My best beloved ! 

Jac. Fos. (e^nbracing her.) My tnie wife, 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. We'll part 

No more. 

Jac. Fos. How ! wouldst thou share a dungeon ? 

Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — anything, with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to h&\€*5urvivcd the first. 
How dost thou ? H(.w are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 
Why do I ask ? Th} paleness 

Jac. Fos. 'Tis the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
JBack to my heart, and left my checks like thine. 
For thou art pale, too, my Marina. 

Mar. 'Tis 

The gloom of this eternal coll, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torch, which seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke, 
Which cloud whate'or we gaze on, even tlune eyeu— • 
No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how thoy sparkle ! 

Jac. Fos. And thine ! — but I am blinded by the 
torch. 

Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou 
see here ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; bni use and tima bac* 
taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
And the gray twilight of nuch glimmerings M 
Glide through the crevices made by the wind« 



330 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun, 
Wlien gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice ; but a moment ere 
Thou camest hither I was busy writing. 

Mar. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My name: look, 'tis there — ^recorded 
next 
The tame of him who here preceded me. 
If dungeon dates say true. 

Mar. And what of him ? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; 
they only 
Beem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead, 
Or those who soon must be so — What of him f 
Thou askest. — What of me ? may soon be ask'd, 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 

Mar. 1 speak of thee ! 

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then shall 
speak of me : 
The tjTanny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Mar. The mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound; but 'tis a 
sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death, , 
(If death be a deep sleep,) without a groan. 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
More woful, such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small dungeon i^ all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

Jac Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to 
endure it. 
My doom is common, many are in dungeons. 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace ; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day ; for, save the jailer's torch, 
And a strange fire-fly, which was quickly 'caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like. a ray. Alas ! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no, 
For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

Mar. 1 will be with thee. 



Jac. Fos. 



Ah ! if it were 



But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind. 
Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me, so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story, 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The hall r.o> far from hence, which bears on high 



Hundreds of doges, and their -Jeeds and datea. 

Mar. I come to tell thee th« result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

Jac. Fos. J know it — ^look ! 

[He points to his limbs, as referring to the tot 
tures ivhich he had undergone. 

Mar. No — no — no more of that : even they relen 
From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then ? 

Mar. That you 

Retiu-n to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar. 
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck. 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom, 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if reman de.d. 

Mar. And here f 

Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as briefer 
What ! would they even deny me my sire'? sepulchre 
As well as home and heritage ? 

Mar. My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence, 
^nd not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me, 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect, 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

Jac. Fos. Well I know how wretched ! 

Mar. And yet you see how from their banishment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain'd of Rome for theii- inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone foi th 

From my own land, likp the old patriarchs, seeking 
Another region, with their flocks and herds , 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards address'd 
Myself, with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. Wheiefcxe not 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — wp but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands. 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence at that parting 
Or after their departure ; of that malady * 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 

■ The calenture. 



.^ 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



331 



Can scarcely be restrained from treading them ? 

That melody,* which out of tones and tunes 

Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 

Of the sad raountainee'r, when far away 

From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 

That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 

And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength, 

I say — the parent of all honest feeling. 

He who loves not his counti-y, can love nothing. 

Mar. Obey her, then : 'tis she that puts thee forth 

Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is ; 'tis like a mother's curse 
Jpon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
■"he exiles you speak of went foi-th by nations, 
"hftir hands upheld each other by the way, 
ihtxf tents were pitch'd together — I'm alone. 

Mar. You shall be so no more — I will go with 
thee. 

Jac. Fos. My best Marina ! — and our children ? 

Mar. They, 

1 fear, by the j)revention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
VViil not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 

Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 

Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
On earth t« bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot, 
Wliich, as compared with what you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Beem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you never 
Sciw day go down upon your native spires 
Bo calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this much-loved city, 
(Since you must love it as it seems,) and this 
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not behold my 
father ? 

Mar. You will. 

Jac. Fos. Where ? 

Mar. Here or in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from '• the Ten," and upon mine, 
Accumulate! ills. 

Mar. Accumulated ! 

What f ings are those they have spared you ? 



udlnc U Um BwiM air uul ha iffaetk 



Jac. Fos. That of leading 

Venice without beholding him or you. 
Which might have been forbidden now, as twas 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is tnie. 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floating on the free wave — away — away — 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent. 
Who dar^s accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and Angels 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven, 
The gioans of slaves in chains, and men m dungeons 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and siies, and sub 

jects. 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thi/ silence. Couldst thou saj 
Aught in its favor, who would praise like thee f 

Jac Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must 
be, 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 

Enter Loredano, attended by Familiars. 

Lor. (to the Familiars.) Retire, 

But leave the torch. [^Exeunt the two FatniJiai^ 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signer 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'Tis not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady i 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce '* the Ten's " decree. * 

Mar. That tenden>'>«»« 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 

Lor. As how ? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gentij. 

Doubtless, as your nice feeflngs would jirescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues ; but he knew it 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence 
The dungeon gk)om is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you : 

What can avail such words ? 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserre 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sU . 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do weU 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari — you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 

Lor. Tru»- • 

For life. 

Jac. Fos. Not long. 

Lor. I said — for life. 

Jac. Fos. And I 

Uopt'at — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Car OF -afterwards the freedom of 



332 



JBYRO^S WORKS. 



The whole isle. 

Jaxi, Fos. Both the same to me • the after 

Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is't true my wife accompanies me ? 

Lor. Yes, 

ti she so wills it. 

Mar. Who obtain'd that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 

Mar. But oppresses 

Men : howsoever let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would havcs asked or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are ofTer'd. 

Mar. May they thrive with him 

Bo much ! — ^no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission, 

Because we have brief time for preparation. 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

Mar. Nobler ! 

Lor. How nobler ? 

Mar. As more generot\g ! 

We say the " generous steed " to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thus much I've learnt, although 
Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
Of Egypt, and her neighbor Araby : 
And why not say as soon the '■'■generous man? " 
If race be aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
Upon your genealogic trees most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would ha-s e blush'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater ! 

ffac. Fos. Again, Marina ! 

Mar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let him partake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
No less than master ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long. 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit : 
They are his weapons, not his armor, for 
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die. 
And he but li ve, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fes. This is mere insanity. 

Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made us mad? 

Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 

Mar. That's false ! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears. 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
Wiiirh you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
(n short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 



How have you sped ? We are wretched, sigaoi , ai 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could defi.r€ 

us. 
And h.ow feel you ? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted . 

They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
TOl he himself shall brood in it alone. 

Enter the Do(xE. 

Jac. Fos. My father ! 

Doge, (embracing him. J Jacopo ! my son — ^my son . 

Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long it is since 1 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

Doge. My boy! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jae. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar. Doge, look there ! 

[She points to Loredano. 

Doge. I see the man^ — ^what mean'st thou ? 

Mar. Caution! 

Lor.' Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 'tis no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor. You may know him better 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 

Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it, 
Indeed, our last of meetings ? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 

Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children — to your last child's children 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

Mar. No — ^not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any 
where. 

Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
To freeze their young blood in its natural current 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well, 
I know his fate may one day be their heritage, 
But let it only be their heritage, 
And not their present fee. Their senses, thougA 
Alive to love are yet awake to terror ; 
And these "'^e damps, too, and yon thick green warf 
Which floats above the place where we now stand- 
A cell so far below the water's level. 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them : this is not their atmosphert 
However you — and you — and, most of all. 
As worthiest — yoti, sir, noble Loredar.o 1 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



333 



May breathe H witi. out prejudice. 

Jac. Fos I had not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 

Doc/e. Not so : they shall await you in my 
chamber. 

Jac. Fos. And must I leave them all f 

Lor. You must. 

Jac. Fos. Not one ? 

Lor. They are the state's. 

Mar. I thought they had been mine. 

Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 

Mar. That is, 

in all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die. 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles — what yoti will ; or if thay are 
Females with portions, brides and bnhes for nobles ! 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

Lor. The hour, approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the 
genial wind 
Ne'er blo^vs in all its blustering freedom ? 

Lor. 'Twas so 

When T came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doge. Be firm, my son ! 

oac. Fos. I will do my endeavor. 

Mar. Farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon. 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. * 

Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 'tis 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change 

them — 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

Ja^. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell, 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls, and 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
fhey will relieve his heart — that too kind heart — 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far : 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

Lor. Ho the Familiar.) The torch, there ! 

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
<?:th Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Dog?. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of youra ? 

Lor, Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; 'twill iting you. 
• Signor, 
^tand cff ! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Woiilo raise ui from the gulf wherein we are 
plunged 



No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you , 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

^Exeunt 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarioo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. 'Tis hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rathet 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'Twill break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break. 

He has seen hi| son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So aesolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, mth 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he sh», 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. ^VTien embarks the son ? 

Lor* Forthwith — when this long leave is taken 
'Tis 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our ovm. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment. 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'Tis moderate — not even life for life, the n .c 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in the Council. 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will, 
So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Barbiirossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
To ha*e the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What, if he will not ? 

Lor. We'll elect anothei 

And make him nnlL 

Bar. But will the laws uphold oi ■ 

Lor. What laws ?— " The Ton " are laws ; and it 
they were not, 
I will be legislator in this busaieta. 



334 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Bar. At your own peril ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you 

Our powers are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor. Tfte better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unask'd ? 

Lor. It shows 

The impression of his former instances : 
If they were from his heart, he may be thankful : 
If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 
Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 
And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 
I have prepared such arguments as will not 
Fail to move them, and to remove him : since 
Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, 

do not 
You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecutioi* 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them: 'tis his throne 
Alone i» aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 

Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he 
Lived longer than enough. Hence ! In to council ! 
[ExeutU LoREDANO a7id Bakbarigo. 

Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten ! " Why so ? 

Mem. , "The Ten" 

Alone can answer ; they are rarely wont 
1.';^ lot their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are summon'd — 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon, 

If you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem. In Venice '*but" 's a traitor. 

But me no " buts" unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? " The Ten " have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one, 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honor'd by the choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

Sen. ,Most true. I say no more. 

Mem. As we hope, signor. 

And all may honestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may) one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Obosct. doleirates, a school of wisdom, to 



Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them : tiej 

No doubt, are worth it. 

Mem. Being worth our lives, 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chusen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Mem. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying " The Ten's " summons. 

Sen. All are not met- ' "'* ^ ^jjj q^ y.Q^j. thought 
So far — let's in. 

Mem. ^^xiest are most welcome 

In earn'^c* ;^oiis — we will not be least so. 

[Exeuiu 
Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I. must and wfl 
depart. 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex'A they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 'tis 20t 
For us to look beyond.^ 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ' but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
And their desponding shapes came flitting round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband ! let us on : this b it prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd : — who knows ? 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's can 
Will quickly clear the harbor. 

Jac. Fos. O ye elements ! 

Where are your storms ? 

Mar. In human breasts. AIbb 

Will nothing calm you ? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for pro8pei*M 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which" 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves, 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands which sknt 
The land I love, and never shall see more! 

Mar. And wish you this with me beside you ? 

Jac. Fos. N«^ 

No— not for thee, too good, too kind ! May'it thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



33^ 



Thy fond fidelity for >. time deprives 

Of such support ! But for myself alone, 

May all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf, 

And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 

Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me. 

As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then • 

(Hast me out from among them, as an offering 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys me 

Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 

Dsad, but still bear me to a native grave, 

From fisher's hands upon the desolate strand, 

''WTiich, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 

Ove lacerated like the heart which then 

W ill be But wherefore breaks it not ? why live I 

Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A. sufferer, but not a loud one : why 
WTiat is this to the things thou hast borne in 

silence — 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
[t must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Doge. Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Doffe. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, foi my birth, 

And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you) for the gift of life, 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. Wliat hast thou done ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory vnth. much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasten'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter ! 

Mar. Fear not : that's reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar. Hope not ? 

Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they have in- 
flicted. 

Mar. All! the consummate fiends ! A thousand 
fold 
May the worm which ne'er dieth, feed upon them ! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar. And if they do. Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Ihiter an Officer and Guard^H. 

Offi Signer ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
(• ri.sing — wo are ready to attend you. 

Jo, Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
7 )ur i.and ! 

Vjge. Take it. Alas ! how thine own tromblcs ! 

Jac. Fos. No — you mistake ; 'tis yours that 
shakes, my father. 
Farewell ! 

Do(/e. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fas No — nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, g&od signer. 

Offi. You turn pale — 

Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water ! 

Mar. Ah, he is dying ! 



Jac. Fos. Now. I'm ready— 

My eyes swim strangely — ^where's the door ? 

Mar. Away 

Let me support him— my best love ! Oh, God . 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 

Jac. Fos. The light 

Is it the light ? — I am faint. • 

[Officer presents him with tcater 

Offi. He will be better, 

Perhaps in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father — ^wife— 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There's death in that damp, clammy grasp 
Oh God !— My Foscari, how fare you ? 

Jac. Fos. Well ! 

[He dies 

Offi. He's gone ! 

Doge. He's free. 

Mar. No — no, he is not dead 

There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
Thus leave me. 

Doge. Daughter ! 

Mar. Hold thy peace, old man 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
Oh, Foscari ! 

Offi. We must remove the body. 

Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your haw 
office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder. 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honor them. 

Offi. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Doge. Inform the signory from me, the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject- 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 

[Exit Officer 

Mar. And I must live ! 

Doge. Your children li'\e, Manna. 

Mar. My children ! true — they live, aud I m'lnt 
live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died then- father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

Doge. My unhappy children ! 

Mar. What ♦ 

You feel it then at last — you ! — Where is now 
The stoic of the state ? 

Doge, (throwing himself down by the bcdy.J fferr>i 

Mar. Ay, weep on 

I thought you had no tears — you hoarded them 
Until thoy are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
Sliall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarioo 
Lor. What'n Here t 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead 
Avaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's Wishes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Oct thee back to thy phice of tonaent 

Rnr. Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
Btit pass'd hero merely on our path from cnunoU 
Mar. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. (pointing to the Doge, who it ttill im tht 
ground bv his son's body. J He's busy, k>ok 



336 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A.bout the business you provided for him. 
Ajre ye content ? 

Bar. We will not interrupt 

A. parent's sorrows. 

Ma?: No, ye only make them, 
Then leave them. 

DoffBi (rising. J Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — ^not now 

Lor. Yet 'twas important. 

Doge. If 'twas so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar. It shall not be 

J'lst now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doffe. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can ouch me more than him thou look'st on there. 
If t.iey be good, say on ; you need not /ear 
That they can cotnfort me. 

Bar. I would they could. 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so. 

Doge. What mean you ? 

3Iar Lo ! there is the blood beginning 

To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[To Loredano. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 

Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. [ Jb his Attendants.] Signers, 

if it please you. 
Within an hour I'll hear you. 

[Exetmt Doge, M akin a, and Attendants with 
the body. 

[Manent Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that nought 

Could give him trouble further. 

Bar. These are words ; 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upcn it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business ? 

Lor. The thing's decreed. The Giunta and " the 
Ten " 
Have made it law — ^who shall oppose that law ? 

Bar. Humanity. 

Lor. Because his son is dead ? 

Bir. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once past. 

Bar. I'll not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that's essential — ^leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-mcrrow for a natural accident. 



Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. 1 have — and had a fatbrr 

Bar. Still so mexorable ? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 
My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be. 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons, and he had four, are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou 9un 

He dealt in such ? 

Lor. Most sure. 

Bar. And yet he sseiQfl 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he seem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor r 

Lor. Even so : when he, 

After the very night in which " the Ten " • 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
"The good day or good night?" his Doge-ship 

answer' d, 
" That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you,"* 
'Twas untrue; the question was the deach resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died ; 
And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smileo 

on him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long mouthv? before 

hand — 

Eight months ol such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethren — 
I never smiled on them. 

Bar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city 

In early life its foe, but, in his manhood, 
Its savior first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seqpis 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to her sway. 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a 
To him who took a city : and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle : the rewards are equal. Now 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although nanow'd 
To private havoc, such as between him 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



337 



knA my deid father. 

Bay. Are you then thus fix'd ? 

Lor. "VNTiy, Avhat should change nie ? 

Bar. That which changes me : 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
[lis sons all dead, his family depress'd, 
\nd you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep ? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That's an error and you'll find it, 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

Lcr. They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and., pointing 

towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemperature ! There is no passion 
More sp' otral or fantastical than hate ; 
Not eve-?. Its opposite, love, so peoples air 
With pruntoms, as this madness of the,heart. 

Enter an Officer. 

Lot . Whf « fo you, sirrah ? 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault has been open'd of late years. 

Bar. 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed for ever. 

Offi. May I pass on ? 

Lor. You may. 

Bar. » How bears the doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi. With desperate firmness ; 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
A-ud once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — *' my son ! " 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. [Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favor. 

Lor. Right ! 

We must be speedy ; let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless, 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
[Exetmt Baubakioo and Loredano. 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

The Doge's Apartment 

The DoOE and Attendants. 
Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 
3ut add, that if another hour would better 
\ccord with your will, they will make it theirs. 
Doge. To me all hours are like. Lot them 
approach. [Exit Attendant 



An Officer. Prince ! I have done your bidding. 

Doge. What command ? 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of 

Doge. True — true— true: I crave your pardon. 1 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 



Enter the Deputation, consisting of six of iKt 
Signory, and i he Chief of the Ten. 

Noble men, your pleasure ! 

Chief of the Ten. In the first place the Coutcil 
doth condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 

Doge. No more — no more of that. 

Chief of the Ten. Will not the Dukt 

Accept tne homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 

Accept it as 'tis given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. '« The Ten," 

With a selected giunta tioni the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelmning cares 
Which at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence. 
Now to solicit from your wisdom, (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this,) 
The resignation of the ducal ring *> 

Which you have worn so long and venerably ; ^• 

And to prove that they are not ungrateful nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

Doge. Did I hear rightly ? 

Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done ? 

Chief of the Ten. I have spoken Twenty foia 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many sec )nds. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Will now retiie. 

Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 

Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Doge. When I twice before ieiteiAt«A 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me ; 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An outh from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country call'd mc here to exercise, 
According to my honor and my conscience- 
I cannot break tny oath. 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce us not 
To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten n»e ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the oountryV 
I am ready to luy down my life for h<T, 
As I have laid down dearer things tha*^ lift . 
But for my dignity — I hold it of 
The whole republic \ when the general will 



838 



BYRON'S WORKS- 



Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd. 

Chief of the Ten. "We grieve for such an answer ; 
but it cannot 
A-vail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Return to those who sent us ? 

Doge. You have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence we retire. 
[Exeunt the Deputation, S^c. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 

E?iter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

Doge. Alone ! 

A-lone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We •will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
Endeavor Oh my husband ! 

Doge. Give it way ; 

I cannot comfort thee. 

Mar. He might have lived, ' 

So form'd for gentle privacy of life. 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine, save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other 
men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition, 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the people whom he loved, 
The prince of whom he was the elder born. 
And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How ? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now 
aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh, the tvrarts ! 

In such an hour, too ! 

Doge. 'Tis the fittest time : 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar.' And 

Will you not now resent it ? — Oh for vengeance ! 
But he who, had he been enough protected. 
Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
Cannot assist his father 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, iiad he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar. They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
I have seen hini pass through such an ordeal as 
The old maxtTrs would have shrunk from : he is gone. 
And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
Have nought to give but tears ! But could I compass 



The retribution of his wrongs I — Well^ well; 
I have sons who shall be men. 

Doge. Your grief d; stracts yoil, 

Mar. I thought I j30uld have borne it, when I 8a\( 
him 
Bow'd down by such oppression : yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolong'd captivity : — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grare . 

Doge. 1 must look on him once more. 

3far. Come with me 

Doge. Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 

Mar. Come, come, old man. 

[Exeunt the Doge a7id Marina. 

Enter Barbarigo and Lqredano. 

Bar. (to an Attendant. J Where is the Doge ! 

Att. This instant retired hen06 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where ? 

Att. * To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar. Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they'll be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the Doge ? 

Lor. 'Twas his own wish that all should be done 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answei'd • 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for— what would»he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes : 

He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
My best to save his honors, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither ? 

Z<or.. 'Twas fit that some one of such different 
thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetic;^,l, 
A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
'Tis thus (although a secondary object, 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
This un desired association in 
Your Giunta's duties. 

Lor. How ! — my Giunta ! 

Bar. Tour§ I 

They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not youra 1 

Lor. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they hear 
not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh I they'll hear as much one day 

From louder tongues than mine ; they have gon* 

beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 

Bar. That remains lor nroof 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



839 



Here come ou» colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before. 
Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 
Att. He shall be iriform'd. 

{Exit Attendant. 
Bar. The Duke is with his son. 
Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 
Lor. (aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire 
upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I'll have it torn 
Prom its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
N^othing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage 

signers, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human. 

lior. See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge 

Dope. I have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. "We come once more to urge 
our past request. 

Doffe. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What ? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have hfeard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree. 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — 

To the point ! I know of old the forms of office. 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; you 
are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge, That last clause, 

[ am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was ])rejudicial to the state, the chief . 
Of the Republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to her. 
But the decree being ronder'd, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three 
days named extended, 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
A.8 sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signer, 

Nor even eight minutes — There's the ducal ring, 

[ Taking off his ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir, 

Und even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see among you 



A face I know not — briiator ! yotrr name, 
Y'ou, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ' 

Mem. Signer, 

I am the sen of Marco Memmo. 

J)oge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend — ^but sons a.n6i fathers .— 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

Att. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince- 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Pointing U 

the Ten's deputation.'] — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly ? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; 

[To the Ten- 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the ServarUM 
There is one burden which I beg you bear 
With care, although 'tis past all farther harm- 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. ^ 

Doge. Get thee ready ; we must mourn 
Elsewhere. 

Mar. And every where. 

Dugo. True ; but in freedom. 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signers, you may depart : what would you moi8 t 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ^ Its old walls ten times 
As old as I am, and I'm very old, 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and the Philistine's foes. 
Such po-<-r I do believe there might exist 
In such 1. y-xse as mine, provoked by such 
As you J but I curse not. Adieu, good signers 
May the next duke be better than the present. 

Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipioro. 

Doge. Not till I pass the threshold of these doori 

Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven ! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — the first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for liis successor ! Happier he, 
My attainted predecessor, stern Fa Hero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. ^Vhl^t f 

Do you regret a traitor ? 

Doge. No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at flie least retire 
By the j)rivate staircase, which conducts you towmiJi 
The landing-place of the canal. 

Doge. No. 1 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To HoviToignty — the Giants' Stairs, on who«« 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My service* have vtJled me up those itepe 



140 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The malice of my foes •mil drhe me down them. 

There five and thkty years ago was I 

[nstall'd, and traversed these same halls, from which 

I never thought to be divorced except 

A. corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 

But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 

But come ; my son and I will go together — 

He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 

Chiej of the Ten. What ! thus in public ? 

Doye. I was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing ? 

Mar. Here's my arm ! 

Doge. And here my staff: thus propp'd will I go 
forth. 

Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 
perceive it. 

Doge. The people ! — There's no people, you well 
know it. 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a. populace, perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 

you, 
Save with their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion, 

Else— 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will, 
j Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect. 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My brethren, will we not ? 

Different Voiaes. Ay! — Ay! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir — in my train, at least. I enter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
'P(rmp is for princes — I am none ! — That's false, 
I am., but only to these gates. — Ah ! 

Lor. Hark ! 

[The great bell of St. Mark's tolls. 

Bar. The bell! 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mark's which tolls for the 
election 
Of Malipiero. 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
A.nd that is five and thirty years ago, 
Even th£n 1 was not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord I 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy I 

My heart aches bitterly. * 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No; my seat here has been a throne till 
now. 
Marina ! let us go. 

Mar. Most readily. 

Ooge, (walks a few steps, then ^tops.J I feel 
athirst— will no one bring me here 



A cup of water ? 

Bar. I 

Mar. And I 

Lor, And I 

[The Doge takes a goblet from the hana ^ 

LOREDANO. 

Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most tit for such an hour as this. 

Lor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 

Lor. Well, sir I 

Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 

For my own part, I credit neither ; 'tis 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 

Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband i 

Bar. He sinks ! — support him ! — quick — a chair- 
support him ! 

Doge. The beil tolls on ! — lets hence — my brain*4 
on fire ! 

Bar. 1 do beseech you, lean upon us ! 

Doge. No. 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
Off with your arms ! — That bell! 

[The Doge di-ops dovm and diei 

Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. (to Lor.) Behold ! your work's completed ! 

Chief of the Ten. Is there then 

No aid ? Call in assistance I 

Att. 'Tis all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequien 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
He reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely. 

Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 

All, except Lor., answer, Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him I 

Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
And banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness \ 
And now, when he can neither know these honors. 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors, 
Purpose, with an idle and superfluous pomp 
To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honor. 

Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it, 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond even yot», 
Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to pcwerwhlBk 

may 

Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me ; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you havf kindlj ihortvn'd 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



341 



!t ift my last of duties, and may prove 
A. dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten. Do you 

Pretend still to this office ? 

Mar. I do, signer. 

Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry. 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
Aud those of [She stops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 

Mar. Ay, they ate fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doye, but simply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 
Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this hour. 
Of so much splendor in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew. I've heard of widow's tears — 
A-las ! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 



I've heard of heirs in sables — ^you have left none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 
Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one dav 
I trust Heaven's will be done too ! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady. 

To whom you speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. I know the former better than yourselves ; 
The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both . 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heea not her rash wordi , 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 

Bar. (turning to Lor., who is writing upon hi* 
tablets.) What art thou writing 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets .' 

Lor. (pointing to the Doge's body.) That he hai 
paid me ! * 

Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you ? 

Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and 
mine. [Cwtain falls. 



* <• L'ha jMgala." An hi*toi1c(J fact. See the HUiory of Venie* bv P 
Daru najne 411 vol. 1. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Bxtratt de VHistoire de la Rt^pulique de Venise par 
P. Daru, de V Acadi'-mie tranvaise, tom. II. 

Depuis trente ans, la r<''publique n'avait pas 
depose les amies. Elle avait acquis les provinces 
de Brescia, de Bergame, de Creme, et la principaute 
de Raveiine. 

Mais ces guerres continuelles faisaicnt beauconp 
de malheurcux et de mecontents. Lc doge Fran- 
cois Fosciiri, a qui on ne pouvait pardonnor d'en 
avoir cte lc promotenr, inaiiifesta mie secomle t'ois, 
en 1442, et prcbablcinent avoc plus de sine rite que 
la pieiiii<^re, rintention d'abdiciuer sa dignit". Le 
conseil s'y rcfusa encore. Ou avait exig<* de lui le 
sermcnt ae ne plus quitter le dogat. II *tait deji'i 
avanc*'? dans la vieillesse, conservant ce])cndant 
beauoouj) do force de t6te et de caract'-re, et iouis- 
saut de la gloire d'avoir vu la r'pul)li(iue < tencire an 
loin les liinitos de ses doinaines pendant sou admin- 
istration. 

Au milieti de ces prosperit^s, de grands chagrins 
vinreut mettrc- :'i rci)rouve la fermetc de non I'lmo. 

Sou fils, Jacciues Fost^iri, fut acrusr, ou l41o, 
d'avoir rv.^;\\ des presents de (luehjiies princes ou 
Beignours > trangers, notiimment, disait-on, dii due 
de Milan, Philijjjie Visconti. C'rtait non seulciuent 
ane bassesse, niais une infraction des lois positives 
ile la r('i)ubli(iuc. 

\jC conseil des dix traita cette affaire comnie s'il 
•c fut agi d'un d<lit comniis par un partiiuUer 
ibacur L'ucci\8e fu« anio2" devant sos juges, 



devant le doge, qui ne crut pas pouvoir s'abslenu 
de prcsider le tribunal. Lu il fut interrogo, appliqu^ 
a la question,* d dare coupable, et il entcndit, da 
la bouche de son prre, I'airt't (jui le condainnait ^ 
un bannissenient perp«>tupl, et lo rcl^uait a Naples 
de Romanic, pour y Hnir ses joiirs. 

Kmbarqu<'« sur uno galCxe pour .■se rondre au lieu 
de son exil, il toniba nialaile a Trieste. Les solicita- 
tions du doge obtinrent, non sans dilHcultc, qu'im 
lui assigni'it une autre residence. Enlin, le conseil 
des dix lui perniit de se retirer a Tr^vise, en luJ 
imnosant I'obligiition d'y roster sous peine do inort, 
otue se pr'senter tons les jours d< va)\t lo gouverneur. 

II y etait depuis eiiui ans, lorsqu'un des t lu-t's da 
conseil des dix assassin^'. Les soupt,-ons se portf" 
ri'iit «ur lui ; <in do ses doniestiques qu't)!! avait vu 
a Venise fut arrC-te et suhit la torture. Les bour 
reaux ne luirent lui arraeher aucun aveu. Ce 
terril)lo tribunal se fit ainonor lo niaitre, lo st>umit 
aux nienies « preuves; ilresistaa tons les touriiientu, 
no cessant d'attoatcr son innocence ; f mais on ne 



• K ilnlnirll I" conio par *rtm du lui U wril.^ ; clilmnntn B coii»iflki M 
illi-cl ci'tin ((iiiiiut, iinl qiinlff ftt nicwrr lo (l>i|tr, TA ■riilPiiilala. (MaSa 
Smiiiiui, Vild (|p Durchl. K. Koaciiri.) 

t K «\ (ormi-ntiit)) n* mat ounlruo com alciinn, purr iwrvr kI roiiaijrllo dt* 
illpel .11 cnOiMirlo io rlu» alia Jaivi.. (ll.l.l.) Vmrl Ir tmn. tip Jii|r»inMH i 
•• Ciiiii Jiicdliiui Kiwcnrl per oaraaluiiriii |<>rruuii>iili rt mortU llcniHiliU IH^ 
null fiih nUMiiii* piniiiliialiM, Pt ptMptrt »l(ri>iflciiti<'tn««, lc»tlftf«ti.>iip«, al 
■crlpuinia qiir h.ilriiUiT omtni puni, clnrs nppurvi )|miiii p«» iwim rrtinliM 
pmltCl, apil piuptrr Incaiitnlloiila « »»rt» quia u\i rf|» na auii'., vir qwftM 
•aialll In'IMia iiianUaau, Tlilrtur | 



842 



BYRON'S W0RK8. 



yit dans eetts coTist.mce que de 'obstination ; de ce 
qu'il tJr.ait le fait, on conclut que ce fait existait ; 
on attribua sa fcnnete a la magie, et on le r( Icgua a 
la Can; e. De cette terra lointaine, le Imnni, digno 
alors de quelque pitir, ne cessait d'ccrire a son p<^re, 
a ses amis, pour obtenir que] que adoucissement a 
Ba deportation. N'obtenant rien, et sachant que la 
terreur qu'inspirait le conseil des dix ne lui per- 
mettait pes d'esp; rer de trouver dans Venise une 
seule Toix qui s'< levat en sa faveur ; il fit une lettre 
pour le nouveau due ce Milan, par laquelle, au nom 
de? bons offices que Sforce avait recus du chef de la 
rt'publique, il implorait son intervention en faveur 
d'un innocent, du fils du doge. 

Cette lettre, selon quelques historiens, fut confine 
a un marchand, qui avait protnis de la faii-e parvenir 
au due ; mais qui, trop averti de ce qu'il avait a 
craindre en se rendant 1 'interna ediare d'une pareille 
correspondance, se huta, en debarquant a Yenise, 
de la remettre au chef de tribunal. Une autre 
version, qui parait plus sare, rapparte que la lettre 
fut surprise par un espion, attache au pas de 
I'exile.* 

Ce fut un nouveau dclit dont on eut a punir 
Jacques Foscari. Reclamer la protection d'un 
prince rtranger etait un crime, dans un sujet de la 
rrpublique. Une galore partit sur-le-champ pour 
I'amener dans les prisons de Venise. A son arriyee 
il fut soumis a I'estrapade.f C'< tait une singuliere 
destinee, pour le citoyer d'une rcpublique et pour 
le fils d'un prince, d'ltre trois fois dans sa vie 
applique a la question. Cette fois la torture etait 
d'autant plus odieuse, qu'elle n'avait point d'objet, 
le fait qu'on avait a lui reprocher, etant incontes- 
table, 

Quand on demanda a I'accus'^ dans les intervalles 
que les bourreaux lui accordaient, pourquoi il avait 
ecrit la lettre qu'on lui produisait, il r pondit que 
c'"tait pr"cisi>ment parce qu'il ne doutait pas qu'elle 
ne tombat entre les mains du tribunal, que toute 
autre vole lui avait ete fermee pour fair parvenir 
venir ses rr^Ciamations, qu'il s'attendait bien qu'on 
le ferait amener a Venise ; mais qu'il a\B.it tout 
risque pour avoir la consolation de voir sa femme, 
Bon ppre, et sa mere, encore une fois. 

Sur cette naive declaration, on confirma sa sen- 
tence d'exil ; mais on I'aggrava, en y ajoutant qu'il 
serait retenu en prison pendant un an. Cette 
rigueur, dont on usait envers un malheureux, etait 
Bans doute odieuse ; mais cette politique, qui do- 
fendait a tons les citoyens de faire intervenir les 
etrangors dans les affaires interieures de la repub- 
lique, (tait sage. Elle ■ tait chez eux une maxime 
de gouvernement et une maxime inflexible, L'his- 
torien Paul Morosini + a contp que I'empereur 
Fr.'d' ric III. pendant qu'il 'tait I'hote des V<'nitiens, 
domandi, commeune faveur particuliere, I'admission 
d'un citoyen dans le grand conseil, et la grace 
d'un ancien gouverneur de Candie, gendie du doge, 
et banni pour sa mauvaise administration, sans 
pouvoir obtenir ni I'une ni I'autre. 

Cependant, on ne put refuser au condamne la 
permission de voir sa femme, ses enfants, ses pa- 
rents, qu'il allait quitter pour toujours. Cette der- 
niore entrevue mOme fut accompignre de cruaute, 
par la s'vcre circonspection, qui retenait les 
epanchements de la douleur paternelle et conjugale. 



Ce ne fut point dans I'interieur de leur app&ite 
ment, ce fut dans une des grandes salles du ptllais, 
qu'une femme, accompagn;e de ces quatre fils, vini 
faire les derniers adieux a son man, qu im pere oc- 
tog< naire et le dogaresse accablee d'infirmites, 
joiiirent un moment de la triste consolation deraeler 
leurs larmes a celles de leur exile, II se jetaa leura 
genoux en leur tendant des mains disloquees par la 
torture, pour les supplier de solliciter quelque adou- 
cissement a la sentence qui venait d'etre prononcee 
contre lui. Son pere eut le courage de lui repondre: 
** Non, mon fils, respectez votre arret, et obeissea 
sans murmure a la seigneurie." * A ces mots il se 
separa, de I'infortune, qui fut sur-le-champ em- 
barque pour Candie. 

L'antiquite vit avec autant d'horreur vue d' admi- 
ration un pere condamnant ses fils evidemment 
coupables. Elle hesita pour qualifier de vertu sub- 
lime ou de ferocite cet effort qui parait au-dessus de 
la nature humaine ; f mais ici, ou la premiere faute 
n' etait qu'une faiblesse, oii la seconde n' etait pas 
provee, ou la troisieme n'avait rien de criminal, 
comment concevoir la Constance d'un pere, qui voit 
torturer trois fois sons fils unique, qui I'entend con- 
damner sans preuves, et qui n'eclate pas en plaintes ; 
qui ue I'aborde que pour lui montrer un visage plus 
austere qu'attendri, et qui, au moment de s'en 
separer pour jamais, lui interdit les murmures et 
jusqu'a I'esperance? Comment expliquer une si 
cruelle circonspection, si ce n'est en avouant, a. 
notre honte, que la tyrannie pent obtenii- de I'espece 
humaine les memes efforts que la vertu ? La servi- 
tude aurait-elle son h' roTsme comme la liberte ? 

Quelque temps apres ce jugement, ou decouvrit 
le vrritable auteur de I'assassinat, dont Jacques 
Foscari, portait le peine ; mais il n'etait plus temps 
de reparer cette atroce injustice, le malheureux 
etait mort dans sa prison. 

II me reste a raconter la suite des malheurs du 
pere. L'histoire les attribue a I'impatience'qu'ava- 
ient ses enemis et ses rivaux de voir vaquer sa place. 
Elle accuse formellement Jacques Loredan, I'un 
des chefs du conseil des dix, de s'etre livre contre 
ce viellard aux conseils d'une hal'ne hereditaire, et 
qiii depuis long temps divisait leurs maisons. X 

Francois Foscari avait essaye de le faire cessex, 
en offrant sa fille a I'illustre amiral Pierre Loredan 
pour un de ses fils. L'alliance avait rte rejete, et 
I'inimitie des deux families s'en etait accrue. Dans 
tons les conseils, dans toutes les affaires, le doge 
trouvait toujours les Loredans prets a combattre 
ses propositions ou ses interets. II lui echappa un 
jour de dire qu'il ne se croirait r! ellment prince, 
que lorsque Pierre Loredan aurait cesse de vivre. 
Cet amiral mourut quelque temps apres, d'une in- 
commodite assez prompte qu'on ne put expliquer. 
II n'en fallut pas davantage aux malveillants pour 
insinuer que Frane^ois Foscari, ayant desire cette 
mort, pouvait bien I'avoir hatee, 

Ces bruits s'accr- ditcrent encore lorsqu'on vit aussi 
p'lir subitement Marc Loredan, fr re de Pierre, et 
cela dans le moment ou, en sa qualit'> d'avogador, il 



^o*Bi''' "xtrahere ab ipso illam veritaieiii, q\iaj cliira est p«i- scripturas et per 
te8li& .I'Joiics, mioiiiain in lime aliquam iipc vocein, nee g«niuim, »ed solum 
Intra deiiteg voo-s ipse vi<letur otaiuliiiir intra se loqui, etc. . , . Tuiem non 
«8l sunduin in istis tenninis, ptDptcr hunorem stalls noslri et pro nultis les- 
(eclilxia, pTrtspn'r.u quoil regimen noBtr'iii occtipatur in hac rp, et qui intei^ 
dicuini est ampiiiis progredere : vadit pars, quod dicius Jacobus Foscari, 
propti-r eu qum habenliir de illo, niittatiir in conlinium in civitate Canea;," 
Mc. — Notice sur le proces de Jacques Foscari, dans un volume, intitule Rac- 
eolta di memorie noriche e annectloti-, per t'onnar la Sioria dell' eccellentia- 
•Imo consiglio di X dcUa sua prima instituzione gino a' giorni nosiri, ecu la 
dnretse vari.izonc e rifonne nelle varie epoche Muccesse. (Arch'ves de Veuise.) 
• La notice ciiee ci dessus, jui rapporte les ajtes decetles procedure, 
t EbtK j.nnia per gap<<rc la 'erita trenta m) iuui di Mrda, (Maria Sanuto, 
Tito de' Duchi. F. Fo^ari.) • 

t Hiitotia.U VeneziA.Ub.3a. 



Marin Sanuto, dans sa chronique, Vite de' Duchi, se sert ici sans en 
avoir eu I'intention d'une expression iissez enorg^iqne ; " II doge era recchb 
in decrepit!\ eta e caminiva con una mazzetta : K quando gli ando parlogU 
molto const^uitenienie che pareu che non tbsse sno fiofliuolo, licet fosse figliuol* 
unico, e Jacopo disse, rnesser padre, vi prego che procuriate per me, nccioccbi 
io torn! a casa niia. 11 doge disse : Ja«;opo, va e obbeilisei a quellu che viiola 
la lerni, e non cercar piQ oltre." 

t Cela fut un acle que Ton ne sjauroit ny snffissamenl loner, ny aaMi 
biaemer : car, ou c'estoii une excellence ds vertu, qui rendoit ainsi mh cava 
impassible, ou ane violence de passion qui le rendoit insensible, donl ne I'une oa 
I'autre n'est chose p«>tite, ainsi surpassant I'ordinaiPB d'hvunaine nature et 
tenant ou de la diviniie ou do la bestiality. Mais U est plus raisonnable qtM 
le jugement des hoinmes s'accorde a sii gloire, que la foiblesse des Jugvana 
fasse des croire sa vertu. Mais pour lors quand il se fut retire, U.'Ut le moncU 
demeura s\ir la phuie, comme u-ansy il'liorr'iir et lie f.-uyeur, par un long 
temps s;ins mot dire, pour avoir veu ce qui avail et^ fait. (Plutarque, Vale, 
rius Publicola.) 

J Je suis principalement dans ce recit, une relation manuscrite de la dipo 
■ition de Frangois Foacari, qui est dans le volume intitnlf; Raccoia di meinO' 
rie <toriche e annecdote, per tbnnar la Storia dell' excelieiitiniino »iiiiglio rt 
X. (Archivei ^ VeokaJ 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



343 



lliistruisait un procfs centre Andre Donate, gendre 
du doge, accusf de peculat. On ecrivit sur la tombe 
de I'amiral qu'il avait ete enleve a la patrie par le 
poison. 

II n'y avait aucune preuve, aucun indice contre 
Francois Foscari, aucune raison raOme de le soup- 
9'6nner. Quand sa vie entiere n'aurait pas dementi 
une imputation aussi odieuse, il savait que son rang 
ne lui prommettait ni I'impunite ni nieme I'indul- 
gence. La mort tragique de I'un de ses predeces- 
Beurs I'er. avertissait, et il n'avait que trop d'exem- 
ples dom ^^tiques du soin que le conseil des dix 
prenait d humilier le chef de la republique. 

Cependaut, Jacques Loredan, fils de Piene, 
croyait ou feignait de croire avoii' a venger les 
partes de sa famille.* Dans ses livres de comptes 
(car il faisait le commerce, comme a cette epoque 
presque tous les patriciens,) il avait inscrit de sa 
propre main le doge au nombre de ses dcbiteurs, 
pour la mort, y etait- il-dit, de mon pere et de mon 
oncle.f De I'autre cote du registre, il avait laisse 
une page en blanc, pour y faire mention du recouvre- 
ment de cetto dette, et en etfet, appr^s la parte du 
doge, il ('crivit sur son registre, il me I'a payee — 
I'ha pagata. 

Jacques Loredan fut 61u membre du conseil des 
dix, en devint un des trois chefs, et se promit bien 
de proflrter de cette occasion pour accomplir la ven- 
geance qu'il mcditait. 

Le doge en sortant de la terrible epreuve qu'il 
venant de subir, pendant le proces de son fils, s'etait 
retire au fond de son palais, incapable de se livrer 
aux affaires, consume de chagrins, accable de 
vieillesse, il ne se montrait plus en public, meme 
dan^ les conseils. Cette retraite, si facile a expliquer 
dans un vieillard octogenaire si malheureux, d^plut 
aux decemvirs, qui voulurent y voir un murmure 
contre ieur arrets. 

Loredan commen9a par se plaindre devant ses 
collogues du tort que les infirmites du doge, son 
absence des conseils, apportaient a I'expedition des 
affaires, il finit par hasarder et reussit a faire agreer 
la proposition de le deposer. Ce n'otait pas la 

Eremicre fois que Venise avait pour prince un 
omme dans la caducite ; I'usage et les lois y avaient 
pourvu ; dans ces circonstances le doge ttait sup- 
pl<'e par le plus ancien du conseil. Ici, cela ne 
Buffisait pas aux ennemis de Foscari. Pour donner 

Slus de solennite a la deliberation, le conseil des 
ix demanda une adjonction de vint-cinq srnateurs ; 
mais comme on n'en cnoncait pas I'objet, et que le 
grand conseil ctait loin de le soupconner, il se 
trouva que Marc Foscari, frcre du doge, Ieur fut 
donn' pour I'un des adjoints. Au lieu de I'admettre 
e la d-lib; ration, ou de reclame contre se choix, on 
enferma ce scnateur dans une chambre scparce, et 
on lui fit jurer de ne jamais parler de cette exclusion 
qu'il rprouvait, en mi declarant qu'il y allait de sa 
vie ; ce qui u'empC'cha pas qu'on n'lnscrivit son 
nom au bas du d' cret comme s'il y eut pris part. J 
Quand on en vint y la deliberation, Loredan la 

Srovoqua en ces termes : J "Si I'utilite publique 
oit imposer silence a tous les int. rets privrs, je ne 
doute pas que nous ne pronions aujourd'hui une 
mesure que la patrie reclame que nous lui dcvous. 
Lfcfi etats ne petivent se maiutenir dans un ordre de 
choses immual)le ; vous n'avez qu'a voir comme le 
n6tre est chang-, et comljicn il le serait d'avantage 
B'il n'y avait ur.e autorit' •is';oz ferme pour y porter 
rem'de. J'ai houte du vou > ir'^ remarquer la con- 
fusion qui r<gne dans les c ils, le desordre des 
deliberations, I'encouibremen ; affaires, et la 

legeretc avec laquelle les pluo luportantes sent 



* Jliuicu tiuii'<ii iii]uri:u (jiiuiiiviii liimjriimriiU nun tuiii ad anlinuin n-vocit- 
*er»t Jacolnu l.uuntdiiiiuv (let'iiiictoriiin lurpui, qtium lii olwoaiteriuin vludio- 
IKm opportuiia. (Pahitzi Fii«ti Diicalei.) 

t Ibid, 01 l'Hi»ioln- Veiiitii.-iflie de Viuiiolo. 

t tl fuut ce{Kiiauiu remarqiK-r quo ilniu l> nuUco od Ton neonte ee Ml, la 
'MiMrttkii ':•( riipportu'*, qur II ■ viiiKt-ciiui adjuinu y • 
• wiin lie Marc Fixcuri ii« I'y iruuv; p'u. 

OtU: liuT»ii|[uu N tit daui It^iiotioo eiiie d-dMMH. 



decidees ; la license de netre jeanesse, !e peu 
d'assiduite des magistrats, Vintroduction de nouv«> 
antes dangereuses. Quel est I'effet de ces d-sordres r 
de compromettre notre consideration. Quelle en 
est la cause ? I'absence d'un chef capable de moderei 
les uns, de diriger les autres, de lonner I'exemple a 
tous, et de maintenir la force des lois: 

" Oii est le temps ou nos decrets ' taient aussitdl 
executes que rendus ? Oii Francois Carrare se 
trouvait investi dans Padoue, avant de pouvoir ttre 
seulement informe que nous vuulions lui faire la 
guerre ? nous avons vu teut le contraire dans la 
demiere guerre contre le due de Milan. Malheu- 
reuse la republique qui est sans chef! 

" Je ne vous rappelle pas tous ces inconvenientfl 
et leurs suites deplorables, pour vous atiliger, poui 
vous efirayer, mais pour vous faire souvenir que 
vous etes les maitres, les conservateurs de cet etat, 
fonde par vos peres, et de la liberte que nous devona 
a leurs travaux, a leurs institutions. Ici, le mal 
indique le reraede. Nous n'avons point de chef, il 
nous en faut un. Notre prince est notre ouvrage, 
nous avons done le droit de juger son merite quand 
il s'agit de I'elire, et son iucapacite quand elle se 
manifesto. J'ajouterai que le peuple, encore bien 
qu'il n'ait pas le droit de prononcer sur les actions 
de ses maitres, hpprendra ce changement avec 
transport. C'est la providence, je n'en doute pas, 
qui lui inspire elle-meme ces dispositions, pour vous 
avertir que la republique reclame cette rcsolutioD., 
et que le sort de I'etat est en vos mains." 

Ce discours n'prouva que de timides contradic- 
tions ; cependant, la deliberation dura huit jours. 
L'assemblee, ne se jugeant pas aussi sure de Tap- 
probation universelle que I'arateur voulait le lui 
faire croire, desii-ait que le doge donnat lui-meme sa 
demission. 11 avait deja propose e deux fois, et on 
n'avait pas voulu I'accepter. 

Aucune loi ne portait que le prince fut revocable ; 
il etait aii contraire a vie et les exemples ((u'oc 
pouvait citer de plusieurs doges deposes, prouvaieut 
que de telles revolutions avaient toujours ^t^ le 
resultat d'un mouvement populaire. 

Mais d'ailleurs, si le doge pouvait ( tre d pose, or 
n'etait pas assurement par un tribunal compose 
d'un petit nombre de membres, institue pour punir 
les crimes, et nullement investi du droit de revoquer 
ce que le corps souverain de IVtait avait fait. 

Cependant, le tribunal arreta que les six censeil- 
lers de la seigneurie, et les chefs du conseil des dix. 
se transportcraient aupres du doge pour lui signigei, 
que I'excellentissime conseil avait juge conveiiable 
qu'il abdiquat une dignitc dont son age ne lui per- 
mettait plus de remulir les fonctions. On lu» 
donnait 1500 ducats d'or pour son entretieu e 
vingt-quatrt heures pour se debider.* 

Foscari r< pondit sur-le-chamj) avec bcuucoup d« 
gravit", que deux fois il avait voulu se demettre du 
sa charge ; qu'au lieu de le lui peiniettre, ou avait 
exige de lui 1p serment de ne plus rtiti rcr cette 
demande ; que la providence avait prolonge ses 
jours pour IN'prouver et pour rallligo, que cependant 
on n'etait pas en droit de reproaehcr sa longue »ie 
a un homme qui avait employe quatre-vingt-quatre 
ans au service de la rt publique; qu'il » t.iit pret 
encore a lui sacrifier sa vie ; mais ([ue, pour s« 
dignite, il la tenait de la r publicjuc enti ro, ot uu'i) 
se reservait de repondre sur ce sujet, quand h 
volonte g^nerale se serait legalemcnt manifest' e. 

Le lendemain, a I'heure indiqu' e, les eonseillera 
et les chefs des dix se present rent. 11 ne voulut 
pas Ieur donner d'autro reponse. Le eonseil s'u* 
semblu sur-le-champ, lui envoya deniander encort 
une fois sa resolution trance tenante. et, la reponsf 
ayant ete la raeine, on prononva i\\w lo doge etail 
releve de son serment et d<''i>ose de sa dignit.', on 
lui assignait une pension de IJtM) diu-ats d'or, en lui 
enioignant de sortir du palais dans huit jours, soui 
peine de voir tous ses biens eonfisqu s.f 



Cn IMci«t M( nppuitt uixUK>lloim<iii lUua la i 
Lk MUM nfvuna auMi m dAcnb 



344 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Le lendemxin, ce decret fut porte au doge, et ce 
ful Jacques Lcredan qui eut la cruelle joie de le lui 
presenter. II repondit : " Si j'avais pu prevoir que 
ma vieillesse fut prejudiciable a l'( tat, le chef de la 
rcpublique ne se serait pas montre assez ingrat, 
pour pr 'ffrer sa dignite a la patrie ; mais cette vie 
lui ayant ete utile pendant tant d'annf es, je voulais 
lui en con sacrer jusqu'au dernier moment. Le 
decret est rendu, je m'j' conformerai." Apres avoir 
parle ainsi, il se d pouilla des marques de sa dignite, 
remit I'anneau ducal, qui fut brise en sa pr< sence. 
et d.'s le jour suivant il quitta ce palais, qu'il avait 
habite pendant trente-cinq ans, accompagne de son 
frere, de ses parents, et de ses amis. Un secretaire, 
qui se trouva sur le perx'on, I'invita a descendre 
par un escalier derobc, afin d'tviter la foule du 
peuple, qui s'l^tait rassemble dans les cours, mais 
il s'y refusa, disant quil voulait descendre par on il 
-etait monte ; et quand il fut au bas de I'escalier 
des geants, il se retourna, appuye sur la bequille, 
vers le palais en prof, rant ces paroles : " Mes 
services m'y avaient appelle, la malice de mes enne- 
mis m'en fait sortir." 

La foule qui s'ouvrait sur son passage, et qui avait 
peut-etre lesire sa mort, etait emue de respect et 
d'attendrissement.* Rentrt' dans sa maison, il re- 
commanda a sa famille d'oublier les injuries "de ses 
ennemis. Personne dans les divers corps de I'etat 
ne se crut en droit de s'etonner, qu'un prince ina- 
movile eut ete depos'^ sans qu'on lui reprochat 
rien : que I'etat eut perdu sod chef, a I'insu du senat 
et du corps souverain lui-m£me. Le peuple sent 
laissa ( chapper quelques regrets : une proclamation 
du conseil des dix prescrivit le silence le plus absolu 
Bur cette affaire, sous peine de mort. 

Avant de donner un successeur a Francois Fos- 
jari, une nouvelle loi fut rendue, qui defendait au 
doge d'ouvrir et de lire autrementqu'en prf sence de 
ses conseillers, les d( peches des ambassadeurs de la 
republique, et les lettres des princes (Grangers. f 

Les electeurs entrtrent au conclave et nonmierent 
au dogat Paschal Malipier le 30 Octobre, 1457. La 
cloche de Saint-Marc, qui annoiicait a Venise son 
nouveau prince, vint frapper I'oreille de Francois 
Foscari; cette fois sa fermete I'abarjdonna, il pprou- 
va un tel saisissement, qu'il mourut le lendemain. j 

La republique arrOta qu'on lui rendrait les mCmes 
honneurs fun( bres que s'il fut mort dans I'exercice 
le sa dignite; mais lorsqu'on se pr senta pour enle- 
veT ses restes, sa veuve, qui de son nom ( tait Marine 
Nani, d clara qu'elle ne le soutfrirait point ; qu'on 
ne devait pas trailer en prince aprts sa mort celui 
qui vivant on avait depouilie de la couronne, et que 
puis(]u'il avait consume ses bien au service de I'etat, 
elle saurait, consacrer sa dot a lui faire rendres les 
dorniers honncurs.§ On ne tint aucun compte de 
cette resistance^ et Aialgre les protestations de 
I'ancienne dogaresse, le corps fut enlew, revetu 
de.s ornemens ducaux, expose en public et les 
obseques furent celebrces avec la pompe accou- 
tum( e. mLe nuuveau doge assista au convoi en robe 
de seuateur. 

La piti.' qu'avait inspir. e le malheur de ce vieil- 
lard, ne fut pas tout- i-fait st-.rile. Un an apres, on 
osa dire que le conseil. des dix avait outrcpasse ses 
poiivoirs, et il lui fut defendu par une loi du grand 
ccnsiiil de s'ing rer a I'avenir de juger le prince, a 
moins que ce ne fut pour cause de filonie.|| 

Un acte d'autorit tcl que la d position d'un 
doge inamovible de sa nature, aurait pu exciter un 
Boul voment general, ou au moins ocoasioner une 
division dans une r publique autrement constitute 
que Venise. Mais dcpuis trois ans, il existait dans 
celle-ci une magistrature, ou plut6» une autorite, 
ievant laqiielle tout devait se faiie. 



* On lit dans la notice ceg proprea mots : " Se I'otiae «tutc in loro poter« 
olor4ieri lo avrebbero restituito." 
t Hilt. cU Vent'tia, <li Paolo Morosini, lib. 24. 
; HiK. ili Piclro Jii<itiniaiii, lib. 8. 
\ Hut. il'KffiKitio, liv. 6, C'p. 7. 
( Ce d<crei eft du iS Uac»«, 14S6. La noti<« le ruppone. 



Extrait de mistoir^ des Republiques ItaHeiiiU4 %u 
Moyen Age. ar J. C. L. Simonde de Sisuwndi, 
torn. X. 

Le Doge de Venise, qui avait prevenu par ce 
traite une guerre non moins dangeruse que celle 
qu'il avait terminee presque en mGme temps par le 
traitP de Lodi, etait alors parvenu a une extreme 
vieillesse. Francois Foscari occupait cette pre- 
miere dignite de I'etat des le 15 Avril, 1423. Quoi- 
qu'il fut deja ag^e de plus decinquante-un ans a 
I'epoque de son election, iletait cependant le plus 
jeune des quarante-un electeurs. II avait eu oeau' 
coup de peine a parvenir au rang qu'il convt itait, 
et son election avait ete conduite avec beaucoap 
d'addiesse. Pendant plusieurs jours de scrutin aes 
amis les plus z'. L s s 'etaient abstenus de lui doni^ex 
leur suffrage, pour que les autres ne le consid* ras- 
sent pas comme un concurrent redoubtable.* Le 
conseil des dix craignait son credit parmi la noblesse 
pauvre, parce qu'il avait cherch^ a se la rendre 
favorable, tandis qu'il etait procurateur de Saint- 
Marc, en faisant employer plus de, trente mille 
ducats a doter des jeunes filles de bonne maison, ou 
a etablir de jeunes gentilshommes. On craignait 
encore sa nombreuse famille, car alors il etait pt^re 
d. quatre enfans, et marie de nouveau ; enfin on 
reaoutait son ambition et son gout pour la guerre. 
L'opinion que ses adversaires s'( taient formee de 
lui fut verifiee par les evenemens ; pendant trente- 
quatre ans que Foscari fut a la tC te lo la r^ publique, 
elle ne cessa point de combattre. Si les hostilitee 
etaient suspendues durant quelques mois, c'etuit 
pour recommencer bientdt avec plus de vigueur. 
Ce fut I'epoque ou Venise etendit son empire sur 
Brescia, Bergame, Ravenne, et Creme ; ou elle 
fonda sa domination de Lombardie, et parut sans 
cesse sur le point d'asservir toute cette province. 
Profond, courageux, inebranlable, Foscari com- 
muniqua aux conseils son propre caract' re, et sea 
talents lui firent obtenir plus d'infiuence sur k 
republique que n'avaient exerce la plupart de sea 
pr< d< cesseurs. Mais si son ambition avait eu pour 
but I'aggrandissement-de sa famille, elle fut cruel- 
lement trompt e ; trois de ses fils mounxrent dana 
les huit annees qui suivirent son election ; le 
quatrieme, Jacob, par lequel la maison Foscari s'est 
perp. tuee, fut victime de la jalousie du conseil des 
dix, et empoisonna par ses malheurs les jours de 
son p( re.f 

En effet, le conseil des dix, redoublant de defiance 
envers le chef de I'f tat, lorsqu'il le voyait plus fort 
par ses talens et sa popularite, veillait sans cesse 
sur Foscari, pour le punir de son credit, et de sa 
gloire. Au mois de Fevrier, 1445, Michel Bevilacqua, 
Florentin, exile a Venise, accusat en secret J acqi>es 
Foscari, aupres des inquisiteurs d'etat, d'^^voir recu 
du due Philippe Visconti, des presens d'argent et 
de joyaux, par les mains des gens de sa maison. 
Telle (tait I'odieuse procedure adopt' e a Venise, 
que sur cette accusation secrete le his du doge du 
representant de la majeste de la r* publique, fut mia 
a la torture. On lui arracha par I'estrapade I'aveu, 
des charges portees centre lui; il fut rcl' gu pour 
le reste de ses jours a Napoli de Romanic, avec 
obligation de se presenter chaque matin au com- 
mandant de la place. t Cependant, le Jtaisseau qui 
le portait ayant toiicne a Trieste, Jacob, gri^ve- 
ment malade des suites dc la torture, et plus encore 
de Thiuniliation qu'il avait ( prouv- e^demanda en 
grace au conseil des dix de n'etre pas envoye plua 
loin. II obtint cette favour, par une d liberation du 
28 Decembre, 1446 ; il fut rappele a Trevise : et il 
eut la liberte d'habiter tout le Trevisan indifferem- 
ment.^ 

II vivait en paix a Trevise ; et la fille de Leonurd 



* Marin Sunuto, Tite de' i}uehi dl Yenezit , p. J67. 
t Ibid. p. 968. 
X Ibid. p. S68, 

I jMd. p. luta. 



APPENDIX TO THE TWO FOSOARI. 



345 



Lontarini, qu'il avait epousee le 10 Fovrier, 1441, 
fetait venue le joindre dans son exil, lorsque le 5 
Novembre, 1450, Almoro Donato, chef du consefl 
des dix, fut assassine. Les deux autres inquisiteurs 
d'etat, Triadano Gritti et Antonio Venieri, porterent 
leur soup9ons sur Jacob Foscari, parce-qu'un 
doinestique a lui, nommo Olivier, avait ete vu ce 
soir-la mOme a Venise, et avait des premiers donne 
la nouvelle de cet assassinat. Olivier fut mis a la 
torture, mais il nia jusqu'a la fin, avec un courage 
inebranlable, le crime dont on I'accusait, quoique 
ses ju^es eussent la barbarie de lui faire donner 
jusqu'a quatre-vingts tours d'estrapade. Cepen- 
dant, comme Jacob Foscari avait de puissans motifs 
d'inimitie contre le conseil des dix, qui I'avait con- 
damne, et qui temoignait de la haYne au doge son 
pere, on essaya de mettre a son tour Jacob a la 
fortui-e, et Ton prolongea contre lui ces affreux 
tourmeus, sans reussir a en tirer aucuue confession. 
Malgre sa di-negation, le conseil des dix le condamna 
a etre transports a la Can e, et accorda une recom- 
pense a son delateur. Mais les horribles douleurs 
que Jacob Foscari avait eprouvees avaient trouble 
sa raison, ses pers;'cuteurs touches de ce dernier 
malheuj-, permirent qu'on le ramenat a Venise le 26 
Mai, 1451. II embrassa son pore, il puisa dans ses 
exhortations quelque courage et quelque calme, 
et il fut reconduit imm' diatement a la Cant e.* 
Sur ces entrefaites, Nicolas Erizzo, homme dg'a 
note pour un precedent crime, confessa, en mou- 
rant, quo c'etait lui qui avoit tue Almoro Do- 
nato.f 

Le malheureux doge, Francois Foscari, avait dpja 
cherchf a plusieurs ri'prises, a abdiquer une dignite 
si funeste a lui-mome et a sa famille. II lui sem- 
bla^t que, redescendu au rang de simple citoyen, 
comme il n'inspirerait plus de crainte ou de jalousie, 
on n'accablerait plus son fils par ces effroyables 
pers<^cutions. Abattu par la mort de ses premiers 
enfars, il avoit voulu, des le 26 Juiu, 1433, deposer 
ane dignitf", durant I'exercice de laquelle sa patrie 
avait <'t<^ tourmentee par la guerre, par la peste, et 
par des malheurs de tout genre. J II renouvela cette 
proposition aprcs les jugemens rendus contre son 
tils ; mais le conseil des dix le retenait forcement 
Bur le tr6ne, coinme il retenait sou fils dans les 
fei's. 

En vain Jacob Foscari, oblige de se present'?; 
uliaque jour au gouverneur de la Cance, reclamait 
contre I'injustice de sa derni^re sentence, sur 
laquelle la confession d'Erizzo ne lassait plus de 
doutes. En vain il demandait grace au farouche 
conseil des dix ; il ne pouvait obteuir aucune 
rcponse. Le d<sir de revoir son ptre et sa mere, 
arrives tous deux au dernier terme de la vieillesse, 
le d sir de revoir une patrie dont la cruaute ne 
taeritait pas un si tendre amour, se changerent en 
lui en une vraie ureur. Ne pouvant retourner a 
Veni^^e pour y vivre librc, il voulut du nioins y aller 
chcrcher un supplice. II <crivit au due de Milan 
\ la fin de Miii, 1456, pour iniplorcr sa protection 
aupres du s nat : et sachant qu'une telle lettre 
serait consider ee comme un crime, il I'exposa lui- 
m%me dans un lieu ou il etait sur qu'clle serait 
saisie pur les cspious qui I'eutouraient. En ertct, 
Ir lottic etant defer, e au conseil des dix, on I'envoya 
chercher aussitfh, et il fut reconduit a Venise le 19 
Juillet, 1456. ^S 

Jac<'l) Foscari ne nia point sa lettre, il raconta en 
W«'me temps dun? quel but il I'avait ecrite et com- 
ment il I'avait fait bomber cntre les mains de son 
deluteur. Malgre cos aveux, Foscari fut remis a la 
torture, et on lui donna trcnte tours d'estrapade, 
pour voir s'il confirmerait ensuite ses depositions, 
liuand on le detacha de la cordc, on to trouva 



' Marin Siiniito, Vita do' Duchl i 
on 111. I.. IV. f. 187. 

Mario Siiniuo, «. U39. 

IWiJ. p. 10»i. 
Ibid. p. 1163 

44 



Venexla, p. U88.— M. Ant. Sabeliko, 



dechire par ces horribles secouss23. Les jugee 
permirent alors a son pere, a sa mere, a sa fcmme 
et a ses fils, d'aller le voir dans sa prison. Le vieux 
Foscari, appuye sur sun baton, ne se traina qu'avec 
peine, dans la chambre oii son fils unique etait paifse 
de ses blessures. Ce fils demandait encore la grace 
de mourir dans sa maison. — " Hetourne a ton exil, 
raon fils, puisque ta patrie I'ordonne," lui dit le 
doge, " et soumets-toi a sa volonte." Mais en 
rentrant dans son palais, ce malheureux vieillard 
s'evanouTt, epuise par la violence qu'il s'etait 
faite. Jacob devait encore passer une ann'e en 
prison a la Canee, avant qu'on lui rendit la 
meme liberte limitee a laquelle il etait reduit 
avant cet evenement; mais a peine fut,il d'. 
barque sur cette terre d'exil, qu'il y mourut de 
douleur.* 

Des-lors, et pendant quinze mois, le vieux doge, 
accable d'annees et de chagrins, ne recouvra plus la 
force de son corps ou celle de son fime ; il n'assistait 
plus a aucun des conseils, et il ne pouvait plus 
remplir aucune des fonctions de sa dignite. II etait 
entre dans sa quatre-vingt-sixieme annee, et si le 
conseil des dix avait ete susceptible de qxielque 
pitie, il aurait attendu en silence la fin, sans doute 
prochaine, d'une carriere marquee part tantde gloire 
et tant de malheurs. Mais le chef du conseil des dix 
etait alors Jacques Loredano, fils de Marc, et neveu 
de Pierre, le grand amiral, qui touteleur vie avaient 
ete les ennemis acharnes du vieux doge. lis avaient 
transmis leur hatne a leurs enfans, et cette vieille 
rancune n'etait pas encore satisfaite.f A I'insti 
gation de Loredano, Jerome Barbarigo, inquisiteur 
d'f^tat, proposa au conseil des dix, au mois d'Ooto- 
bre, 1457, de ^oumettre Foscari a une nouvelle 
humiliation. Des que ce magistrat ne pouvait plua 
remplir ses fonctions, Barbarigo demanda qu'on 
nommat un autre doge. Le conseil, qui avait refuse 
par deux fois I'abdication de Foscari, parce que la 
constitution ne pouvait la permettre, hi^sita avant 
de se mettre en contradiction avec ses propres 
d crets. Les discussions dans le conseil et la junte 
se prolongerent pendant huit jours, iusque fort 
avant dans le nuit. Cependant, on fit ftntrer duns 
I'assemblee Marco Foscari, procurateur de Saint- 
Marc, et frere du doge, pour qu'il fut lie par le 
redoubtable serment du secret, et qu'il ne put urre 
ter les menees de ses ennemis. Enfin, le conseilse 
rendit aupres du doge, et lui demanda d'abdiquer 
volontairement un emploi qu'il ne pouvait plus 
exercer. "J'ai jur6," repondit le vieillard, " de 
remplir jusqu'a ma mort, selon mon honneur et ma 
canscience, les fonctions auxquelles ma patrie m'a 
appel*^. Je ne puis medclir moi-meme de mon 
serment ; qn'un ordre des conseils dispose de moi, 
je m'y soumettrai, mais je ne le devancerai pas." 
Alors une nouvelle deliberation du conseil delia 
Francois Foscari de son serment dutal, lui assura 
une pension de deux mille ducats pour le rej.te de 
sa vie, et lui ordonna d'evacuer en trois jours le 
palais, et de depeser les ornemens de sa dignite. 
Le doge ayant remarque parmi les conscillers qui 
lui porterent cet ordre, un chef de quurante qu'il 
ne connoissait pas demanda son nom : " Je su».s le 
fils de Marco Meuuuo," lui dit le cousciller. — "Ah ' 
ton pere etait mon ami," lui dit le vieux dogt, cii 
soupirant. II donna aussit<'»t des ordres pi>ur ou'on 
trunsportat ses ellets dans une maison a lui ; et le 
lendemain 23 Octobrc on le vit, se souteuat a peine, 
et appuye sur son vieux frere, redcscendere cei 
memes eacaliers sur lesquels, trente-quatrc a^s 
auparavuut, on I'avait vu iustalle avec tant de 
uonipe, et traverser ces memos salles on la reimb 
lique avait rocu ror sermons. Le pouplo rntier 
purut indigno do tant de durct^ exereoo contre un 
vieillard (pi'll respectait et qu'il aimait ; luaLs l^ 
conseil des dix fit publicr une defense de parler d« 



* Murin Bnutito, p. 1183.— Niiviifiero, Stor. Vwtai. p lilt. 

t V«tter 8M>ai Staria drlla VeitudaM P. U. U VIU. p. 7U Ml 



346 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



eette revolution, sous peine d'etre ti-aduit devant 
les inquisiteurs d'etat. Le 2U Octobre, Pasqual 
Malipieri, procurateur de Saint-Marc, fut elu pour 
Buccesseur de Foscari ; celui-ci n't;ut pas neanmoins 
rhumiliation de vivre sujet, 1?. oii il avait regne. 
En entendant le son des clocheo. qui sonnaient en 
Actions de graces pour cette election, il mourut 
subitement d'une hemorrhagie v-ausee par une veine 
qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine.* 



"Le doge, blesse de troviver constamment un 
contradicteur et un censeur si amer dans son frere, 
hii dit un jour en plein conceil : " Messire Augustin, 
■■ous faite tout votre possible pour hater ma mort ; 
vous vous flattez de me succeder ; mais, si les autres 
vous connaissent aussi bien que je vous connais, ils 
n'auront garde de vous elii-e." La-dessus il se le 
leva, emu del colere, rentra dans son appartement, 
et mourut quelques jours apres. Ce frere, contre 
le lequel il s'etait emporte, fut precisement le suc- 
cesseur qu'on lui donna. C'etait un merite dont 
on aimait a tenir compte ; surtout a un parent, de 
s'etre mis en opposition avec le chef de la repub- 
lique."t — Daru, Histoire de Venise, vol. ii. sec. xi. 
p. 533. 



In Lady Morgan's fearless and excellent work 
'ipon " Italy," I perceive the expression of " Rome 
of the Ocean " applied to Venice. The same phrase 
occurs in the "Two Foscari." My publisher can 
vouch for me that my tragedy was written and sent 
to England some time before I had seen Lady Mor- 
gan's work, which I only received on the 16th of 
August. I hasten, however, to notice the coinci- 
dence, and to yield the originality of the phrase to 
her who first placed "t before the public. I am the 
more anxious to do this, as I am informed (for I 
have seen but few of the specimens, and those 
accidentally) that there have lately been brought 
against me charges of plagiarism. I have also had 
an anonymous sort of threatening intimation of 
the same kind, apparently with the intent of extort- 
ing money. To such charges I have no answer to 
make. One of them is ludicrous enough. I am 
reproached for having formed the description of a 
shipwreck in verse from the narrative of many 
actual ship\wecks in prose, selecting such materials 
as were most striking. Gibbon makes it a merit 
in Tasso " to have copied the minutest details of 
the Siege of Jerusalem from the Chronicles." In 
me it may be a demerit, I presume : let it remain 
BO. Whilst I have been occupied in defending 
Pope's character, the lower orders of Grub street 
appear to have been assailing mine: this is as it 
should be, both in them and in me. One of the accu- 
Bations in the nameless epistle alluded to is still 
more laughable : It states seriously that I " received 
five hundied pounds for wiiting advertisements for 
Day and Martin's patent blacking ! " This is the 
highest compliment to my literary powers which I 



• Marin Saiiuto, Vite de' Duchi di Veneaa, p. 1164.— Chronicon Eugu- 
Dinuni, 'I'. XXI. p. 992.— Cliristotbro da Soldo Utoriu Breeciuna, T. XXI. p. 
tel.— Navugiiipo, Storio Venezianu, XXI. p. 1120. M. A. Sabellico, Deca 
ni. L. VIII. f. v;01. 

t The Venetians appear, to hare had a particular torn for breaking the 
hearu of Oitir Doges ; tho abovi; ia luiother inirtaiice o( the kind in the Doge 
Maivu BurlKirifo ; he wiui iiicceeded bjr hia brother Augustiuo Barutigo, 
*twM chSef merit ii ahore mentioned. 



ever received. It states also •■ that a person has 
been trying to make the acquaintance of Mr 
Townsend, a gentleman of the law, who was with 
me on business in Venice three years ago, for the 
purpose of obtaining any defamatory particulars ol 
my life from this occasional visiter." Mi. To^vn- 
send is welcome to say what he knows. I mention 
these particulars merely to show the world in 
general what the literary lower world contains, and 
their way of setting to work. Another charge made, 
I am told, in the "Literary Gazette" is, that 1 
wrote the notes to " Queen Mab : " a work which I 
never saw till some time after its publication, and 
which I jrecollect showing to Mr. Sotheby as a poem 
of great power and imagination. I never wrote a 
line of the notes, nor ever saw them except in their 
published form. No one knows better than their 
real author, that his opinions and mine ditfer 
materially upon the metaphysical portion of that 
work ; though in common with all who are 
not blinded by baseness and bigotry, I highly 
admire the po»try of that and his other publi 
cations. 

Mr. Southey, too, in his pious preface lo a poena 
whose blasphemy is as harmless as the sedition oi 
Wat Tyler, because it is equally absurd *v'ith thai 
sincere production, calls upon the " legislature to 
look to it," as the toleration of such writings led to 
the French Revolution : not such writings as Wat 
Tyler, but as those of the " Satanic School." This 
is not true, and Mr. Southey knows it to be not 
true. Every French wr-iter of any freedom was 
persecuted ; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, 
Marmontel and Diderot were sent to the Bastile, 
and a perpetual war was waged with the whole class 
by the existing despotism. In the next place the 
French Revolution was not occasioned by any 
writings whatsoever, but must have occuiTtd had 
no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to 
attribute every thing to the French Revolution, 
and the French Revolution to every thing but its 
real cause. That cause is obvious — the government 
exacted too much, and the people could neither give 
nor bear more. Without this, the Encyclopedists 
might have written their fingers off without the 
occurrence of a single alteration. And the English 
Revolution — (the first, I mean) — what was it occa- 
sioned by ? The Puritans were surely as pious and 
moral as Wesley or his biographer ! Acts — acts on 
the part of government, and not \Mitings against 
them, have caused the past convulsions, and are 
tending to the future. 

I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolu 
tionist ; I wish to see the English constitution 
restored and not destroyed. Born an aristocrat, 
and naturally one by temper, with the greater i)art 
of my present property in the funds, what have / to 
gain by a revolution ? Perhaps, I have more tc 
lose in every way than Mr. Southey, with all hia 
places and presents for panegyri ^s and abuse into 
the bargain. But that a revolution is inevitable, 1 
repeat. The government may exult ovei the rejires- 
sion of petty tumults ; these are but the receding 
waves repulsed and broken for a moment on the 
shore, while the great tide is still rolling on and 
gaining ground with every breaker*. Mr. Souihej 
accuses us of attacking the religion of the country 
and is he abetting it by writing lives of Wesleu* 
One mode of worship is merely destroyed b) 
another. There never was, nor ever will be, a 
country without a religion. We shall be told of 
France again ; but it was only Paris and a frantic 
party, which for a moment upheld their dogmatic 
nonsense of theophilanthropy. The church of Eng 
land, if overthrown, will be^swept away by the 
sectarians, and not by the skeptics. People are 
too wise, too well-informed, too certain of their 
own immense importance in the realms of space, 
ever to submit to the inipiety of doubt. Tiiie 
may be a few suoh diffident speculators 1ik« 



AFFENDIX TO THE TWO FOSCAKI. 



347 



iratex in the pale sunbeam of human reason, [ as it was one which brought me in contact with a 



but they are very few; and their opinions, with 
out enthusiasm or appeal to the passions, can 
never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they are 
persecuted — that, to be sure, will increase any- 
thing. 
Mi:. S. with a cowardly ferocity, exults over the 



near connexion of his own, did no dishonor to that 
connexion nor to me. 

I am not ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on 
a different occasion, knowing them to be s'lch. 
which he scattered abroad nn his return from 
Switzerland against me and others : they have done 



ajaticipated "death-bed repentance" of the objects! him no good in this world, and, if his creed be the 
of his dislike; and indulges himself in a pleasant ' right oiie, they will do less in the next. What hi» 
"Vision of Judgment," in prose as well as verse, { "death-bed " may be, it is not my province to 
full of impious impudence. What Mr. S.'s sensa- 1 predicate : let him settle it with his Maker, as I 
tions or ours may be in the awful moment of leaving ! must do with mine. There is something at onrn 
this state of existence neither he nor we can pre- j ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant scribbler 
tend to decide In common, I presume, with most | of 'all work sitting down to deal damnation and 
men of any reflection, / have not waited for a j destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with Wat 
" death-be^d " to repent of many of my actions, Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the 
notwithstanding the "diabolical pride" which this: Elegy on Martin the regicide, all shufBed together 
pitiful renegade in his rancour would impute to in his WTiting-desk. One of his consolations ap- 
those who scorn him. Whether upon the whole \ pears to be a Latin note from the work of a Mr. 
the good or evil of my deeds may preponderate isjLandor, the author of " Gebir," whose friendship 
not for me to ascertam ; but, as my means and i for Robert Southey will, it seems, "be an honor to 
opportunities have been greater, I shall limit my him when the ephemeral disputes and ephemeral 

reputations of the day are forgotten." I for one 
neither envy him " the friendship," nor the glory in 



present defence to an assertion (easily proved, if 
necessary), that I, "in my degree," have done 
more real good in any one given year, since I was | reversion which is to accrue from'it, like Mr. Thelus 



twenty, than Mr. Southey in the whole course of his 
shifting and turn-coat existence. There are several 
actions to which I can look back with an honest 

Eride, not to be damped by the calumnies of a hire- 
r.g. There are others to which I reciu- with sorrow 
and repentance ; but the only act of my life of 
which Mr. Southey can have anj, real kaowledc" ' 



son's fortune in the third and fourth generation. 
This friendship will probably be as memorable as 
his ovni epics, which (as I quotod to him ten ci 
twelve years ago in " English Eards ") Person said 
" would be remembered when Homer a.nd Virgil are 
forgotten, and not till thea." For the present, 3 



SARD ANAP ALUS ; 

A TRAGEDY. 



•10 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE 

07 A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGB LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WBITBB8 

WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY. 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OP EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM 

IS ENTITLED ^ 

SARDANAPALUS. *, 



PREFACE. 

In publishing the tragedies of Sardanapalus and 
the Two Foscari, I have only to repeat that they were 
aot composed with the most remote view to the stage. 

On the attempt made by the Managers in a for- 
mer instance, the public opinion has been already 
expressed. 

With regard to my own private feelings, as it 
seems that they are to stand for nothing, I shall 
Bay nothing. 

For the historical foundation of the compositions 
in question, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The Author has in one instance attempted to 
preserve, and in the other to approach the '* uni- 
ties ; " conceiving that with any very distant depar- 
ture from them, there may be poetry, but can be no 
drama. He is aware of the unpopularity of this 
notion in present English literature ; but it is not a 
gystem of his own, being merely an opinion, which, 
not very long ago, was the law of literature through- 
out the world, and is still so in the more civilized 
parts of it. But "Nous avons change tout cela," 
and are reaping the advantages of the change. The 
writer is far from conceiving that any ^hing he can 
adduce by personal precept or example can at all 
ipproacli his regular, or even irregular predecessors ; 
lie is merely giving a reason why he preferred the 
more regular formation of a structure however 
feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules what- 
•oevcr. Where he has failed the failure is in the 
«rchltect, -and not in the art 



In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow 
the account of Diodorus Si cuius: reducing it, how* 
ever, to such dramatic regularity as 1 best could, 
and trying to approach the unities. I therefore 
suppose the rebellion to explode and succeed in one 
day by a sudden conspiracy instead of the long war 
of the history. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiB. 

Men. — Sardanapalus, Kififf of Nineveh, and 

Assyria^, ^c. 
Arbaces, the Mede, who as(pired to the 

Throne. 
Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salememes, the King's Brother-in-law. 
Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the 

Palace. 
Pania, 
Zames. 
Sfero. 
Balea. 

Women. — Zarina, the Uueen. 

Mykrha, an Ionian female Slave, and 
the Favorite of Sardanapalus. 
Women composing the Harem of Sardanapalus* 
Gicards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests^ Medea, 
¥; ¥- 
Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Ninev^eli. 



8A.RPANAPALUS. 



849 



ACT 1. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Palace. 

Saumenes, (solus.) He hath wrong'd his queen, 
but still he is her lord ; 
He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sov- 
ereign, 
.4Lnd I mtist be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I ^vill not see 
rhe blood of Nimrod anA Semiramis 
Bink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
fle must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
Repress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 
Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reach'd an empire ; to an empii-e born, 
He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage :— 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame, by only being that 
Which he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
A.nd saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield 

not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute. 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women. 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odors of the perfumed trains. 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female. 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. 
He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and front him. 
And tell him what all good men tell each other. 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
kicd by the monarch subject to his slaves. 



SCENE II. 

Enter S4.rdanapalu8 effemtnutely dressed, his 
head crowned with flowers, and his robe negligently 
flowing, attended by a train of women and young 
slaves. 

fer. (speaking to tome of hi^ attendants.) Let 
the pavilion over the Euphrates 
R» (carlanded and lit, and fumiah'd f^rth 



For an especial banquet ; at the hour 

Of midnight we will sup there : see nought wanting 

And bid the gallery be prepared. There is 

A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river 

We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 

To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 

We'll megt again in that the sweetest hour, 

When we shall gather like the stars above us, 

And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs : 

Till then, let each b*- m. 'rress of her time. 

And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,i choose, 

Wilt thou along with them or f e ? 

Myr. My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life ! why answereth thou BO 
• coldly ? 
It is the curse of kings to be so ansv»er'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thou rulcst mine — say, wouldEl 

thou 
A" company our guests, or chann away 
The moments from me ? 

Myr. The king's choice !« miae 

Sar. I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire, 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thoii ^..rt still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for ethers 

Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar. " Yet' wlatYBT? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

Myr. I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal. (comes forward and says,) The Ionian slave 
says well ; let her retire. 

Sar. Who answers ? How now, brother ? 

Sal. The queeti's brothei 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

Sar (addressing his train.) As I have said, let 
all dispose their hom's 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

• [ The r^urt retiring 
(To Myrrkx, w?io is going.) Myrrha.' I though! 
thou wouldst remain. 

Myr. Great king, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedsi it ; 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes. 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 

Myr. Sire ! your brother — 

Sal. IHs consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How darest thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush j 

Thou hast no more eyes than heiut to make hef 

crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows, 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blind 

ness. 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha? 

Sal. Let tlvem flow on ; she weeps for more than 
one, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow . 

Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that already 

Sar. Thou dost forget thee: make me not 
remember 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou oouldst ' 



S50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Myr. ' My sovereign, 

I piay and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has 
check'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
Ln empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha. 

i>al. It may be. 

Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 

Sar Brother, 

1 can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this : yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'Tis beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature. 
Which I would urge thee. O that l could rouse 

thee ! 
Though 'twere against myself. 

Sar. By the god Baal ; 

The man would make me t}Tant. 

Sal. So thou art. 

Think 'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? the despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
WTiose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master. 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal :_ 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. WTiy what makes thee the mouth-piece of 
the people ? 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly. 
In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

Sar. What's that ? 

Sal. To thee an unknown wowi. 

Sar. Yet speak it ; 

1 love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Woj-se than the rabble's shout, or splitting In'.mpet ; 
['ve heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

SiL To change the irksome theme, then, -hear of 
vice. 

<ar. Fronx whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, 
patient, 
\8 tnou hast often proved — speak out, what moves 
thee ? 

Sal. Thy peril. 

Sar. Say on. 

Sal. Thus, then : aii tk , nations. 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud i^i wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me! "What would the slaves ? 

Sal. A king. 



Sar. And what 

Am I then ? 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 

In mine a man who might be something gtill. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what uooU 
they have ? 
Have they not peace and plenty ? 

Sal. Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who provide no better ? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'ci 
looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond tiiem., 'tis but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 
Through the long centui'ies of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peiil ! 
For what } to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. I undei'stand thee — thou wouldst have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
"V^Tnich the Chaldeans read — the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. WTierefore not ? 

Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges, 

Sar. 'Tis most true. And how return'd ? 

Sal. Why, like a 7nan — a hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty gu.ards, she made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

SoJ. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I will say for them— 

That she had better woven mthin her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 
And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou mvjhfst pway. 

Sar. I sway them- 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than youf 
sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not ' 
I've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they sav 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god. 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was vanquish A 

Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and tho*i 
perceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he.did- 

Sar. And in his godship I will honor him — 
Not much as man. What ho ' my cupbearer ' 



SARDANAPALUS. 



351 



Sal. "What means the king ? 



Sar. 
hni. ancient conqueror. 



To worship your new god 
Some wine, 1 say. 



Enter Cupbearer. 

Sar. (addressing the Cupbearer.) Bring me the 
golden goblet thick with gems, 
Wuich bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence ! 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fittir»g one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-otf revels ? 

Re-enter Cupbearer, with wine. 

Sar. (taking the cup from him.) Noble kinsman, 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Conquered the whole of India, did he not ? 

Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 

Sar. Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns 
Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed. 
The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
But hei-e, here in this goblet is the title 
To immortality — the immortal grape 
t'*om which he first express'd the soul, and gave 
To gladden that of man, as some atonement 
For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
Had it not been for this, he would have been 
A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
A. sort of semi-glorious human monster. 
Here's that which deifled him — let it now 
Humanize thee ; my siirly, chiding brother, 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 
• Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero. 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god. 
Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
The young, makes Weariness forget his toil. 
And Fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, then /pledge 

thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind. \Drinka. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

Sar. And if I did, 'twere better than a trophy, 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me, 
Contitiue what them pleasest. 
(To the Cuphearei ) , Boy, rellre. 

{Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal I would but have recall'd thee from thy di-eam : 
BetttT by mo awaken'd than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel? or why? what cause? 
pretext ? 
I dm the lawful king, descended from 
A. race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have 1 done to thoe, or to the people, 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me ? 

Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

S(ir. But 

I hou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is't 
not HO ? 
Sal Thiiik ' Thou hast wrong'd her ! 
Sat PjLtience, prisce, and hear me. 



I She has all power and splendor of her station, 
Respect, the tutelage of AssjTia's he^Ts, 
The homage and the appanage ol sovereignty. 
I married her as monarchs wed — for state, 
And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
Like a Chc^ldean peasant to his mate. 
He knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

Sal. I pray thee, change the theme : my blood 
* disdains 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passicn 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

Sar. ^ And why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires. 
Which he who long neglects not long will govern. 

Sar. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! they 
murmur 
Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
To dry into the desert's dust by myriads. 
Or whiten with their bones the banks of Gangf i , 
Nor decimated them with savage laws, 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids. 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubui«9, 
And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtue. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities 
There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy theni ? * 

Sal. 'Tis most true ; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities. 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though well 
built. 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life and rule. 
But nothing 'gainst the tr\xth of that brief record. 
AVhy, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things human ; hear — " Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth a fillip.' • 

Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 

Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up 
edicts — 
" Obey the king — contribute to his treasure- 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding- 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These arc their sepulchres, and this his trophy.' 
1 leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ungronning to the tomb; I take no license 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 

Sat. Thy sires have been revered us gods— 

Sar. In dusf 

Ard death, where they are neither gods nor moni 
Tain not of such to me ! the worms are gods; 
At least they banqueted upon your gods 



552 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



AJid died for lack of farther nutriment. 

Those gods were merely men ; look to their issue — 

I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 

But nothing godlike, unless it may be 

The thing which you condemn, a disposition 

To love and to be merciful, to pardon 

The follies of ray species, and (that's human) 

To bo indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of Nineveh is seal'd.— Wo— "Wo 
""'o the unrivaird city ! 

Sar, What dost dread ? 

fial. Thou art guarded by thy foes ; in a few hours 
f he tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

Sar. What must we dread ? 

Sal. Ambitious treachery, 

VVliich has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 

Sar. The heads — ^how many ? 

Sal. Must I stay to number. 

When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
"Wlien we take those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek 
for thine ? 

Sar. That's a hard question — but, I answer. Yes 
Cannot the thing be done without ? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 

Sal. I would thou \^uldst not ask me : the next 
moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace. 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
Trust me. 

Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever : 
Take thou the signet. ' [Gives the signet. 

Sal. I have one more request. — 

Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 
In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them como, 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor foi-bear the goblet ; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, 
if needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest ami or, and 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth: 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on't, 'tis long since I've used them. 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 

Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? — 
If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the sword 
Till they shall wish it tiu-n'd into a distaff. 

Std. They say, thy sceptre's turn'dto that already ? 

Sar That's false ! but let them say so ; the old 
Greeks, 



Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 

Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 

Sar. No , 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat. 
And never changed their chains but for their armor 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the license 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank tori^aes 
Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding, 
That I should prize their noisy praise, or di-ead 
Their noisome clamor ? 

Sal. You have said they are men 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs aw 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I h&,te all pain. 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burden 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen. 
By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not ^^^th their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st short 

Of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks tc 
be so. 

Sar. What mean'st thou ? — 'tis thy secret , thou 
desirest 
Fewquestions, and I'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only ; if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ash^-s, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who loere, 
But would no more, by their own choice, be huiaan. 
What they have found me, they belie ; that which 
They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themseh.is. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake vbat 

energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee. 
And thou may'st yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

[Exit SalemekIm 

Sar. (aoliu.J FareweU 



SAKDANAPALUS. 



3M 



he 8 gone ; and on his finger bears my signet, 

Which is to him a sceptre. He is stern 

As I am h'-edless ; and the slaves deserve 

To feel a master. What may be the danger, 

I know not : he hath found it, let him quell it. 

Must I consume my life — this little life — 

In guarding against all may make it less ? 

It is not worth so much ! It were to die 

Before my hour, to live in dread of death, 

Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me, 

Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 

Because they are afar. But if it should be so — 

If they should sweep me off from earth and empire. 

Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 

I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 

To die is no less natural than those — 

Acts of this clay ! "i'is true I have not shed 

Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 

My name became the synonyme of death — 

A terror and a trophy. But for this 

1 feel no penitence ; my life is love : 

If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 

Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 

Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 

Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 

On objects which could cost her sons a tear: 

If then they hate me, 't*(S because I hate not: 

If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 

Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not 

sceptres. 
And mow'd down like grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of dicontentis infecting the fair soil. 
Making a desert of fertility. — 
I'll think no more. Within there, ho ! 

^nter an Attendant. 
Sar. Slave, tell 

The loniax Myrrha we would crave her presence. 
Attend. Kmg, she is here. 

Myrrha enters. 

oar. (apart to Attendant.) Away ! 
(Addressing Mykrha. j Beautiful being 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest: let me 
Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet 

oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name ; 

What is it ? 

Myr. In my native land a god. 

And in my heart a feeling like a god's, 
Exalted : yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrrha patuea. 

Sar. There comes 

For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

Myr. My lord !— 

tiar. My lord — ^my king— sire — sovereign ; thus it 
is— 
For ever thus address'd with awe. I ne'er 



Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet* 8 

Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 

Have gorged themselves up to equality 

Or I have quaff' d me down to their abasement. 

Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names, 

Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was I prize* 

them. 
That is, I sufFer'd them from — slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love. 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt. Ki^st, and makes rae 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

Myr. Would that we could ! 

Sar. And dost thou feel this ? — Why i 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst 
never know. 

Sar. And that is— — 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's 

Sar. 1 have proved a thousand-^ 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr. Hearts ? 

-Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one I the time may come thou may'st. 

Sar. It will 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I^ 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well. • 

Sar. And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers. 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. 1 should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou speak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on'u- 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'Tis time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 

Sar. What ? — and dost thou fear } 

Myr. Fear ? — I'm a Greek, and how should I feai 
death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turn so paie ? 

Myr. I loT*. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 

Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyself nor me 
For he who loves another loves himself. 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash • 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

<Sar. Lost ' — why who is the aspiring chief wbc 
dared 
A«sume to win them ? 



354 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Myi . Who is he should dread 

To try 80 much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 

Sar. Myrrha ! 

Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am you^ subject ! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A. slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
A.nd, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

Ilyr. And without love where dwells security ? 

Sar. I speak of woman's love. 

Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's breast. 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips. 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too Cften breathed out in a woman's hearing. 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak' st music ; 
The very chorus of the tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime 
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

Myr. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. ' Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

Sar. VVell, then, how wouldst thou save me, as 
thou saidst ? 

Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 

Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors — 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha ? 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, se^-love, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
let not oppress'd — at least they must not think so ; 
Oi if they think so, deem it necessary. 
To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

Sar. Glory ! what's that ? 

Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak 
for *hem, 
Tis for some small addition to the temple. 

Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's 
founders. 

Vor Thej are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 



But what wouldst have ? the empire has beentounded 
1 cannot go on multiplying empires. 

Myr. Preserve thine own. 

Sar. At least I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us on to the Euphrates , 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will si* 
Crown' d with fresh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like scvereigrL* 

The shepherd kings of patriarchal times. 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths. 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on 

E7iter Pania. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie, 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemencs to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king. 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace ; when the general returns, 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. TMiat ! am I then ( oop'd ? 

Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assjrria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet — 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen. 

How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified. 
The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth. 
Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past father's race. 
And for thy son's inheritance ? 

Pan. 'Tis true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the piinoe 
Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. No, it must not be 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For thoi 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine. 

Sar. These are mere phmtasics j 

There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes to approve his zeal. 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that's good and glorious take thU 
counsel. 

Sar. Business to-morrow 



sarb^jnapalus. 



355 



Myr. Ay, or death to-night, 

Sar. "Why let t come then unexpectedly 
Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
Bo let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — Jfar better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel. 

Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield tor mine ; 

For my eake I 

Sar. Thiae, my' Myrrha ! 

Myr. *Tis the first 

Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That's true, and wer't my kingdom must be 
granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
Thou hear'st me. 
/ Pan. And obey. \Exit Pania. 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is thy motive Myrrha, thus to urge me ? 

Myr. Thy safety ; aud the certainty that nought 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou ? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

Sar. To-morrow thou wiit smile at these vain 

fancies. 
'Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none 
weep, 
And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where ? 

Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 

Bole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be ; 
I Avill not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sar. And who will do so now ? 

Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect ! — that's a spy's office. Oh ! we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words. 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace. 
At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly ; 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border. 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within tliere ! 

[Exit SAKDANAPALirS. 

Myr. (solus.) Why do I love this man ? My 
country's daughters 
fjove none Xnit heroes. But I have no country ! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
And that's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he'll need all love. 
And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
WoTild have been noble in my country's creed : 
I WPS not made for cither. Could I save him, 
^ should not love him better, but myself; 
<vnd I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
In my owh thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 
<Lnd yet methinks I love him more, perciviuK 



That he is hated of his othi barbarians, 

The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling long 
'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart. 
He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 

triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign. 
May show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight 

\Bxx, 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

The Portal of tJie same Hall of the Palace. 

Beleses, (solus.) The sun goes doAvn: methinkf 
he sets more slowly. 
Taking his last look of AssjTia's empire : 
How red he glares amongst those deepening cloudf* 
Like the blood he predicts. If not in vain. 
Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremb'^ 
For what he brings the nations, 'tis the fxirthea* 
Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 
An earthquake should announce so great a fall 
A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 
To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
Its everlasting page the end of what 
Seem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou true sun ' 
The burning oracle of all that live. 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou Vjiit 
Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
Unfold the rise of days more worthy thin*. 
All glorious burst from ocean 'i why not daft 
A beam of hope athwart the future years. 
As of ^vrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh ! hea» m^ 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 
I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall. 
And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day oeams, 
When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fe:ir'd thee. 
And ask'd of thoe, and thou hast answer'd — but 
Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowled^^ 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but glorious ? 'Tis a siinset; 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Ahhaces, by an inner door. 

Arh. Boloses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some rehlm of undiscover'd day ? 
Our business is with night — 'tis come. 

Bel. But A01 

Gone 



356 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Arh Let it roll on — ^we are ready. 

Bel. Yes. 

Would it were over. 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
QuafF'd by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 

Arb. And is a weak one — 'tis worn out — we'll 
mend it. 

Bel. Art sure of that ? 

Arb. Its founder was a hunter- 

£ am a soldier — ^what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arb. And the priest, it may be ; but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky. 

Arb. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And midst them, mark 

Ton earliest, and the brightest which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arb. Well ? 

Bel 'Tis thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. (touching his scabbard.) My star is in this 
scabbard : when it shines, 
It shall out-dazzle comets. . Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer, 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of — ^what gods thou wilt ; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou 
hast not 
Been me turn back from battle. 

Arb. No ; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain. 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship ; now, 
Will it but pleafee thee to forget the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both ? 

Arb. The better ; 

A'ttd yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to eflfect. This woman's warfare 
Degiades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel. 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkwonn, 
A.nd hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it : 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
lind were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
\nd headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

Arb. They'll not resist. 



Bel. Why not ? they ire soldien 

Arb. Tru« 

And therefore need a soldier to command them. 

Bel. That Salemenes is. 

Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council — there he is ever constant. 

Arb. And ever thwarted ; what would you hav^ 
more 
To make a rebel out of ? A fool reigning, 
His blood dishonor'd, and himself disdain'd ; 
Wliy, it is his revenge we work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this, I doubt of. 

Arb. What, if we sound him ? 

Bel. Yes — ^if the time served 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps ! The king commands your presence 
at 
The feast to-night. 

Bel. To hear is to obey. 

In the pavilion ? 

Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'd. 

Bal. It is so order'd now. 

Arb. And why ? 

Bal. I know not 

May I retire ? 

Arb. Stay. 

Bel. (to Arb. aside.) Hush ! let him go his way. 
(Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the mon 

arch, kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was't midnight ? 

Bal. It was : the place the hall of Nimrod. Lords 
I humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Balea 

Arb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he change 
it? 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day ? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — ^it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen— 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still— I like it not. 
If he has changed — ^why, so must we : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower. 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers ; 
But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Meth ought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb. When the hour comes 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gaily play'4 






SARDANAPALUS 



357 



But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 

e would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here ! 



V Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps ! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 

But elsewhere than the i)alaoe 

Arb. Wherefore so ? 

Sal. 'Tis not the hour. 

Arb. The hour ! — what hour ? 

Sal. Of midnight. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. What, are you not inrvited ? 

Bel. Oh ! yes — ^we had forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

Arb. Why — we but now received it. 

Sal. Then why here ? 

Arb. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty ? 

Bel. On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the presence, 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb. May we crave its purport ? 

Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within 
there ! 



Eiiter Gttards. 



Satraps, 



Sal. (continuing''.) 
Your swords. 
Bel. (delivering his.) My lord, behold my scimetar. 
Arb. (drawing his sword. J Take mi»e. 
Sal. (advancing.) I will. 

Arb. But in your heart the blade — 

The hilt quits not this hand. 

Sal. (dratving.) How ! dost thou brave me ? 

'Tis well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

Arb. Soldiers ! Ay — 

Alone you dare not. 

Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 

What is there in thee that a prince should shrink 

from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength: thy tooth is nought, without its 

venom — 
ihe serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 
B&l. (interposing.) Arbaces ! Are you mad ? Have 
I not rendcr'd 
Wy sword ? 'I'hen trust like me our sovereign's justice. 
Arb. No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prut'st 
of 
A.nd this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breatli and body — so far that 
None else shall chain them. 

Sal. (to the Guards.) You hear Aim and me. 

fake him not, — kill. 

\^Thc Gnard^ attack Ahrackh, whu defends him- 
*9lf vaiiant'y and dexterously till they waver. 
Sal Is it even so ; and must 



I do the hangman's office } Recreants . see 

How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemen£s attacks Abbacks 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

Sar. Hold your hands— 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken i 
My sword ! fool, I wear no sword ; here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [^fo a Guard. 

[Sakdanapalus snatches a sword from one oj 
the soldiers, and makes between the comtatarUa 
— tliey seperate. 

Sar. In my very palace ! 

What hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 

Bel. Sire, your justice. 

: Sal. Or- 

Your weakness. 

Sar. (raising his sword.) How ? 

Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment 
I trust, for torture — I'm content. 

Sar. What— him ! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 

Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 

Sal. (showing the signet.) Tshine. 

Arb. (confused.) The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. I parted not from this for such a purpose 

Sal. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person 
Here I am but your slave — a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Armaces and Salemenes return their steorda 
to the scabbards. 

Sal. Mine's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not 
yours ; 
'Tis the sole sceptre left thee now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
(To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy we\pon back 

Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 

Bel. The prince must answet that 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Belese»— 
That were an union 1 will not beheve. 

Bel. Where is the proof ? 

Sal. I'll answer that, if once 
The king demands your fellow-traitoi 's swcra. 

Arb. (to Sal.) A sword which hath been dr&wn na 
oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his brothci, 

And in an hour or so against himself. 

Sar. That is not possible : he dared not ; no 
No — I'll not hear of such things. These vaui 

bickerings 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues and base. 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good nien's hvts. 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal. Firet 

Lot him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I will uuswcr nil. 

S<tr. Why, if I thcuRht ao 



358 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But no, it cannot be . the Mede Arbaces— 

The trusty, rough, t;ue soldier — the best captain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I'll not insult him thus, to bid him render 

The Kcimetar to me he never yielded 

Unto -^ur enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 

Sal. '^delivering back the signet.) Monaz'ch, take 
back your signet. 

Sar. No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation. 

iSal. Sire, 

I used it for your honor, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should : 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it, 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

BeL I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 

Sal. Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier ! 
thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggUng homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bolcFone, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 

Bel. Hear him, 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. • 

Sar. . Oh ! for that I pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feehng that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
tl'rom whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 

Bel. King ! Do not deem so : they are with the 
stars, 
And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
If you preach farther — Why, t/iis is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the worship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 

I pray ye pause. 

Sar. Yes and be sermonized. 

And dinn'd, and deafen' d with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea' s starry mysteries. 

Bel. Monarch ! respect them. * 

Sar. Oh ! for that — I love tHem ; 

i love to watch them in the deep blue vault, 
And compare them with my MyrrUa's eyes ; 
( love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave, 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be, 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods. 
As others hold, or simi)ly lamps of night, 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There's sometliiug sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change for your Chaldean 'ore ; 
Besides I know of these all clay can kaow 
Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
I bee Xheix brilliancy and feel their beauty— 



When they shine on my grave I snail know iieithei 

Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 

Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving either. 

Sal. (aside. J His lusts have made him mad. Thet 
must I save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar. Please you to hear me, satraps ! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all, 
Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
In peace — I'll not say pardon — which must be 
Earn'd by the guilty ; this I'll not pronounce ye. 
Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful— 
And so "live on. Were I the thing some think mCf 
Your heads would now be di-ipping the last drops 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
Of this our palace, into the dry dust. 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pasa. 
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty, 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges. 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

Arb. Sire, this clemency—— 

Bel. (iiitemipting him.) Is worthy of yourself j 
and, although innocent, 
We thank 

Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus , 
His offspring needs none. 

Bel. But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal. 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not gratefuL 

Bel. So we should be, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favor. 

Sar. That's a good sentence for a homily. 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

Bel. I trust there is no cause. 

Sar. No cause, perhapt ^ 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of yoiu: inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not spare Lin 
Were they once masters — but that's doubtful 

Satraps ! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
Folkw me. 

[Exe^int Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and tJk 
Train, ^c. leaving Akbaces and BadLKSsa. 

Arb. Beleses ! 

Bel. Now what think you ? 

Arb. That we are lost 



SARDANAPALUS. 



359 



Uei. That we have won th# kingdom. 

Arb. Wlal? thus suspected — ^with the sword slung 
o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
To be blown down by his imperious breath 
Which spared us — ^why, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
The nigkt the same we destined. He hath changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into such a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Arb. And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still ? 

Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more. 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
Gave royally what we had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 

Bel. And lose the world ! 

Arb. Lose any thing except my own esteem. 

Bel. I blusl that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distafis ! 

Arb. But no less we owe them ; 

And I si. -^uld blush far more to take the granter's ! 

Bel. Thou may'st endure whate'er thou wilt, the 
stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

Bel. This is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead. 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he 
spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it, 
And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much despised 
him. 
And that there A^as some royalty within him — 
What then ? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner :— Would he had not spared us ! 

Bel. So— 

Wjuldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 

Arb. No — but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men . 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
F.^ols treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say ? — Sardanapalua 1 
[ know no name mure ignominious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Hud licld his life but lightly — as it is, 
I muHt forgive you, even as ho forgave U8— 
Bemiramis herself would not have done it. 



Bel. No— The queen liked no shares of tb« 
kingdDm, 
Not even a husband. 

Arb. I must serve him truly-—— 

Bel. And humbly ? 

Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaveu ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming — you have codes. 
And mysteries and corollaries of 
Right and \vrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
And now you know me. 

Bel. Have you finish'd ? 

Arb. \e»— 

With 'you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well » 

As quit me ? 

Arb. That's a sacerdotal thought. 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will- 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 

Arb. N(y 

There is more peril in yoiir subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so — 

I'll on alone. 

Arb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is fill'd. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy - 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her savior or the victim of her tyrant. 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

A)'b. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not ? better than be siavi 

The pardon' d slave of she Sardanapalus. 

E7iter Pan I A. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bil. With our troops ? 

Paw. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arb. But 

Bel. It must be obey' ft 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to beai- your answer. 

Bel. (aside.) Ay I 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honor which befits your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds noi. 

[Exit Pamia 

Bel. Now then obey ! 



360 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Arb Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison. 
No further. 

Arb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 

The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
Yawrs dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves ! 

Arb^. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Let me ^ope better than thou augurest; 
At prese nt let us hence as best we may. 
I'hou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

Arb. Why, what other 

Intterpretation should it bear ? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favors and a sword— 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I ovm is, or at least was, bloodless — 

Bel But will not, can not be so now. 

Arb. I doubt it. 

How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty vice-royalties. 
Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how. 
But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
So long and hea\y. 

BeK Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
The journey. 

A)-b. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates. 

It may be. 

Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that, 

rhey meapi us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Wliere we are known and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

A7-b. If I but thought he did not mean my life 

Bel. Fool ! hence what else should despotism 

alarm 'd 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 

Arb. Towards our provinces ? 

Bel. No ; towards your kindom. 

There's time, there's heart, and hope, and power, 

and means. 
Which their half measure leaves us in full scope. — 
Away ! 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

Bel. Self defence is a virtue. 

Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
Let's leave this place, the air grows thick and 

choking. 
And the walls have a scent of nightshade — hence ! 
Let us not leave them time for further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal : 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The V orthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence ; 

Nay. there's no other choice, but hence, I say. 

[Exit with AiiBACES, who follows reluctantly. 

Enter Sardanapalub -^nd Salewenes. 
Sar. Well, all is remedied, tind without bloodshed, 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
W"* *>re DOW secure bv tl ese men's exiie. 



Sal. Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the adde** 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do f 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon 

Sal. Replace the crovm now tottering on y(0/ 
temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 

Sal. They are not there yet — never rhould they 
be so, 
Were I well listened to. 

Sar. Nay, I have-Msien d 

Impartially to thee — ^why not to them ? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave to order forth the guard. 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet ? 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
Command me in all eervice save the Bacchant's. 

Sar. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for thos< 
who revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 

Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenes 

My brother, my best subject, better prince 

Than I am king. You should have been tha 

monarch. 
And I — I knoAv not what, and care not ; but 
Think not I am insensible to all 
Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind 
Though oft reproving, suiferance of my follies 
If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 
That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 
The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we wiL 

not 
Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them. 
Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
Which their death had not left me. 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep for ever, to save traitors — 
A moment's pang now changed for years of crime 
Still let them be made quiet. 

Sar. Tempt me not : 

My word is past. 

Sal. But it may be recall'd. 

Sar. 'Tis royal. 

Sal. And should therefore be decisive 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be fuL, 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 

Sal. True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
If thev e'er reach their satrapies — why, then. 
Reprove me more for my advice. 

Sar. And if 

They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety, 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine o^vn. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cai-ed for. 

Sar. Get thee nence, thea 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother 



SARDANAPALUS. 



d6i 



Sal, Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solus.) That man is of a temper too severe; 
Sard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers ; 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
Where error sits more lightly on that sense, 
[ know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure, 
A spirit wb'ih seems placed about my heart 
To court its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Qi-esti:)n'=< which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Ncr Baal, though an oracular deity — 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the gtatue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 

Enter Myrrha. 

Myr King ! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace ? 

Sar, ^ Tempest, sayst thou ? 

Myr. Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene. 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

My7'. In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove. 

Sar. Jove — ay, your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder, 
And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, and yet sometimes 
Stiikes his own altars. 

Myr. • That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not go 
forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 

gods 
A.re kinder to thee than thou to thyself, 
A.nd flasb this storm between thee and thy foes, 
I'o shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same within these walls 
A.8 on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so ; these walls 

Are high and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefs, if treachery be ; 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king, 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm ; 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
46 



Banish 'd, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar. So sanguinary ? Thou ! 

Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punisnment 
On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange ; 

The gentle and the austere are both against mei 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'Tis a Greek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I'll none on't ; or 
If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men sought to be so 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter still, 'tis fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath. 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian woman. 

Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my love. 
Nor of my attributes : I have shared your splendor 
And will partake. your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads ; 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel. 
Rather than prove it to you in your griefs. 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Griefs cannot come where perfect love exists 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let's in-- 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited gvests, who grace our feast. 

[Exe^eni 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of the Palace illuminated. — Sardanap 
ALUS and his Guests at Table. — A Storm wdliota, 
and Thunder occasionally heard duHng thi 
Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
Is my true realm, an\idst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod'a 
huntings. 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep when conquer'd ? 

Al/ada. Mighty thougft 

They were, as all the royal line have been, 
Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
The acra«' of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which gloTy 
Is but the path. What is i( that we seek t 
Eiyoymcnt ! We have cut the way short to it. 



362 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And not'gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave mth eveiy footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

A.11 hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise, 
Borne say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so ! — 'Tis impossible. 
What cause ? 

Sar. What cause ? true, — ^fiU the goblet up, 

We will not think of them : there are none such. 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Down on your Knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king — the monarch, say I ! 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames and the Guests kneel, and exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[It thunders as they kneel: some start up in 
confusion. 

Zam. Why do you rise, my friends? in that 
strong peal 
His father gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

K-ing, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there ; 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : it is 
An awful night. 

Myr. ' Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sar. That's true, my Myrrha; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I'd do it. 

Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then, 

Who can, and do not ? 

Myr. Do not speak of that, 

Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friends, a thought has 

struck me. 
Were there no temples, would there, think ye, be 
Air worshippers ? that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask if this your palace were 
Unroof 'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

Alt. The ^air Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know no pleasm-e but their king's ; 
And homage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon I sire: 

We honor her of all things next to thee. 
Hark 1 what was that ? 



Zam. That ! nothing but the ju 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

Alt. It sounded like the clash of — ^hark again 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st. 
Who in thy country threw 

Enter Pania, loith his sword and garments bloody 
and disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 

Pan. (to the Guards.) Look to the porUli 

And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms ! To arms ! the king's in danger. Mon 

arch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine. Take 
breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am 
worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels ? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Myr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what's left of it is still so. 

Myr. And are these all the force still faithful ? 

Pan. No — 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king. 
{He hesitates.) I am charged to 

Myr. 'Tis no time for hesitatiov 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth imjilore the king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho ! 

My armor there. 

Myr. And wilt thou ? 

Sar. Will I not? 

Ho, there ! — ^but seek not for the buckler: 'tis 
Too heavy : — a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where are the rebels ? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rage* 

Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho 
Order my horse out. There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate. 
To marshal half the horsmen of Arabia. 

[Exit Speko for the artnot 

Myr. How I do love thee ! 

Sar. I ne'er doubted St 



SARDANAPALUS. 



86£ 



Myr. But now I know thee. 

Sar. (to his Attendant.) Bring down my spear 
too — 
Where's'Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. ' * 

Sar. Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 

Pan. 'Twas 

When I late left him, and I have no fear ; 
f)ur troaps were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
A.nd that I will not spare my own — and say, 
^ come. 

Pan. There's victory in the very word. 

[Exit Pania. 

Sar. Altada — Zames — forth, and arm ye ! There 
Is all in readiness in the armory. 
See that the women are bestow'd in safety . 
In the remote apartments ; let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 
The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 
Altivda, arm yourself, and return here ; 
Your post is near our person, 

\Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfeho and others with the King's Arms, 8jC. 

Sfe. King ! your armor. 

Sar. (arming himself.) Give me the cuirass — so : 
my baldric ; now 
My sword ; I had forgot the helm — ^where is it ? 
That's well — no, 'tis too heavy : you mistake, too, 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust me, 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd ! Are you too turn'd a rebel ? 
Fellow 
Your part is to obey ; return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 'tis 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you — for the storm 
Has ceiised, and the moon breaks forth in her 
brightness. 

Sar. I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
Shall oe so sooner, Now — my spear ! I'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, and txirns to Sl'Klio. 
Bfero — I had forgotten, bring the mirror.* 

Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass, 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 

[Fjxit Sfeko. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow 

Sar. You! to battle? 

Myr. If it were so, 



' Such the mirror Otho held 
la llM lUyriau &aia."-«M JuTemil. 



'Twere not the first Greek girl nad trod the p»th 
I will await here your return. 

Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and, if it should be so. 
And I return not 

Myr. Still we meet again 

Sar. How ? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at last*^ 
In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx : and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar.* Barest thou so much ? 

Myr. . I dare all thiirji,.. 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest- 

Re-enter Sfero with the mirror. 

Sar. (looking at h/?nself.) This cuu-ass fits m( 
well, the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings away the helmet after trying it again 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada ! Where's Altada ? 

Sfe. Waiting, sire, • 

Without : he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me ; — yet once more — once more 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of yovir love. 

Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfebo. 
Now, I am alone, 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the eiu'th yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove 1 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Haik — to the wa» 

shout ! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small tioL 
This cunning Colchian poison, which my father 
Learn'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught 

me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere tliis hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Arc chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
Of arms — and now — and now 

Enter Altada. 
Alt. Ho, Sforo, ho I 

Myr. He is not here ; what wouldst thou witt 
him ? How 
Goes on the conflict ? 



Alt. 

Myr. And the king } 



Dubiously and ficrcclyi 



564 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Alt. lake a king. I must find Sfero, 

A.nd. bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
A-nd the foe too ; and in the moon*s broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make hin) a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features. 
And the broad fillet which crows both. 

Myr. Ye gods, 

Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Alt. By Salemenes, . 

Who sent me privily upon this charge , 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory — 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'Tis no dishonor — no — 

'Tis no dishonor to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff, surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once, 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood. 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour. 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir ? 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames ? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 

To watch before the apartment of the women. 

[Exit Officer. 

Myr. (solus.) He's gone; and told no more than 
that all's lost ! 
What need have I to know more ? In those words. 
Those little words, a kingdom and a. king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, ajid the fortunes of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great. 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that's left us now. 

Myr. The king ? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

Myr. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And charged me to secure your life. 

And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way ? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They are here, then : — ay, 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 



Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away ! 

Myr. Nb : I'll die here ! — Away, and tell your kin| 
I loved him to the last. 

Enter Sab-danapalus and Salemenes, with sold 
iers. Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges himself 
with them 

Sar. Since it is thus, 

We'll die where we were born — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have despatched 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they'll be here anon. 
All is not over.— Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns toward Myrrha. 

Sal. We have breathing time ; yet once mor« 
charge, my friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria ! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we'll hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark ! they come — they come 

Enter Beleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 
Arb. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

Charge ! 
Bel. On ! on ! — Heaven fights for us, and with us.— 
On! 
[J7iey charge the King and Salemenes with 
their Troops, who defend themselves till the 
arrival of Zames, with the Guard before men- 
tioned. The Rebels are then driven off, and 
pursued by Salemenes, <Sfc. As the King is 
going to join the pursuit, Beleses crosses 
him. 
Bel. Ho ! tyrant — / will end this war. 
Sar. Even so, 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom, 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 

Sar. No, thine. — I've lately read 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And, ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush' d. 
Bel. But not by thee. 

[They fight ; Beleses is wounded arui disarm^ 
Sar. (raising his sword to despatch him, ex- 
claims) — Now call upon thy planets ; will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 
[A party of Rebels enter, and rescue Beleses. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is rescued 
by a party of his Soldiers, who drive tht 
Rebels off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — ^victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit, 
Myr. (to Pan.) Pursue! Why stand'st thou 
here, and leavest the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 
Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 
Myr. Me 

Think not of me — a single soldier'^ arm 



SARDANAPALU8. 



365 



must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 

I need no guard : what, with a world at stake, 

Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 

Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then / will go forth, 

A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 

A.nd bid thee guard me there — where thou shouldst 

shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha. 

Pan. Yet stay, dam ?el ! She's gone. 

[f aught of ill betide her, better I "^ 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
WTio never flash 'd a scimetar till now ? 
Mvrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
£a iiisobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Sfero hy an opposite door. 

Alt. Myrrha ! 

WTiat ! gone ? yet she was here when the fight raged. 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

Sfe. 1 saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their waj back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them ; 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it ; he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
A.S sweeps the air, and deluges the earth. 
The man's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortur'd for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers^ Sjc. 

Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward fiom the 

palace, 
And we have open'd regular access 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
\» the chief victor ? where's the king ? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum auis, Sfc., and Mtrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother. 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We've clear'd the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather : and I've ordered onward 
A cloud of P'vthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and Hvy to be pour'd ipon them 



In their retreat, wnich soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a seat, 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

Sar. 'Tis no place to rest oi 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[ They place a seat 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : so — now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has provt4 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where's my cx^ 
bearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. (smiling.) 'Tis the first time he 

Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood, doubtless. 

But there's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
1 have learn'd to-night the price of the pure element 
Vhrice have I drank of it, and thrice renew'd. 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave m« 
My charge upon the rebels. Where's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his helmet ? 

One of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 

An arrow pierced hiB brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain ! unrewarded ! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that's hard, poor slave . 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him >vith 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
As I am now. [ They bring water — he drinks. 

I live again — from hencefortfc 
The goblet I reserve for hours oi love, 
But war on water. 

Sal. And that bandage, sire, 

Wnich girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleset. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
Now r am cooler. 

Myr. . You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me. 
Save an encumbrance. 

Myr. (to the attendants.) Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire ; 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar. Do so, 

For now it throbs sufiiciently ; but what 
Know'st thou of wounds ? yet wherefore do I ask f 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion ? 

Sal. Herding with the other females, 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

Sar. No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging* 
(And femininely meaneth furiously- 
I3ccau8e all passions in excess are female,) 
Against the hunter flying with her cub, 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldien, 
In the pursuit 

SaL Indoe4i 



366 



BYRO» S WORKS. 



Sar. 



Sal. 



Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
r[er large black eyes, that flash'd through her long 

hair 
As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 
Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 
Waved arms, more dazzling with their o^vn bom 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; all these things made 
Her seem unto the ti-oops a prophetess 
Of Victory, or Victory herself, 
Come down to hail us her's. 

Sal. f aside. J This is teo much ; 

Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost. 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

f Aloud. J But pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound — you said even now 'twas 
painful. 

That's true, too ; but I must not think 
of it. 
I have look'd to all things needful, and will 
now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. fin retiring.) MjTrha ! 

Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night. 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time : thou lovest the king ? 

Myr. I love 

Fardanapalus. 

Sal. But wouldst have him king still ? 

Myr. I would not have him less than what he 
should be. 

Sal. "Well then, to have him king, and yours, and 
all 
He should, or should not be ; to h^e him live, 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
Y on have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal. Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his ; , 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. Myrrha ! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 

Myr. Csmilirifj.) You have cause, sire ; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade ; yet you speak truth. 

Myr. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
Pray, lean on me. 

Sat . Yes love bu* not from pain. 

\Exeunt omnes. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



Sarbanapaltts discovered sleeping upon a Coucli. 
and occasionally disturbed in his slumbers, with 
Myrrha watching. 

Myr. (sola, gazing.) I have stolen upon his restj 
if rest it be, 
"Which thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreanoi. 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd, 
Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirlea*— 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unawakening twin 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — ^yet not yet : who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and 

shake 
Me more to see than him to suiFer. No : » 

Let nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second not disturb her. 

Sar. ( awakaning . ) Not so — although ye multiplied 
the stars, 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
"Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes ! 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If yoiir priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — Away ! away ! 

Where am I ? Wliere the spectres ? Where ^No— 

that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Mynlia ' 

Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the 
drops 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world. 
And thou art loved of this. Be of good cheer ; 
All will go well. 

Sar, Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand ; 

Tis flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 

For what I am, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, MjTrrha I have been where we shall be. 

Myr. My lord ! 

Sar. I've been i' the grave — ^where the worms are 
lords, 

And kings are ^But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 'twas nothing. 

Myr. So it is ; except 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 



SARDANAPALUS. 



36? 



JThat which may never be. 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha! if 

Bleep show such things, what may not death 
disclose ? 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already shown to those who live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore, where mind survives, 'twill be as mind, 
All unincorporate : or if there ilits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay. 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and 

heaven. 
And fetters us to earth— at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not ; but 1 have felt — have seen — 
A. legion of the dead. 

M>/r. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive. 
And wretched. Butprcceed: what hast thou seen ? 
Bpeak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sk-'v. Methought 

Mi,r. Yet pause, thou art tired— in pain — ex- 
hausted ; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit ; seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt: — and canst thou bear to 
hear it ? 

Mi/r. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death, 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled. 

3fyr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 

Here — here-^even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest. 
Willing to etjual all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our accustom'd meeting. 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognize it. 
Yet 1 had seen it, though I knew not where ; 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vast bust whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing. 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — I fiU'd it — 
lie took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I t] cm' -led at the fix'd gbire of his eye : 
I fr jwii'd upon him as a king should frown — 
Ife frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more. 
Because he changed not ; and I turn'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right. 

Where thou wert wont to be. But 

[He pauses. 

Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the 
banquet — 
/ sought thy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a gray-hair'd, wilher'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing, 
female in garb, and '»rown'd U])()n the brow, 
Furro^r'd .vith years yet sneerinjr with the passion 



Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate : — ^my veins curdled. 

Myr. Is this all ? 

Sar. Upon 

Her right hand— her lank, bird-like right hand 

stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, another, fill'd with — what I saw not. 
But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

Sar. Jf9 

It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them 
I turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs ; but no — all turn'd upon me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared 
Till I grev/ stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 
And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or earth and rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end ? 

Sar. At last I sate marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter, and the crew ; and smiling on me— 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I sho ild say. 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman B 
Thin lips relax'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sate still : 
A desperate courage crept through everj' limb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then— then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : 1 took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from m.y own, 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 

Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too. 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman 

The female who remain'd, she flew upurv me. 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kisses, 
And flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung^ 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from hcrf as if, 
In lieu of her remote decendant, I 
Had l)een the son who slew her for her incest 
Then — then a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng'd thick and shapeless: I was dead, yek 

feeling — 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms, 
Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the air I 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee, 
In all these agonies, and woke and found the*. 

Myr So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
B\it think not of these tilings— the mere oreationf 
Of late events, acting upon % frame 



368 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Unused to toil, yet. overwrought by toil 
Such as might try t-« sternest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now that 1 see thee <rtt^ nKjre, what was seen 
Seems nothing. "» 

Enter Saibmenes. 

Sal. Is the king wo soon awake ? 

Sar. Yes, brother, and I ^ mid I had not slept ; 
For all the predecessors of Ovjr line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was among them, too ; but he, 
1 know not why, kept from hlc, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also, 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By daybreak I propose that we set forth. 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd. 

Sar. How wears the night ? 

Sal. There yet remain some hours 

Of darkness : use them for your ftirther rest. 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone: methought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 

Myr. Scarcely one ; 

I watch' d by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council ; 

To-moiTOW we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'Tis granted. 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily ; and 'tis 
For your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Myrhha. 

Sal. Tuat slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only ! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! o£ the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety. 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paphligonia, where our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. ^ That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them, 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ; 

At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

Sar Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
\ught — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 

Sat. !fou know, or ought to know, enough of 
women. 



Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will you grant it ? 

Sar. 'Twill be useless 

But let her come. 
Sal. I go. [Exit Salemenm 

Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and 7ww to meet I 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows. 
Who have ceased to mingle love ? 

Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 

Sal. My sister ! Courage, 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remembei 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

Zar. I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

Sal. Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes 

Zar. Alone with him ! How many a year has past 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet he seems little changed — 
Changed to me only — would the change were mu- 
tual ! 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — ^not a word— 
Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect- 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 

-Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina— do not say Zarina. 
That tone — that word — annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'Tis too late 

To think of these past dreams. Let's not re- 
proach — 
That is, reproach me not — for the last tim e 

Zar. And ^rst. 1 ne'er reproach'd you. 

Sar. 'Tis most true, 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 

Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with (He hesitates. J 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you had not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
And l(X)k upon me as you look'd upon m^ 
Once but they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line than their own sire. 
I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 
A throne, or, if that be denied— -You have heavd 
Of this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten, 

And could have welcomed any grief save yours. 
Which gATe me to behold jour face again^ 



8^ RDANAPALUS. 



86^ 



i^fsf. The fhrone — I say it not in fear — ^but 'tis 
In pt'ril ; they perhaps may never mount it : 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may honor 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 

Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 
My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honor him who saved the realm for them, 
So little cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'Tis lost, all earth will cry out thank your 
father ! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar. That they shall never do ; but rather honor 
The name of him, who, dying like a king'. 
In his last hours did more for his own memory 
Than many monarchs in a length of days, 
Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar. Yet, be not rash — be careful oi your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 
A biave^ who loves from passion — I'll not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
A few friends, who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A biother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar. Who loves. 

.Sar. And pardons ? 

Zar. I have never thought of this, 

Aad cannot pardon till I have coudemn'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 

Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects Yes — 
These slaves whom I have nurtured, pamper 'd, fed, 
And svvoln with peace, and gorg'd with plenty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in their man- 
sions, 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee; 
"While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. 'Tis 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

Ite honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

Sar. My life insures me that. IX 3w long, bethink 
vcu. 
Were uot I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 



That is, where mortals are, not where they must be i 

Zar. I know not But yet live for my — that is, 
Your children's sake ! 

Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina! 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath . 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be — let it end. 
But take this with thee : if I was not fonn'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Dfevotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others, 
(This even rebellion must avouch ;) yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew aot 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That- which avails him nothing : he hath found it, 
But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet : nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at lengtli 

Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together 
And / — let me say toe — shall yet be happy 
Assyria is not all the earth — we'll find 
A world out of our own — and be more bU b* 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I must pari ye— 

The moments, which must not be lost . are passing 

Zar. Inhuman brother ! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high and blest ? 

Sal. Blest ! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
I thought as much, f.-zd yielded agiin&tall 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar. Not be ? 

Sal. Remain, and perish 

Zar. With my husbrad 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas . 

Sal. Hear me, sioter, I Ike 

My sister: — all's prepared to make your safely 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
'Tis not a single question of mere feeling. 
Though that were much — but 'tis a point of slat* 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offsprings of their sovereign, and so crush—— 

Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : whei 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, therebelf 
Have misa'd their chief aim — tlie extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Full, bis sous live for victory and vengeance 

Zar. But could I uot remain, alone t 

Sal. AVhatI leare 

Your childr'^n, with two parents, and v«t urphaa»- 



370 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zar. No— 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left, 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses. 

Sar. (9i, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not, 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 

Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 

Rut I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
1 must learn sternness now. My sins have all 

Been of the softer order hide thy tears — 

I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 

Behold him more ! 

Sal. (striving to conduct her.) Nay, sister, I must 
be obey'd. 

Zqr. I must remain — away! you shall not hold 
me. 
What, shall he die alone ? / live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That's false ! I knew he lived, 

And lived upon his image — let me go ! 

Sa-l (conducting her off the stage.) Nay, then, I 
must use some fraternal force, 
Which you will pardon. 

Zat . Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, v?ilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee ? 

iial. Nay — then all is lost again, 

If that this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns — 

My eyes fail — where is he ? [She faints. 

Sar. (advancing.) No — set her down- 

She's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sal. 'Tis the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [Aside."] I 

must 
A"*A(. ttyself of this sole moment to 
Be<.r her to where her children are embarked, 
r the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off. 

Sar. (solus.) This, too — 

And this too must I ouffer— 1, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A y tlMitary pang ! But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion . 
Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Kt w brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 



Of human duties leads even those whc claim 
The nomage of mankind as their bom due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Enter Myrrha. 

Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 

Myr. No one — 'out I hear4 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I migl 1 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, * 
(Although they too were chiding,) Avhich reprove J 

me 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for : I retire. « 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 

Myr. Did I do so ? 

Sar. 'Twas well you entered by another portal, 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her, 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much. 

And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favorite slave i 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. - 

Sar. Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex. 
And lord it o'er the heart of the woild's lord ? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant- 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In the hom 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Quite fall'n, nor now disposed to bear reproachec, 
Perhaps because I merit them too often. 
Let us then part while peace is still .between is. 

Myr. Part! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings p irted 

And must not all the present one day part ? 

Myr. Why ? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd to. 
With a strong escort to your native li.-d ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a Kingdom. 

Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 

Sar. '1 he oueen is gone 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



371 



Myr. Ani I no pleasure but in parting not. 
ITou shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it- 

It s )n may be too late. 

Myr. (So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. And will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 

Myr. I ! 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 

Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but lore. 

Sar. Then fly from it. , 

Myr. 'Twill not recall the past — 

Twill not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
No — here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph ; should 
Your lot he different, I'll not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
And none coult make me doubt it save yourself. 
Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This very night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 

Sar. I am content : and, trusting in my cause. 
Think we may yet be vict -rs and return 
To peace — the only victorj I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries. 
On which the future would turn back and smile. 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are my Myrrha : 

[He kisses Tier. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ; 
They shall have both but never thee ! 

Myr. No, never ! 

Man may despoil his brother rnan of all 
That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts 

yield — 
Friends fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loves without self-love ! 'Tis here — now 
prove it. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again ? 

Sar. Return not 

Now to reproof : mothinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
/It such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen's embark 'd. 

*<ttr. And well > sny that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Hot transient weakness has pa^s'd o'er; at least, 



It settled into tearless silence : her 

Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 

Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 

Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 

Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the staz 

light; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. "Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. 'Tis now too late to feel ! 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, tiar 

shall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrpng their ranks, 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been join'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What ! more rebel* 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be « 
In suength enough to venture an attack. 
Ay, and pursuit too ; but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting; though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high Walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them 
Though they were piled on mquntains, I would hav« 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood !— 
Let me then charge. 

Sal. You talk like » YOung soldier 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : sj eak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe th^ word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily ; 'tis not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whole war turns upf»n it — with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both ! 

'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[A trumpet sotttuis Ufiihoitt 

Sal. Hark ! 

Sar. • Le; H« 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wouni! 

Sar. 'Tis bound- 

Tia heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away ! 
A loocli's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper, 
The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hou 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay. if we conquer; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task thoy might have spared their king. Upci 
them ! [ Tnimj)et aoutuis apain 

Sal. I am with you. 



Nor, 



Ho, my arms ! again . 



my armi 
( Kx9unt 



372 



BYEON'S WORKS. 



ACT V. 

SCENE T. 

The same Hall in the Palace. 

Myrrha and Balea. 

Myr. (at a window. ) The day at last has broken, 
What a nigh< 
Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though Taried with a ti'ansitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
Not yet resolved to separate elements — 
'Tis warring still ! And can the sun so rise, 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
Wi th golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains. 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth. 
So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul, 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of soiTow and of love ; which they who mark not, 
Know not the realms where those t^vin genii 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts. 
So that we woiild not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamor) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours, 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 
Wliich our eternal, restless agony 
Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you so 
watch 
The sunrise which may be our last ? 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behol^ it more 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
W; .,hout the r everence and the rapture due 
Tc that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it. 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I glow almosi. a convert to your Baal. 

Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
lie sway'd. 

Myr. He sways it no%v far more, then ; never 

Had earthly monarch half the peace and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 

Bal. Surely he is a god ! 

ilyr. So we Greeks deem too ; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abodes of gods than one 
If the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Fhjough all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 



Th^t shuts the world out. I can look to more 

Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 

Myr. No, 'twas mere fane; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a 'fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here within 
The very centre, girded by vast coiirts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 
Which must be canied one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived, 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor ; now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious houi' , 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly ! 

Bal. Is is said the king's demeanor 

In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
The rebels than astonish '<1 his true subjects. 

Myr. 'Tis easy to astonish or appal 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves ; 
But he did "bravely. 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down 

Myr. the \\Tetch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanquish'd him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bal. Hark! 

Myr. You are right; some steps approach, but 
slowly. 

Enter Soldiers bearing in Salemenes wounded, with 

a broken Javelin in his side ; tJiey seat him upon 

one of the Couches which Jm-nish the Apartment. 

Myr. Oh, Jove ! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew dovm the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

Myr. Spare him — he's none: a mere court butterfly, 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on, then. 

Myr. • So wilt thou, I trust 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. "Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
you. 
You fell and fainted ; 'twas his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'Twas not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance. 
The sight might shake oui soldiers — but — 'tis J9JXk, 
I feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let me see the wound ; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being coustantf 
We are nerved to look on such things. 

Scl. Best ext.nvy 

The javelin. 

Myr. Hold ! no, no, it cannct be. 

Sal. I am sped, then ! 



SARDANAPALUS. 



37a 



Myt "With tne Dlood, that fast must follow 
llie extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal. And I not death. Where was the kinej when 
you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named ;>ext to the command ? 

Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request 
That Zames take my post until the junction, 
80 hoped for, yet delay 'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

S(»/. But, prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! here's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 
[Exeunt the Soldiers. 

Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sal. Gentle Myrrha, 'tis 

The end 1 would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 'tis I have not outlived them. 

Myr. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 

Enter Sarbanapalus and Soldiers. 

Sar. ]\ly best brother ! 

Sal. And the battle 

Is lost ? 

Sar. {despondingly.) You see me here. 

Sal. I'd rather see you thus. 

\He dratcs out the weapon from the tvound., and dies. 

Sar. And thus I will be soon ; unless the succor, 
The last frail rccd of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zumcs chief? 

Sar. I did. 

Myr. Where's Zames ? 

Sar. Dead. 

Myr. And Altada ? 

Sar. Ikying- 

Myr. Pania ? Sfero ? 

Sar. Pania yet lives ; but Sfero's fled, or captive. 
1 am alone. 

Myr. And is all lost ? 

Sar. Our walls, 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

Myr. I thought 'twas the intent 

Of Salemcncs not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strtngthen'd by the expected succors. 

.Sar. / overruled him. 

Myr. Well, the fault's a brave one. 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wcrt the ornament. 



The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming honcr 

To call back but I will not weep for thee ; 

Thou shalt be mourn' d for as thou wouldst o< 

mourn'd. 
It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this H*" 
Believing that I could survive what thou 
Hast died for — our long loyalty of race. 
If I redeem it, I vnll give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atcnement, 
(The tears of all the good are thine already.; 
If not, we meet again soon, if the spirit 
Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine. 
And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throblcss heait 
[Embraces the body 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence, 

Sol. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chambe' 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there ; when this is done, we will 
J Speak further of the rights due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers with the body of Salemexeu 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania ! have ymi placed the guards tmi 
issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their heai .s, up ? 

Pan. Sire * 

Sar. I'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, an4 
has 
A question as an aiiswer to his question. 
It is a portent. What ! they are disheartt n'd ? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouta 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
Have mede them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been 

We'll find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet, 
Though coop'd within these walls, they are strong, 

and we 
Have those without will break their way thro\4th 

hosts. 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it waji 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 

Enter an Officer, hastily, • 
Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 
Offi. I dare uot 

Nor, • Dare uot \ 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand ! 
That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silencM 
Which loiithos to shock its sovereign ; we can hehJ 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 
Pan. Proceed, thou hearesL 

Offi. The wall which skirted nciir the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Hupluates, which now rollih;;, swoln 
From the enormous mountains whore it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'orfloods its banks, and hath destroyed the bulwark 

Pan. That's a black augury ! it has been sjiid 
For ages, " that the city ne'er should yield 
To man. until the river irrew its foe " 



374 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Sar. I can fjrgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

OJi. . , About 

Borne twenty stadii. 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants ? 

O^. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when he shrinks into his wonted channel, 
A.nd may be cross'd by the accustomed barks, 
I he palace is their own. 

S(ir. That shall be never. 

I'hfi ugh men, and gods, and elements, and omens, 
Hie risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanctions 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of the vacant space 
As time ai:d means permit. 

Sar. About it straight. 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myr. Thus the vAy waves rise up 
Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 

Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 

Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell 
me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight : 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair ! 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When we know 
Ail that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
Word than this is to give it utterance: 
But what are words to us ? we have well nigh done 
With them and all things. 

Myr. Save one deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing common to all mankind. 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures. 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects. 
Without one point of union save in this, 
To which we tend, for which we're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 

Sar. Our clew being well nigh wound out, let's be 
cheerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd ; 
K& children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

I 'an. 'Tis 

Ai w>i3 reported: I have order'd there 
A. double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My woi thy Pania ! further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 

[^Gives a key. 
It opens tc a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
•^less'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore- 



Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 

Along its golden frame — as bearing for 

A time what late was Salemenes.) Search 

The secret covert to which this will lead you , 

'Tis full of treasiure ; take it for yourself 

And your companions : there's enough to load ye. 

Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too 

And all the inmates of the palace, of 

Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 

Thence launch the regal barks, once fonn'd foe 

pleasure. 
And now to serve for safety, and em Lark. 
The river's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy ! 

Pan. Under your protection ! 

So you acompany your faithful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee hence 
And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'Tis the first time 
I ever disobey'd : but now 

Sar. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no further 
'Tis my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it ? thou ! 

Pan. But yet — not yet. 

Sar. Well, then» 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'Tis enough. Now order here 

Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
And mighty planks to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ; 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord ! 

Sar. I have uaiJ it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. [Exit Pajjia. 

Myr. What mean you ? 

Sar. You shall \ worn 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my dutf. 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arba les 

Sar. What, crown'd already ? — But, proceed. 

Her. Belese*, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god, or demon ! 

With new kings rise new altars. But, proceed ; 
You are sent to prate your master's will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes— — 

Sar. Why, Jie is ours. 

Her. (showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors ; behold 
His signet-ring. 

Sar. 'Tis his. A worthy triad ' 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 



SARDANAPALUS. 



37^ 



To see one treachery the less : this man 

Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 

Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further proWnces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

So*-, (ironically.) The generous victors ! 

Her, I wait the answer. 

Sar Answer, slave ! how long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

Her. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away vnth. him ! 

[Pania and the Guards. seizing him. 

Pan. I never yet obey'd 

Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore : 
Put him tc rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what's mine t 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down ? 

Her. I but obey'd my orders, 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

Her. My life waits your breath. 

STours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — yours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 4 

Would it then suit the last hours of a line ^ 
8uch as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd, in his office ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man— but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods ? 

Sar. lie's right. — Let him go free. — My life's 
last act 
Shall not be one of wTath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a ff olden cup from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine. 
And th'nk of me; or melt it into ingots. 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for your life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
But must I bear no answer ? 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

^n hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's ? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
A.nd act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be ft faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sai find, haik ! a word more. 

Her I shall not forget it, 



Whate'er it be. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses ; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where ? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. 

[Exit Herald 

Sar. Pania !— 

Now, my good Pania !— quick — with what I order'd 

Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see ! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter, and form a pile aboiU thi 
Throtie, S^c. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchabie, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bear» :.t» aspect I 
How say you, Pania, will this - _e suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

Sar. And blame me r 

Pan. No^ 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

Myr. That duty's mine. 

Pan. A woman's ! 

Myr. 'Tis the soldier'n 

Part* to die for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover. 

Pan. 'Tis most strange ! 

Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it 
In the meantime, live thou. — ^Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

Pan. 1 should shame to leave my sovereiina 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 

Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 

Pan. And live wretched ! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow : — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Search well my chambei 

Feel no remorse at bearing off Ihe gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the sl&veit 
Who slew me: and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you (|uit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly,— 
And as you sail, turn buck ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlugonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three, sons in Cotta's c(uirt. 
Say what you saw at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal Haid 

Let me then once more press it to my Up* ; 



376 



BYRON'S -W-ORKS. 



And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you ! 

[The Soldiers and Pan I A throng round him 
kissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let's not unman each other : part at onee : 
A.11 farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, 'tis 
[n the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania arul Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest : it is comfort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful ! — but hear me ! 
If at this moment, for we now are on 
The brink, thcu feel'st an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less ; nay, perhaps more, 
For yielding to thy nature : ^nd there's time 
Vet for thee to escape hence. 

Myr. Shall I light 

One of the torches that lie heaped beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns \vithout, * 

Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall ? 

Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

Myr. Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrkha. 

Sar. ^solus.) She's firm. My fathers ! whom J 
will rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
[f I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
Tour treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils. 
In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
To you in that absorbing element, 
Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery working : and the light of this 
Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillow form'd of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day, 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lessen ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
Sweep empire after empire, like this first 
Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 
Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despiss — but, it may be, avoid the life 
VT fiich led to such a consummation. 
Myrbha returns toith a lighted Torch in one ?iand, 
atid a Cup in the other. 

My? Lo ! 

I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 

Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr 'Tis my country's custom to 

Make a libation to tne goas. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations among men. I've not 
F'^rp:ot the custom ; and although alone. 



Will drain one draught in memory of man> 
A joyous banquet past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after dririK 
ing and tinkling the' reversed cup, as a drop 
falls, exclaims — 

And this Uhatioin 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. "Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man s uame 
Than on his mate's in villany ? 

Sar. The om 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a fiend's hand ; the otnei 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet . 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 
My Myirha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
Freely and fearlessly ? 

Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek ghl dare not do for love, that which. 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? 

Sar. Theu 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding, 

Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embiace. 

Myr. Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more 

Sar. True, the commingling fire ivill mix our ashes 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me 

Sar. Say it. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better : 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors ; in this blazing palace 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruiu» 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 
•r kiiie, for none know whether those proud piles 
Be ^r their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
So much for monuments that have forgotten 
Their very record ! 

Myr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth ' farewell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of 
thee! 

Sar. And that ? 

Myr. Is yours. 

[The trumpet of Pakia sounds tcithota 

Sar. Hark ! 

Myr. Now f 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria ' 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land. 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I satiated thee with peace and joys; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing. 
Not even a grave. [He mounts the pile 

Now, Myrrha ! 

Myr. Art thou ready I 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[Myrrha fres the pile. 

Myr. 'Tis fired ! I come 

[As Myrrha springs foncard to thi ow herteH 
intc the flames, the Curtain falls. 



NOTES TO SARDANAPALTJS. 



And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha. 

Page 349, line 60. 

'* The Ionian name had been still more compre- 
teusive, having included the Achaians and the 
Boeotians, who, together with those to whom it was 
afterwards confined, would make nearly the whole 
of the Greek nation, and among the orientals it 
was always the general name for the Greeks." — 
Milford's Greece^ vol. 1. p. 199. 



Sarda'napalus 



The king, and son oj Anacynduraxes, 
In 09ie day built Anchialus a?id Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love; the rest's not worth a fillip.'" 
Page 351, lines 103—106. 

" For this expedition he took not only a small 
chosen body of the phalanx, but all his light troops, 
in the first daj"'s march he reached Anchialus, a 
town said to have been founded by the king of 
Assyria, Sardanapalus. Ihe fortifications, in their 
magnitude and extent, still in Arrian's time, bore 
the character of greatness, which the Assyrians 
appear singularly to have affected in works of the 
kind. A monument representing Sardanapalus 
<vas found there, warranted by an inscription in 
Assyiian characters, of course m the old Assyrian 
language, which the Greeks, whether well or ill, 
interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son of Anacyn- 
iaraxes, in one day founded Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, play : all ither human joys are not 
48 



worth a fillip.' Supposing this version nearJy exact, 
(for Arrian says it was not quite so,) whetaei th.a 
purpose has not been to invite to civil order a peo- 
ple disposed to turbulence, rather than to recom- 
mend immoderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably 
be questioned. What, indeed,' could be the object 
of a king of Assyria in founding such towns ;n a 
country so distant from his capital, and so dJi^ded 
from it by an immense extent of sandy deserts and 
lofty mountains, and, still more, how the inhab- 
itants could be at once in circumstances to abandon 
themselves to the intemperate joys which their 
prince has been supposed to have recommended, is 
not obvious ; but it may deserve observation tnat, 
in that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, 
ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alexander 
yet barely named in history, at this day astonish 
the adventurous traveller- by their magnificence and 
elegance. Amid the desolation which, under a 
singularly barbarian government, has for so many 
centuries been daily spreading in the finest countries 
of the globe, whether more from soil and climate, 
or from opportunities for commerce, extraordinary 
means must have been found for communities to 
flourish there, whence it may seem that the meas 
ures of Sardanapalus were directed by juster view 
than have been commonly ascribed to him : but 
that monarch having been the last of a dynastv, 
ended by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would 
follow of course from the policy of his successor" 
and their partisans. 

"The inconsistency of traditions concernincr Sar- 
danapalus is striking in Diodorus's account of r'-i ' 
-Mi^fuid'tt Grtmiv, vol ix. pp. 311, 312, aod 'i\? 



WERNEK; OK, THE INHEEITANCE: 

A TRAGEDY. 



TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OP HIS HUMBLEST ADMIREK8, 
THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 

The following Drama is taken entirely from the 
^^ German's Tale, Kruitzner" published many years 
igo in Lee's Canterbury Tales ,• written (I believe) 
Dy two sisters, of whom one furnished only this 
story and another, both of which are considered 
superior to the remainder of the collection. I have 
adopted the characters, plan, and even the language, 
of many parts of this story. Some of the charac- 
ters are modified or altered, a few of the names 
changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) 
added by myself; but in the rest the original is 
chiefly followed. "When I was young, (about four- 
teen, I think,) I first read this tale, which made a 
deep impression upon me ; and may, indeed, be said 
to contain the germ of much that I have since writ- 
ten. I am not sure that it ever was very popular ; 
or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed 
by that of other great writers in the same depart- 
ment. But I have generally found that those who 
had read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the 
singular power of mind and conception which it de- 
Telopes. I should also add conception, rather than 
execution ; for the story might, perhaps, have been 
developed with greater advantage. Among those 
whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story, I 
could mention some very high names ; but it is not 
necessary, nor indeed of any use, for every one 
must judge according to his own feelings. I merely 
refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
fcee to what extent I have borrowed from it: and 
am not unwilling that he should find much greater 
pleasure in perusing it than the drama which is 
founded upon its contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 



1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at thir 
teen years old, called " Ulric and. Ilvina," which ] 
had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly com- 
pleted an act, when I was interrupted by circum- 
stances. This is somewhere among my papers in 
England ; but as it has not been found, I have re- 
written the first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
adapted, for the stage. 

February, 1822. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men.— Werner. 
Ulric. 

Stralenheim. 
Idenstein. 
Gabor. 
Fritz. 
Henrick. 
Eric. 
Arnheim. 
Meister. 
Rodolph. 

LUDWIO. 

Womm. — Josephine. 

Ida Stralenheim. 

Scene — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly 
in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time— The Close of the Thirty Years' "War. 



WERNER 



37. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Hall of a decayed Palace r^ar a small Toion 
on the Northern Frontier of Silesia — the Night 
tempestuoiis, 

"Wernibb, and Josephine, his wife. 

Jos, My love, be calmer. 

Wer. I am calm. 

Jcs. To me — . 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, 
A.nd no one walks a, chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
liVere it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
A.nd stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
But here ! 

Wer. 'Tis chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

Jos. Ah, no ! 

Wer. (smiling.) Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 

Jos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. ' Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 

Wer. All— all. 

Jos, Then canst thou wish for that which must 
break mine ? 

Wer. (approaching her slowly.) But for thee I had 
been — no matter what, 
J3ut much of good and evil ; what I am. 
Thou knowest ; what J might or should have been. 
Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner walks on abruptly ^ and then ap- 
proaches Josephine. 

The storm of the night. 
Perhaps, affftcts me ; I'm a thing of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Tbou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
In watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

Wer, Where hast thou seen such ? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

Jos. But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
Whos? every drop bows them down nearer earth, 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wer. And that's not the worst : who cares 

For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The "reeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A. hunter, and a traveller, and am 
^beggar, and should knowthe thing thou talk'st of. 

Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all ? 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 

Jos. And that is something. 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

Jos. Should the nobly born 

Be thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
C^eedful than to the peasant, when the ebb 



Of fortune leaves thtni on the shoals of life * 

Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not ; we 
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently. 
Except in thee — but we have borne it 

Jos. Well ? 

Wer. Something beyond our outward suffei'Lgl 
(though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, iww. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but mean* 
And leaves us — no ! this is beyond me ! — but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
The splendor of my rank sustain'd — my name, 
My father's name — been still upheld ; and, more 
Than those 

Jos. (abruptly.) My son — our son — our Ulric 
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune : now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely ! my dear husband 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they wb4 

strive 
With fortune win or weary her at last. 
So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy 

Wer. We were ia sight of him, of every thing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow 
And to be baffled thus ! 

Jos. We are not baffled. 

Wer. Are we not pennyless ? 

Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was bom to wealth, and rank, and 
. power ; 
Ev oy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them 
An»,, forfeited them by my fajther's wrath, 
In m o'er-fervent youth ; bat for the abuse 
Long V ifterings have atoned. My fatlior's death 
Left th^ -oath open, yet not without snares. 
This cola ind creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his e^e on me, as the snake u])on 
The fluttcrix 7, bird, hath ere this time outstept me. 
Become the n^ aster of my rights, and lord 
Of that which .'fts him up to princes in 
Dominion and d\. main. 

Jos. "Who knows ? our sox. 

May have return'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 

Wer. 'Tis hopclee* 

Since his strange disapp-^arance from my fathei •, 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have rfiveal'd his course. 
I parted with him to his graudsire, on 
The protuiso that his anger would stop short 
Of the tliird generation , but liflaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Ujion my boy his father's faults and follies. 

Jos. I must hope better still, — at least we hsreym 



d8( 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Caffled the long pursuit cf Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
ness, 
More fatal than a mortal malady, 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace ; 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — 
How do I know he hath not track 'd us here ? 

Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies. 
Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Ham- 
burgh. 
Oi;r unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leave all discovery fcj behind : 
None hold us here for aught save what we seem. 

Wct\ Save what we seem ! save what we are — sick 
beggars. 
Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. Alas ! 

That bitter laugh ! 

Wer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek 
And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals .^ 

Jos. '" You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble though decay'd ; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 

Jos. Your father did not think so, though 'twas 
noble ; 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 

Wer. And what is that in thine eyes ? 

Jos. All which it 

Has done in our behalf, — ^nothing. 

Wer. How, — nothing ? 

Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning : but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully ; 
But for these phaatoms of thy feudal fathers, 
Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread, as thousands 

cam it ; 
Or, if that seem'd too Jiumble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes, 

Wer. (ironically.) And been an Hanseatic burgher? 
Excellent ! 

Joi. "^/Vhate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou 
art 
What no state high or low can ever change. 
My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, knowing 

neither 
Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride ; nought, save thy 

sorrows : 
While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
When they end, let mine end with them, or thee ! 

Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever found 
thee ; 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
Tn youth was such as to unmake an empire, 



Had such been my inheritance ; hat nov 
Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught tt. kncTV 
Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when in my two-and-twentieth spring, 
My father barr'd me from my father's house. 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires, 
(For, I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion ; although then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

[A loud knocking is heard. 

Jos. Hark ! 

Wer. A knocking 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We have 
Few visiters. 

Wer. And poverty hath none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner picts his hand into his bosom, as if t^. 
search for some weapon. 

Jos. Oh, do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation ; — 
The very desert saves mjtn from mankind. 

She goes to the door 

Enter Idenstejn, 

Iden. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
And worthy What's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

Not afraid to demand it ? 

Iden. Not afraid ? 

Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
I asked for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer. Better, sir ! 

Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony : what 
Shall I say more ? You have been a guest this month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure. 
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a palace)— 
I say yon have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board : 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who borp 
The same. He is an officer of trust. 
Surgeon's assistant, (hoping to be surgeon,) 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative ? 

Wer. To yours ? 

Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly 

Cannot you humor the dull gossip till 

[Aside to Werksa. 
We learn his purpose ? 

Iden. Well, I'm glad of that ; 

I thought so long, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart : — blood is not water, coosui. 
And so let's have some wiqe, and diink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Friends. 

Wer. You appear to have drank enough already ; 
And if you had not, I've no wine to offer 
Else it were yours : but this you know, or should 
know: 



WERNER. 



sm 



ton see I am poor, and sick, and wiU ._,t set 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you here ? 

Jden. Why, what should bring me here ? 

Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess 
That which will send, you hence. 

Jos. (aside.) Patience, dear Werner. 

Iden. You don't know what has happened, then ? 

Jos. How should we ? 

JUen. Tae. river is o'erflow'd. 

Jos. Alas ! we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps us here. 

Iden. But what you don't know is, 

Taat a great personage, who fain would cross, 
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
la drown'd below the ford, with five post-hoi-ses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 

Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency's dead 
Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
And now a Saxon, and Hungarian traveller, 
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And vvhere will you receive him ? here, I hope, 
if we can be of service — say the word. 

Ide7i. Here ? no j but in the prince's own apart- 
ment, 
As fits a noble guest : — 'tis damp, no doubt, 
Not having been inhaited these twelve years ; 
But then he comes from a much damper place. 
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
1 have ordered fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is, 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

1 hope he will with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not leam'd his name ? My Josephine, 

[Aside to his wife. 
Retire ; I'll sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 

Iden. His name ? oh Lord ! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
'Ti* time enough to ask it when he's able 
To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid mc for demanding names ? 

Wer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 

E7iter G zlbor. 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave 

Iden. Oh, no intrusion ! 

This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home: 
But Where's his excellency, and how fares he ? 

Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril : 
rie paused to change his garments in a cottage, 
(Where I dofTd mine for these, and came on hither,) 
A.nd has almost rccover'd from his drenching. 
Kn will be here anon. 



Iden. What ho, there ! nstle I 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Pettr, Conrad 
[Gives direct iotis to different servants who entet 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is in order in the damask chamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, striinger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for, 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of thil 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. Ai.d then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless • 

Gab. Faith 1 

I cannot tell : but I should think the pillow 
Would please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river : but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honor to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

Iden. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name : what is it ? 

Gab. I do not know. 

Iden. And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I help'd my friend to do so. 

Iden. Well, that's strange 

To save a man's life whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd ? 

Gab. It matters little. 

Iden. (aside.) I think that all the world are growt 
anonymous. 
Since no one cares to tell what he's call'd ! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 

Ga^. Sufficient 

Iden. How many ? 

Gab. I did not count them. 

We came up by mere accUent, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

Ideti. Well, what would I give to saveagreat man, 
No doubt you'll have a swinging sum as recompense. 

Gab. Perhaps. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 

Gab. I have not yet put up myjclf to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockheimei- — nfftcen glass, 
Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
O'erflowing with the oldest of youi vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I o^vn 
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for yo«i,) 
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quirk, my fiiond, 
And think, for every bumper I sliall i\\v.\\T, 
A wave the less may roll above your head. 

Iden. (aside.) I don't much like this fellow — close 
and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not ; how«v«ti 
Wine he shall have ; if that unlocks him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit iDKNBTmiK. 

Gab. (to Wrrnbr.) This masler of the cererac niel 
is 
The intendant of the palace, I presum*. 
'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. 



882 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Wer. The apartraent 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
For you seem idelicate in health. 

Wer. (quickly. J Sir ! 

Gab. Pray 

Exru^e me : have I said aught to offend you ? 

^Vet . Nothing : but we are strangers to each other. 

Gao. And that's the reason 1 would have us less so : 
[ thought our bustling guest without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the counter- 
part 
Df me and my companions. 

Wei'. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

JVer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 

Gab. Even as you please, 

f have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 

Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service ? 

The Imperial ? 

Wer. (qidckly, and then interrupting himself.) I 
command— no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago. 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
Some take the shortest. 

Wer. What is that ? 

Gab. Whate'er 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Tneir maintenance ; the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that,Vander where I may, 
I've little left to lose now. 

Wer. And I — ^nothing. 

Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a 
soldier. 

Wer. I was. 

Gah. You look one still. All soldiers are, 

l)r should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our SAvords jvhen drawn must cross, our engines aim 
; While levell'd) at each other's hearts; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
'J he steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
Ihe spark which lights the matchlock, we are 

brethren. 
You are poor and sickly— I am not rich but healthy ; 
I want for nothing which I cannot want ; 
You seem devoid of this — wilt share it ? 

\Q K^Q-R. pulls out his purse. 

Wer. Who 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gah. ' You yourself 

fn saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 

Wer, ( Icokinff at him with suspicion. ) You know 
me n« t ? 



Gab. I know no man, B ct eyw 

Myself : how should I then know one I ne'ei 
Beheld till half an hour since ? 

Wer. Sir, I thank yott. 

Your offer's noble were it to a friend, 

And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 

Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank yoti 

I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 

And when I beg of any one it shall oe 

Of him who was the first to offer what 

Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. 

[Exit W2KKKm. 
Gab.' f solus.) A goodly fellow by his loo¥«t 
though worn. 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure 
Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
I scarce know which most quickly ; but he seenu 
To have seen better days, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine : however, 
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Iden. 'Tis here ! the supernacu.um ! twenty yeart 
Of age, if 'tis a day. 

Gab. Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 'tis great pity, 
Of two such excellent things, increase of years. 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the other 
Fill full — Here's to our hostess ! — your fair wife ! 

[Takes the gl<iss, 

Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in wine il 
equal 
To that you show for beauty ; but 1 pledge you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, -with 
An air, and port, and eye, wtich would have bett«a 
Beseem 'd this palace in its brightest days, 
(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment,) return'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

Idan. I would she were , 

But you're mistaken : — that's the stranger's wife. 

Gab. And by^her aspect she might be a prince's : 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty. 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

Gab. I don't. But who 

May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Iden. There I differ. 

He's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name, (and that I only leam'd 
To-night,) I know not. 

Gab. But how came he here i 

Iden In a most miserable old caleche, 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should hare died- 

Gab. Tender and true ! — but why ? 

Iden. Why, what is lifin 

Without a li\T[ng ? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a peiflov 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 



WERNER. 



383 



fikests 90 foflom into this noble mansion. 

Iden. That's true ; but pity, as you know, does 
make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides. 
They had some valuables left at that time, 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
A.nd so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavein, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As thej ^ould pay for fire-wood. 

Gab. Poor souls ! 

Iden. Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unu??ed to poverty. 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

Iden. Oh ! Heav«in knows where, unless to heaven 
• itself. 
Some days ago that Ic^k'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

Gab. Werner ! I have heard the name : 

But it may be a feign'd one. 

Iden. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency's Ct tne. 
I must be at my post : will yoa not join me. 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Vour humble duty at the door ? 

Gab. I dragg'd him 

From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 
The ru*hing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then. 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
All roaring, " Help !" but offering none ; and as 
For duty (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him 
here ! 

Iden.. I cringe ! — but I shall lose the opportunity — 
Flague take it ! he'll be here, and I not there ! 

{Exit Idensteix, hastily 

Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. (to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me. 

Perceicing G Anon. J Still here ! Is he not 
A spy of my pursuers ? His frank oft'er 
He suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
F'or friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt: 

*.ud yet the iimo is not akin to thought. 
rher>e old wJls will be noisy soon. The bann, 
Or count f'r whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be.) 'iX whom this desolate village and 
Its lone iuhabitants show more respect 
Than di i the elements, is come. 

Iden. (without.) This way — 

This way, your excellency : — have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat dccay'd ; but if we had expected 
Ro high a guest — Pray take my arm, my lord. 

V^Uer Stralenhrim, iTtv.^HTV.m , and AttendanU— 
partly his (wn, andpaHly retainers of the domain 
i/ iohich Idenstkin is Intendnnt. 
^"^al. I'll rest me here a moment 



Iden. (to the servants.) Ho ! a chair 

Instantly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down 

Wer. (aside.) 'Tis he ! 

Stral. I'm better now. 

Who are fhese strangers ? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. (aloud and hastily.) Who says that ? 

[They look at him with surprise 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you .'—but 
Here's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognize. [Pointing to Gabob 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I ov?e my rescue. Is not that tA-e other ? 

[Pointing to Werner 
My state when I was succour'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He i — ^no, my lord ! he rather wants, foi 
rescue 
Than can afford it. 'Tis a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Stral. Methought 

That there were two. 

Gab. There were, in company ; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is jubsent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not wa«'»e 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he ? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage whete 
Your excellency rested for an hour. 
And said he would be he'-e to-morrow. 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thai, rs. 
And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and 6C«.rce desktre 

So r»uch. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral (fixing his eyes i</)on Weuneh: then aside.) 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
"Tis twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes : and, though my agents still have kept 
Thcir.s on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made jissurano* 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
To have been lord of Seigendorf, anil parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 
May keep me prisoner here till 

[He putts cji, atui looks at Werner; th^m resume*t 

This man must 
Be watch'd. If it is he, he is so chimged, 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be warf 
An error would spoil all. 

Iden. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

Strai. 'Tis pas*- fatigue which gives my weigt: 4 
dowp unirit 
An outward show of thouKht. I will to rest 



S84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendor. 

(Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight ; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Few, as he one day will for ever lie. 

Stral. (rising and turning to Gabor.) Good night, 
good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service, 
n the meantime I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Cab. I attend you. 

is'^al. (after a fete steps, pauses and calls Weh- 
NER.) Friend! 

Wer. Sir ! 

Iden. Sir ! Lord— oh Lord ! Why don't you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My U)rd, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
Tp such a presence. 

Stral. {to Idenstein.) Peace, intendant. 

Iden. Oh ! 

f am dumb. 

Stral. {to Werner.) Have you been long here ? 

Wur. Long ? 

Stral. . I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 

Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is re/;Zy — in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said, you had been detain'd 
by sickness — 
If I could aid you — journeying the same way ? 

Wer. (quickly. J I am not journeying the same 
way. 

Stral. How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there is 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days : henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
A 11 to one home. 

Stral. Your language is aboTC 

Your station. 

Wer. (bitterly.) Is it ? 

Strai. Or, at least, beyond 

Your gi^rt 

Wer. 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
^b sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 

Stral. (startled. J I? 

Wer. Yes — you ! You know me not, and question 
me, 
And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. • Explain what you would have, 
And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

Wer. Many have such ; — Have you none ? 

Stral. None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. • 



Wer. Then f»rgire 

The same unknoAvn and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
Who can have nought in common with him. 

Stral. -Sir, 

I will not balk your humor, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but good night ! 
Intendant, show the way ! {to Gabor.) Sir, you wij 
with me ? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and Jttendanta ; Idex* 
STEIN afid Gabor. 

Wer. (solus. J 'Tis he ! I am taken in the toils 
Before 
I quitted Hamburg, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburgh's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city • 

Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure. 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What's to be done ? He knows me not by person 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension. 
Have recognised him, after twenty years. 
We met so rsrely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Di^'ine the frankness of the Hungarian who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim*! 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too -with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, vnih 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
How can I hope ? An hour ago methought 
My sti'vte beyond despair ; and now, 'tis such. 
The past seems paradise. Another day. 
And I'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honors, rights, and my inheritance. 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favoring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz, in conversation 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Iden. I tell you 'tis impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandan\ 

Iden. 1 will do what I can. 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden, The baron is retired to rest ? 

Fritz He hath thro^vn himself into ati easy chaU 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

Iden. Before 

An honr is past I'll do my best to serve him. 

Fritz. Remember! [ExitFfin% 

Iden. The devil take these great men ! they 

Think all things made for them. Now here must 1 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow-feeling : 
But no, *• itmtist" and there's an end. How noi» \ 



WERNER. 



385 



Are you there, Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noMe guf^st right quickly. 

Iden, Yes — ^he's dozing, 

An 1 seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses ; 
out 1 must not Sse time: Good-night ! 

[Exit IdEnstein 

Wer. " To Frankfort ! " 

So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He \vTites for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This . 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark,— footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the shoi? of that authority 
Which is to overshadow nsurpation ? 
That he suspects me*b certain. I'm alone ] 
He with a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
In gold, in numbersj, rn«k, authority. 
I nameless, or ibvo/Ymg in my name 
Destruction, till !■ reach my own domain ; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they cauld do elsewliere. Hark ! nearer still ! 
I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 

With the No ! all is silent — 'twas my fancy ! — 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder : — I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of : it will serve me as a den 

Of secresy for some hours at the worst. 

[Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing it 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephinb. 

Gab. Where is your*husband ? 

^rs. Here, I thought : I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of yoiu- lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know befit. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf. 
Rather than that of him whose life you saved ? 

Gab. I hclp'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up wh< n 
I find them practising against the weak :— 
This is ray only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade nr y consort of 
Vour anod intentions. 
49 



Gab. Is he so suspicious ? 

Jos. He was not once ; but time and troubles haw 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and 
Witn its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 

[Exit Gabcb, 

Re-enterlNT>-EN8T:i:i's and some peasants. Josepkiki 
retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd ? 

Iden. Why, you will be well paid for't, 
And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 

Iden. Cannot be worse of than they are, and ma? 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 

Idert. That's right. A gallant carle and fit to b« 
A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed ; 
And you shall have besides in sparkling coin 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. • Out upon your avarice f 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Riek lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler ? 
When had you half the sum ? 

Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 

Third Peasant. No — the prince's, 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 

Absence, I am sovereign : and the baron is 
My intimate connexion : — " Cousin Idenstein 
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I say , 
And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
For every page of paper shall a hide 
Of yours be stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
Impossibilities — away, ye earth-worms ! 

[Exit, driinnff them oai 

Jos. (coming forxoard. ) I fain would shun theM 
scenes, too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
1 cannot aid, and will- not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot. 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something still more servile : 
And vice in misery affecting still 
A f atter'd splendor. What a state of being ! 
In Tuscany my own dear sunny land, 
Our nol)les were but citizens and merchante, 
Like Cosmo. We hud evils, but not such 
As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing Talleja 
Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 
Was in itself a meal, and every vine 
Rain'd, as it wore, the beverage which makes flad 



386 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The heart ot man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 

(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 

His warmtli behind in memory of his beams) 

Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 

Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 

But, here ! the deSpots of the north appear 

To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 

Searching the shivering vassal through his rags, 

To wi-ing his soul — as the bleak elements 

His form. And 'tis to be among these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 

That twenty years of usage, such as no 

l«'ather born in a humble state could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal, 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 

But I, born nobly also, from my father's 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father ! 

May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 

Look down on us and our so long desired 

Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 

What's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be? and thus? 

Enter Werner hastily, with the knife in his hand, 

by the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly 

after him. 

Wer. (not at first recognising her.) Discover'd ! 

then I'll stab (recognising her.) 

Ah! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest ? My God ! 

Wliat doth this mean ? 

Wer. (sJiowing a rouleau.) Here's gold— gold, 
Josephine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 

Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 

Wer. 'Tis bloodless — yet. 

Away — ^we must to our chamber. 

Jos. But whence cornest thou ? 

Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall 
go— 
This — this will make us way — (showing the gold — ) 
I'll fit them now. 

Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonor. 

Wer. Dishonor! 

Jos. I have said it. 

Wer. Let us hence ; 

•Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

Jos. And not the wors*^ I hope. 

Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 

Biit let us to our chamber. 

Jos. Yet one question — 

WTiat hast thou done f 

Wer. (fiercely.) Left one thing undon*, which 
Had made all well : let me not think of it ! 
Away 

J(f Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! TExeur^. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Hatt m ihe same Palace. 

Enter Idenstein anrf Others. 

iden. Fine doingR ! goodly doings ! honest doings . 

\ baron pillaged is a prince's palace ! i 



Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day 
The honor of our city's gone for ever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 

Iden. And so am L 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

Iden. Suspect ! all p«Qpl« 

Without — ^within — above — ^below — Heaven help mr ! 

Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber I 

Iden. None whatsoever. 

Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here since 
my birth. 
And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

Iden. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man call'd Werner 's poor ! 

Iden. Poor as a misei, 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
By which there's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he 
Besides, I bade him '♦ good night " m the hall. 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There's anothei 

The stranger 

Iden. The Hungarian ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To Ssh the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold— might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How ? We, Sir ! 

Iden. No— not yoto, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown • 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold : of which one only 
Has disappear'd : — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir, 

Be not so quick ; the honor of the corps 
Which forms the baron's household's unimpeach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts, 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery. 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents. 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters 
But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. I'hen 
Had oae of our folks done it, he would not 
Have1*ean so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His nodt for one rouleau, but have swoop'iiall ; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. | 

Iden. There is some sense in that I 

Fritz No, air, be Bai» j 

'Twas i>one of onr corps ; but some petty, trivisJ | 



WERNER. 



387 



PicKer til A stealer, without art or genius. 
The only question is — Who else could have 
A.cces8, save the Hungarian and yourself ? 

Iden. You don't mean me ? 

Fritz. No, sir ; 1 honor more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What's to 
be done ? 

Iden. Nothing — ^but there's a good deal to be said. 
We'll offer a reward ; move heaven and earth. 
And the police, (though there's none nearer than 
Frankfort ;) post notices in manuscript, 
(For we've no printer;) and set by my clerk 
To read them, (for few can, save he and I.) 
We'll send out villians to strip beggars, and, 
Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit; 
And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found, 
At least we shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
The griost of this rouleau. Here's alchymy 
For your lord's losses ! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Wher»> 

Fritz. It is a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsvian, 
Is dead neai Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir ? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore. 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to reappear ; he's politic. 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Id&n. He's fortunate. , 

Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson, 

Whom the late count rcclaim'd from his son's hands, 
And educated as his heir ; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so ? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, impnident sort of marriage, 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed duuglitcr : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf 's. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance; and could ne'er be brought 
To sec the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle yout baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough : they say. 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the hitter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

Iden. The devil ho did ! 

Fritz. Why, yt«; 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
/k.n hour so critical as was the eve 
f)f thti eld man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 



Iden. Was there no cause assign'd ? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt 

And none perhaps the true one. Some a\ 3rr d 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him ;) 
A third believed he wish'd to serve in war. 
But peace being made soon after his departure. 
He might have since return'd were that the motive 
A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
As there was something strange and mystic ia him 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Liu«ti<t 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be. 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury. 
To risk his life and honors with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes ! 

Fritz. Heaven best known * 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I'va heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian. 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all. 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstcnson and Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd< 
They who would follow tlie same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account.^ Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Ode^* 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

Stral. Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even [Aem, 
Making me feel the worthlessness of words, 
And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly compared with what 
Your courteous courage did in my behalf 

Ulr. I pray you press the theme no further. 

Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes ; fair in faTor 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heait, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war. 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure de^ith to save an unknown str&nger 
In an as perilous, but opposite element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends 
Who shall be yours. 'Tis true this pause of pcac« 
Favors such views at present scantily ; 
But 'twill not last, men's sjjirits are too stirrinc; 
And, after thirty years of confiiot, peace 
Is but a petty war, as the times sl.ow us 
In every forest, or a mere urui'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the meantime 
Yoti might obtain a post, which would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my intluence, fail not 



J 



888 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the elector ; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which 
Induced it. 

St^al. "^Tiy, this is mere usury ! 

I owi my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly bom ? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your 
name ? 

Ulr. Tjiric. 

Stral. Your house's ? 

Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 

'11 answer you. 

Stral. f aside. J Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers. 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz a/ul Idexstein. 
Bo, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches ? 

Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Str{^. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Iden. llumph ! — not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected 

Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected 

Stral. Who may he be ? 

Ideii. ^y^y, don't you know, my lord ? 

Stral. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 

Iflen. And so 

Was I, and that's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Iden. Why, if 

Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognize 
The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The tliief among so many ? In the crowd. 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon 
mat wise men know your felon by his features; 
But I'll engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. (to Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
WTiat hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. Besides the loss, (which, I must own, 
affects me 
Just now materially,) I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives ; for 
Bo dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And li^'htod chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
riie gnld before my scarce-closeH eyes, would soon 
fx»ave bare your borough. Sir Intendiint ! 

:jteH True 



If there were aught to carry off, my lorl. 

Ulr. What is all this ? 

Stral. You join'd ns but this monLii{f 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 

Ulr. Some rumor of it reach'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no fm-ther. 

Stral. It is a strange business : 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Ide7i. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. fimjiatientli/.) Defer yorur takf 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Idm. That 

Can only be approved by proofs. You se c 
Stral. (again interrupting him, ayid addressing 
Ulric.) In short, I was asleep upon a chair 
My cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it, (more than I much like to lose. 
Though in part only :) some ingenious person 
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants. 
Besides those of the palace, and bore away 
A himdred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great obligation, this. 
Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it ? 

Ulr. Most willingly, and without loss of time— 
(To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 
Iden. But so much haste bodef 

Right little speed, and 

Ulr. Standing motionless 

None ; so let's march : we'll talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

Ulr. Show the spot, and then I'll answer you 
Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 
• Stral. Do so, and take yon old ass with you. 
Fritz. Hence 

Ulr. Come on, old oriigje, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit mih Idenstein irnd Fritz 
Stral. (solus.) A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 
stripling. 
Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor, 
And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
In answering yours. I wish I could engage him . 
I have need of some such spirits near me now, 
For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
And though I am not th? man to yield without one 
Neither are they who now rise up between me 
And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one . 
But he hath play'd the truant in some hour 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
Champion his claims. That's well. The father 

whom » 
For years I've track'd, as does the bloodhound, 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
To fault : but here 1 have him, and that's better. 
It must be he .' All circumstance proclaims it ; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my inquiries, still confirm it — Yes ! 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
As snakes and lions shrink back from each otha 
By secret instinct that both must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either; 



WERNER. 



389 



A.11 — all— confinr. it to my mind. However, 

We'll grapple, nc'erthelesa. In a few hours, 

The order comets from Fsankfort, if these waters 

Rise not the higher, (and the weather favors 

Their quick abatement,) and I'll have him safe 

Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 

His real estate and name ; and there's no harm done. 

Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 

(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also : 

He's poor, and that's suspicious — he's unknown, 

And that's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 

Of guilt, but what hath he of innocence ? 

Were he a man indifferent to my prospects, 

In other bearings, I should rather lay 

The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 

Hath something which I like not ; and alone 

Of all around, except the intendant, and 

The prince's household and my own, had ingress 

Familiar to the chamber. 

Eiiter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you ? 

Goi As those who fare well every where, when 
they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Gab. I heard 

Of your late loss ; but 'tis a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Sbral. You would hardly tliink so. 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstript 

them, 
In my return. 

Stral. You !— Why ? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check 'd like myself; 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were in it ! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ? 
I order' i this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

Thp Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The lied Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream,) and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it : 

Che knaves! the slaves! — but they shall smart for 
this. [Exit Stralenukim. 



Gab. (solus.) There goes my noble, feudal, teif- That only knows the evil at first glance 



will'd baron 
Epitome of what brave chivalry 
The prcux chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer, 
His sixteen quartcrings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fill'd a hl.iddcr, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming half way through the window 
Of his o'ersct and water-logg'd conveyance : 
An I now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
B-i luse ttey love their lives too ! Yet, he's right : 



'Tis strange they should, when such as he may pu\ 

them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [Exit Gaboh 

SCENE II. 
The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 

Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look ot: tr.ee agaial 
My Ulric I — my beloved ! — can it be- 
After twelve yeai-s ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful ! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks ! — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too, 
He comes not only as a son, but savior. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
WTiat I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me! 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it. 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from 
My memory, by this oblivious transport ' 
My son ! 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. What have we here, more strangers ? 

Jos. No 

Look upon him ! What do you see ? 

Wer. A stripling, 

For the first time 

Ulr. (kneelimj.j For twelve long years, my father 

Wer. Oh, God ! 

Jos. He faints ! 

. Wer. No — I am better no^(^— 

Ulric ! (Embraces him.) 

Ulr. My father, Siegendorf ! 

Wer. (starting.) Hush ! boy — 

The walls may hear thtt name ! , 

Ulr. What then ? 

Wer. Why, then,— 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Weiucr. Come I 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look's! aU 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine! 
Sure 'tis no father's foildness dazzles me ; 
But had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chcsew 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. And yet you knew mc uot ! 

. Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul 
Which makes me look on all men «"»th an eye 



Ulr. My memory served me far moie fondly; i 
Have not forgotten aught; and ofttimes in 
The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not name the^s 
As you say that 'tis perilous ) — but i' the pomp 
Of your sire's foudivl mansion, I look'd back 
To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
And wept to see another day go down 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between Of 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that 

Are you uwaxe my father is no more > 



590 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ulr. Oh heavens ! I left him in a green old age, 
A-nd looking like the oak, worj^ but still steady 
A.midst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three months 
since. 

W^er. Why did you leave him ? 
• Jos. {embracing Ulric.) Can you ask that 
questicJn ? 
[fi he not heret 

War. True ; he hath sought his parents. 

And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert oui- rights, 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
Bo that I must prefer my claim for form : 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 

Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak 

Riddles : Avhat is this Stralenheim to us ? 

Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count 
Indeed, spoke sometime? of a kinsman, who. 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague : 

But here he 's all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
lie hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
IJy favor. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 

Wer. No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my"per8cn, 
As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
!Co his uncertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him, 

(Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
He owes me something both for past and present 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He liathljeen plunder'd too, since he came hither: 
Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

Wer. {M/itatedly .) Who 

Taught you to mouth that name. of " villain ? " 

Uh: What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
With an infernal stigma r 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer. Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
boy ! that 
U would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 

Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in common 



With such a being and my father ? 

Wer. Every thing 

That ruffian is thy father ! • 

Jos. Oh, my son ! 
Believe him not — and yet ! {her voice falters.) 

Ulr. {starts, looks earnestly at Weknek, and thet 
says slowly) And you avow it i 

Wer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young^ 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxm-y's lap. 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It Cometh like the night, and quickly) — Wait . — 
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin, 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair youi- bedfellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! should that day e'er arrive— 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 
With but A?s' folds between your steps and happiness, 
When he, who lives but to tear from you name, 
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor ; midnight for your niantle ; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere 
Inviting death, by looking like it while 
His death alone can save you : — Thank yotir God I 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder. 
You turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer. {abruptly.) Hear me ! 

I Avill not brook a human voice— scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but leara 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe^ Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse- 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power — my knife was raised- 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his : — are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you not ? Who sayg 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 

[Hepausi*, 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed ! 

Wer. Me he hath ever kno'WT 

And hunted through each change of time — name- 
fortune — 
And why not you? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth I would )iave spurn' a 
Even from my presence ; but, in spun ing now. 
Fill only with fresh venom. . Will you be 
More patient r Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimei 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulr. {looks Jlrst at him, and then at Josephine. 
My mother ! 

Wer. Ay ! I thought so : you have now 

Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand al»ne. 

Ulr. But stay ! 

[Wernek rwJies out of the %,hamb» 



WERNER. 



39] 



Jo*, {to Ulbic.) Follow nim not until this storm 
of passion 
^.bates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had uot follow' d ? 

Ulr. I obey you, mother, 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him and for him. 
That this is but the surface of his soul. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr. ' Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst Ihou but done so I 

Enter Oabor and Idenstein, with Attendants. 

Gab. ( to Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade. 
Ro this is my reward ! 

Ulr. What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and 
for this ! 
(To Idenstein.) But for your age and folly, I 
would 

Iden. Help ! 

Hands off! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab. Do not think 

I'll honor you so much as to save your throat 
From tlie liavenstone * by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite ; but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then, 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintance ? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[G^ROK seizes on him. 

Ulr. (interfering.) Nay, no violence : 

lie's old, unarm'd — be temperate, Gabor ! 

Gab. (lettiiu/ go l])iuii»TEiii.) True: 

[ am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein.) How 

Fare you ? 

Iden. Help ! 

Ulr. I /mve help'd you. 

Iden. Kill him I then 

I'll say g'- 

Gab. 1 am calm — live on ! 



The RaveMC^ns, " Raraniteln,' 



I Um clOfM gibttt of Qamuiiijr, umI m 



Iden. That's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Gex-many. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 

Iden. Does he not ? 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from diowning 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenheim. 

Gab. (goes up to him.) My noble loid, I'm hero, 

Stral. WeU, sir ! 

Gab. Have you aught vdth me ? 

Stral. WTiat should 1 

Have with you ? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not wash'd away your memory ; 
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused, 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his ? 

Stral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron I 

Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit. 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am insiilted— 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it. 
If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me» 
I am your equal. 

Stral. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed— 
I do not ask for hints, and sm-mises. 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe mc 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I lUeen eager of 
Your gold. I also know that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame. 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing ; I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All senction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This toe* 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. fSdcath ! who dare doubt it 

Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

Stral. Y'ou 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master ? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; 1 found him io 
Yotir company. 

Gab. We found you in the Oder 
Would wo had left you there ! 

Stral. I give you thanks, nil. 

Gab. I've carn'd them; but might have eani'd 
more from others, 
Perchance, if 1 had left you to your fat«» 



392 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Strat,. Ulric ! yoa know this man ? 
Gab. No more than you do 

If he avouches not my honor. 
trir. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connexion led me, honor. 

Stral. Then 

I'm satisfied. 

Gab. {ironically.) Right easily, methinks. 
Wliat is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine ? 

Stral. I merely said that I 

Was satisfied — not that you were absolved. 

Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no ? 

Stral. Go to, 

Yon wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you. 
Is the fault mine ? Is't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation ; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence ; you 
Are practising your power on me — ^because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat' st thou ? 

Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you some- 
thing. 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

Gab. Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To his Attendants and Idenstbin. 
You need not further to molest this man. 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 
[Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

Gab. {following.) I'll after him and 

Ulr. {stopping him.) Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppose me ? 

Ulr. Your own reason, with a moment's 

Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin — 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 

Gab. Must I bear to be deeni'd a thief ? If 'twere 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
1 here's something dai-ing in it ; — but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man ! — 

Ulr. It seems, then, 

J"ou are tu)t guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright ? 

Tou too ! 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer 
"ISo"— 
P'3 you I answer thii^. {He draws.) 

Ulr. {drawing.) With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there ! Ho I help ! help : — Oh, God ! 
hero's murder ! 

\Eait Josephine, shrieking. 



Gabor and Ulric fight. G abor is disarmed jun 
as Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, &o 
re-enter. 

Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He's safe ! 

Stral. {to Josephine.) Who 's safe ? 

Jos. My 

Ulr. {interrupting her with a sterii look, and turn- 
ing afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both 
Here's no great harm done. 

Stral. What hath caused all thii I 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor ! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and fim- 
phatically in a low voice to Gabor. 

Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. {taking his sword.) They shall. You hav€ 
wrong'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword ; 1 

would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit him yet : — you have vanquish'd me. 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seea 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by. 
However — but in friendship. [Exit Gabob. 

Stral. I will brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
Ulric, you are not hurt ? — 

Ulr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. {to Idenstein.) Intendant take youi 
measures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

Iden. Secure him ! he hath got his sword agam-> 
And seems to know the use on't ; 'tis his trade, 
Belike ; — I'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! after hun 

Ulr. Baron, I d© beseech you ! 

Stral. I must be 

Obey'd. No words ! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so — 

March, vassals ! I'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which all rests- 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendanu 

Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric : what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
I recognize her, 'tis the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Werner." 

Ulr. 'Tis his name. 

Stral. Indeed . 



WERNER. 



892 



ab not your.husband visible, fair dame i — 

Jos. Who seeks him ? 

Stral. No one — ^for the present : but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 

Jcs. Not so ; 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
Ail pHssa here. 
{Atide to Ulric as she goes out.) Ulric ! have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

Ulr ^ to Josephine.) Fear not ! — 

[Exit Josephine. 

StraL Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
Tou saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Stral. Mysterious 

And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

Ulr. "Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 

Stral. No — this " Werner " — 

With the false name and habit. 

Ulr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is — 'tis no matter ; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all aroun(tus here — and much 
That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 

Ulr. And what ilave I to do with this ? 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours. 

Ulr. It is abating, 
. Stral. That is well. 

Ulr. But how 

Am I concern'd ? 

Stral. As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
Thf*t which is of more import to me than 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him ! 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar 

when 
tie makes against you in the hunter's gap- 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

Ulr. Why so ? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh, could you see it ! But you shall. 

Ulr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is the ricfhest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd it liglitly ; so that now, besides 
[ts own exuberance, it bears double value 
Confronted with whole realms afar and near 
M[ade deserts, 

Ulr. You describe it faithfully. 

*<tml Ay— could you see it, vou would say so— 
but, 

/SO 



As I have said, you shall. 

Ulr. I accept the omen 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable vnretch— 
This way-worn stranger — stands between you and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and his) — [Aside.'\ 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no righi; 

Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited prodigal. 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
In all his acts — But chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 

Ulr. He has a wife, then ? 

Stral. You'd be sorry to 

Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

Ulr. Is she not so ? 

Stral. Np more 

Than he's your father — an Italian girl. 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same Werner. 

Ulr. They are childless, then ? 

Stral. There is or was a bastard) 

Whom the old man — fhe grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled 
No one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. At your vain fears 

A poor man almost in his grasj> — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can stai-tle a grandee ! 

Stral. All's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 

Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it 

Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to m| 
heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

Ulr. 'Twere too lat» 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 
Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspettedi 
Except that circumstance is less. against him , 
He being far off", and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
1 think too well of blood allied to mine. 
To deem he would descend to such an act . 
Besides he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we knon 

By our experience never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes thelQ 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can Iom 

nothing. 
Nor e'er be robb'd: their spoils are a bequest * 
No more. 

Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man. 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Conroalment or escape ? 

Ulr. You may be sure 

Tou yourself could no watch him xave than 1 



394 



BYROI^ S WORKS. 



Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Tours, and for ever. 

Ulr. Such is my intention. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 
SCENE I. 

A Hall m the same Palace, from whence the secret 

Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gab. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. How 

Can I, so wretched, give to misery 
A shelter — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gab. Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would txu-n at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

We)\ Ah ? 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same. myself. But will you shelter me ? 
I am oppress 'd like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced 

We>*. f abruptly,) Who told you that I was dis- 
graced ! 

Gab, No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said / was so — and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

Wer. Again ! 

As I? 

Gab. Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have ? You don't believe 

me 
Guilty of this base theft r 

Wer. ' No, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why that's my heart of honor : yon young 
gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
lam the worst-clothed and least named among them; 
Although, were Momus' lattice in our breasts. 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs : but thus it is — you poor and helpless— 
Both still more than myself. 

Wer. How know you that ? 

Gab, You're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
, By sympathy, that a.'l the outspread gold 
Of the New World the Spaniard boasts about 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance. 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power. 
Because I feel it) as may leave no nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

W «r. What do you mean ? 



Gab, Just what I say ; I thought my speecL (v<m 
plain : 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as tn.e men, 
Should aid each other. 

Wer, It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the two ''lext, as 
The priests say, (and no doubt they should ki^ov 

best.) 
Therefore I'l. stick by this— as being loth 
To suffer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb 
It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
To-moiTOw I will try the waters, as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer. Abated ? is there hupe of that ? 

Gab, Theie was 

At noontide. 

Wer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less ? 

Wer. Your poverty ? 

Gab. No — you don't look a leech foi that disorderi 
I meant my peril only : you've a roof. 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly : for how should such a wretch as 1 
Have gold ? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on't. 

Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab, What ? 

Wer, Are you anurt 

To whom you speak ? 

Gab. No ; and I am no+ used 

Greatly to care. (A noise is heard without.) But 
hark ! they come ! 

Wer, Who come ? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds after me: 
I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go ? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless 
Think if it were your own case ! 

Wer. (Aside.) Oh, just God ! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. I see you're moved; and it shows well m' 
you : 
I may live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

Gab. Not I! and if 

I were what, is there to espy in you ? 
Although I recollect his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; bixt you best know — what — and why 
I am his deadliest foe. 

Wer. Youf 

Gab, After such 

A treatment for the service whicn in pait 
I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist mc. 

Wer. I will 

Gab, But how ? 

Wer. (showing the panel.) There is a seere 
spring : 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance, 
And used it but for safety. 



WERNER. 



395 



Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

V'er. I found it, 

As ] have said : it leads through winding walls, 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither; you must not advance: 
Give me your word. 

Gab. It is unnecessary ; 

How should I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
lead ? 
rknow not — (mark you !) — but who knows it might 

not 
Lead even into the chambers of your foe ? 
So strangely were contrived these galleries 
By our Teut(^nic fathers in old days, , 

When man built less against the elements 
Than his next n nghbor. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do, 
(Albeit 1 never i^ss'dthem,) I'll not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gab. But 1 will. 

A thousand thanks ! 

Wer. Yov 11 find the spring more obvious 

On the other side ; and, when you would return. 
It yields to the least tf»uch. 

Gab. I'll in — farewell ! 

[Gkbhu ffoes in by the secret panel. 

Wer. {solus.) What have I done ? Alas ! what had 
I done 
Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man. 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before them ! 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Iden. Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
Through the dim gothic glass by, pious aid 
Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like 

sunrise 
On loiig pearl-color'd beards and crimson crosses. 
And gilded croisers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
And helms, and twisted armor, and long swords, 
All the fantastic furniture of windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
Likeness and fame alike rest on some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek ? 

Tden. A villain. 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 

Iden. In the search 

Of him who robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

\ Du have divined the man ? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Btand there : but where's he gone ? 

Wer. Who ? 

Iden. He we sought. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Iden. And yet we traced him 

Cp to this hall. Are you accomplices ? 
I)r deal ) ou in the black art ? 

Wtr. I deal plainly, 



To many men the blackest. 

Iden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
Our search for t'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now : I may not be 
So patient always. 

Iden. I should like to know. 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent ! 

Said you not that he was not here ? 

Iden. Yes, (i»i«; 

But there's another whom he tracks more keenly 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
Bustle, my boys ! we are at fault. 

{Exit Idenstein and Attendo?n(t 

Wer. In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil rising, in my heait ! 
Thou art too late ! I'll nought to do with blood. 

Enter Ulkic. 
■ Ulr. I sought you, father. 

Wer. Is't not dangeroua > 

Ulr. No ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions. 
Deeming me wholly his. ^ 

Wer. I cannot think it : 

'Tis but a snare he winds about us both. 
To swoop the su-e and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause at each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briais in our path, 
But must break through them, as an unarm'd cari« 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wol* 

rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so 
We'll overfly or rend them. 

IVer. Show me how f 

Ulr. Can you not guess ? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange 

Came the thought ne'er into yoiu mind last niyhtt 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. Then we shall neTCl 

More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

'Tis of our safety. 

Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
Will bring his stimmon'd myrmidons from Frankfort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wer. And now your remedy ! 1 thought to (tc«p« 
By mi'ans of this iiccursod gold ; but now 
I dure not use it, show it, scarce look ou it 
Moth inks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not iho mintage of the state i 



396 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A.nd, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, which curl around my temples, 
And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain ! 

Ulr. You must not use it, at least now ; but take 
This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 

Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 
Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Biibe the intendant for his old caleche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too ? 

Ulr. Fear nothing ! 

The only fear were if we fled together. 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in floods between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far's in our favor. 
The rente on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
A few hours' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you're safe. 

Wer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush ! hush ! no transports : we'll indulge 
in them 
In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold : 
Show Idenstein the gem, (I know the man, 
And have look'd through him :) it will answer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
So jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
And then the man who was possest of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
In your addi-ess, nor yet too arrogant. 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

Wer. I will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling 'with a jewel in your favor, 
All had been known at once. 

Wer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 
Wer. To part no more ! 

Ulr. I know not that ; but at 

The least we'll meet again once more. 

Wer. My boy ! 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver ! 
Oh; do not hate me ! 

Ulr. Hate my father . 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son ? 
Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 
Wer. Scorpions 

Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this guise. 
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 

Ulr. I'll wait ! 

In the meantime be sure that all a son 
C«c do for parents shall be done for mine. 



Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
Further — that you despise me. 

Ulr. "Wherefore shoxild 1 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 

Ulr. No ! 

I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
Not now. Your error has redoubled all 
The present difficulties of our house. 
At secret war with that of Stralenheim : 
All we have now to think of is to baSie 
Him. I hav^ shown one way. 

Wer. The only one, 

iAnd I embrace it, a? I did my son. 
Who show'd himself and father's safety in 
One day, 

Ulr. You shall b*^ safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stral^nheim's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your r^ght, or mine, if once Tve were 
Admitted to our lands ? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the first 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the stronge£t« 
Especially the next in blood. 

Ulr. Blood! 'tis 

A word of many meanings ; in the veins 
And out of them, it is a different thing — 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other. 
Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

Wer. I do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. That may be— 

And should, perhaps — and yet but get ye readj 

You and my mother m.ust away to-night. 
Here comes the intendant : sound him with the gem 
Twill sink into his venial soul like lead 
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud, 
And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
With its greased understratum ; but no less 
Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoalA 
The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 
Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your hand. 
My father ! 

Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

Wer. Accursed 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts ; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — ^it will ease you ; 

Here is the intendant. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Master Idenstein 
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
The rogue ? 

Iden. No, faith ! 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more 

You may have better luck another chase. 
Where is the baron ? 

Iden. Gone back to his chamber ; 

And now I think on't, asking after you 
With nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great m«jii 

Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 
Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 



WERNEK. 



3»7 



Tis well iiiey have horses, too ; for if they had not, 
( fear that men must draw their chaiiots, as 
Ihey say kings did Sesosnis. 

Iden. Who was he ? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 

Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same, 
For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 

Ulr. I've heard so ; but I must take leave. In- 
tendant, 
Your servant ! — Werner, (to Webnek slightly ^j if 

that be your name, 
Yours. [Exit Ulbio. 

Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 
And prettily behaved ! he knows his station, 
You see, sir : how he gavr to each his due 
Precedence ! 

Wer. I perceived it, and applaud 

His just disceriment and your own. 

Iden. That's well— 

Thait's very well. You also know your place, too ; 
And yet, I don't know that I know your place. 

Wer. (showing the ring. ) Would this assist your 
knowledge 

Iden. How !— What !— Eh ! 

A. jewel ! 

Wer. 'Tis your own on '^ne condition. 

Iden. Mine ! — Name it ! 

Wer. Thai hereafter you permit me 

A t thrice its value to redeem it : 'tis 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family ! — yours ! — a gem ! 

I'm breathless ! 

Wer. You must also furnish me 

An hour ere daybreak 'vith all means to quit 
This place. 

Iden. But is it real ? Let me look on it • 
Diamonds by all that's glorious ! 

Wer. Come I'll trust you : 

You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
My present seeming. 

Iden. I can't say I did, 

Though this looks like it : this is the true breeding 
Of gentle blood ! 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 
Whom Stralenheim's in quest of? 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
To much embarrassment to me just now. 
And to the baron's self hereafter-*-'tis 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

Iden. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my business ; 
Besides, I never should obtain the half 
Fnim this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin. 
And never offer a precise reward- 
But this! — another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Id^n. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Ihou touchstone of Philosophy herself! 
Thou bright eye of the Mind ! thou loadstajr cf 
rhe soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles ! 
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
Higli on t&e moniirch's diadem, attractest 



More worship than the majesty who swcatb 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, 'ike 
Millions of hearts which bleed td lend it lustra* 
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchyraist ! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
W ithout the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

Wer. Call me Werner still ; 

You may yet know me by a loftier title. 

Iden. I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd in a low garb.— 
But come, I'll serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
I'll show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such meana 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. —Let me gaze again : 
I have a foster-brother in the mapt 
Of Hamburg skill'd in precious stones. How many 
Carats may it weigh ? — Come, Werner I will wing 
• thee. [Exeunt 

SCENE II. 

Stralenheim's Chamber. 

Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. All's ready, my good lord ! 

Stral. I am not sleepy, 

And yet I must to bed ; I fain woiild say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber. 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will ^ 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well ! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear i 

Stral. I know not why, and therefore do fear more 

Because an undescribable but tis 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber ? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

Fritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call him '• Ulm,." 

Stral. You think! you supercilious slave! what 
right 
Have you to tax your memory, which should b« 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the luiine 
Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty. — 
Get hence ! " You think" indeed ! you who stood 

still 
Howling and dripping on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and the strangpj dash'd aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored mo to 
Thank him — and despise you. *• You think!** and 

scarce 
Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good night I 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper^ 

[Th4»cm»cl 



398 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SCENE Til. 



The secret Passage. 
Gab. (soltcs.) Four — 

Five — six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
[t sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang, "lis a perpetual knell, 
Thnigh for a luarriaj -feast it rings : each sroke 
Peals for a hope the i^^ss ; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I'm cold — 
I'm dark ; — I'v« blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
A.nd bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cui'sed pattering feet and whirring wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. • 
A light ! It is at a distance, (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance :) but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
The inhibited direction : I must on, 
Nevertheless from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
In such a de:^ as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — Heaven aid 

me 
To obtain or 'to escape it ! Shining still! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself. 
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well. 
That corner's turn'd — so — ah ! no ; — right ! it draws 
Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so 
That's weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 
Into some greater danger than that which 
I have escaped — no matter, 'tis a new one ; 
And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
Wear more magnetic aspects : — I will on, 
And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 
Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuics ! 
My stationary Will-o'the-wist> ; — so ! so : 
He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 

SCENE IV. 

A Garden. 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. I could not sleep, and now the houi 's at 
hand; 
All s ready. Idcnstein has kept his word : 
And station'd in the outskirts of the town, 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonor'd : but I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-dying canker-worm, 
WTiich all the coming splendor of the lands, 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
nan sea: 7ely lull a moment. I must find 



Some means of restitution, which Tould ease 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery ?— 
It must be done, however ; and I'll pauae 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of ray misery led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
I will have nought of Stralenhnim's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps ! as soundl) 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 

Such as when Hark ! what noise is that ? Again 

The branches shake ; and some loose stones hav€ 

fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[ULKf^ leap's down from the terrace 
* Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Befoia 

We approach, tell me 

Wer. W ny look you so ? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. What ? 

Ulr. An assassin ? 

Wer. Insane or insolent ! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as , 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

Wer. To what must I 

Answer ? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim ? 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you r 

Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber ? and 

[Ulric paiue$ 

Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr. Died he not by your hand ? 

Wer. • Great God 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father's inner 
cent ! 
Embrace me! Yes, — your tone — ^your look — ^ye«i 

yes- 
Yet say so. 

Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind. 
Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment thtOQgl 
The irritation of my oppiessed spirit — 
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes I 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead 

Wer. 'Tis horrible ! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful » 
But what have I to do with this ? 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced , no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me. 
If nature 

Wer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
AboTe our house ! 

Ulr. My father ! I acquit you ! 

But will the world do so ? vrill even the iudg» 



W^£rvr^£iB, 



399 



If- — But yon must away this instant. 

Wer. No • 

I '11 face It. Who shall dare suspect me ? 

Uir. Yet 

You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. Ah ! 

The Hungarian ! 

Clr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. • 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 

Conce il'd and fatal gallery. 

lUr TAere I'll find him. 

[Ulric is going. 

Wer. It is too laie : he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the 

silent 
And favorable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him yester-even. 

Uir. You reclosed 

The panel ? 

Wei'. Yes ; and not without reproach 
vAnd inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 

Wer. Certain. 

Ulr. That's well ; but had been better, if 

You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for 

[He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father , do not speak of this : 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man ? 

Wer. Could I shun it r 

A man pursued by my -chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to my safety. 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Bave in such circumstances thrust him forth. 

U-ir, And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace t.".e murderer, if 'tis possible. 

Wer-. Bit this my sudden flight will give tihc 
M.-Joch 
Suspicion : two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who setms the culprit, and 

Ulr, Who seems f Who else 

Can be so ? 

War. Not /, though just now you doubted — 
You, my son ! — doubted—— 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since I fell into. 

The abyss of crime, (though not of such crime,) I, 
Having sten the innocent opprcss'd for me 
May doubt even the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuiie 
* ppe aranc • ; and views a criminal 



In Innocence's shadow, it may be. 
Because 'tis dusky 

Ulr. And if I do so, 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard 
Away ! — I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his o\vn sake and hip jewel's, hold 
Hi3 peace — he also is a pa' tner in 
Your flight — ^moreover 

We)', Fly ! and leave my nam« 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'das poorest, 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! leave 

Except our father's sovereignty and castle, 
For which you have so long panted and in vain 
What name ? You have no naine. since that vou 

bear 
Is feign'd. 

Wer. Most true ; but still I^vould not have it 
Engraved in ciimson in men's memories, 

Though in this most obscure abodes of men 

Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you hew 
As heir of Siegendorf: If Idenstein 
Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such enjojonent, 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if =^'er 
Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyam'P 
With the late general war of thirty years. 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust. 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Herey save as such — without lands, influence, 
Save what hath perish'd with him Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave, 
Obsf ure as his deserts, without a scutdheon, 
Is all he'll have, or wonts. If / discover 
The assassin, 'twill be well — if not, believe me 
None else ; though all the full-fed train of menial* 
May howl above his ashes (as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder) 
Will no more stir a finger now than tfitn. 
Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer.— Look 
The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer — pardon me that I 
Am peremptory ; 'tis your son that speaks, 
Your long-lost late-found son. — Let's call nhy 

mother ; 
Softly and swiftly stop, and leave the rest 
To me: I'll answer for the event as far 
As regards you, and that is the chief point. 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We'll inert in Castle Siegendorf— once more 
Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
Aloiu>, and leave all other thoughts to me. 
Whose youth may better battle with them.— Hinw ! 
And may your age be happy !— I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be iritl 
you ! 

Wrr. This counsel's safe — but is it honorable ? 

Vlr. To save a father is a child's chief honor. 



J5YflON'S WORik». 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near 
Prague. 

Entet' Eric and Henrick, retainers of the Count. 

Eric. So better times are come at last ; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for masters, 

It might be unto those who long for novelty, 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
Kis feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire 

Eric. Why, 

For the mere cup amd trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for men-iment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's 
bounteous. 
And we all love him. 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honey-moon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray heaven he keep the present I 

Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there's a knight ! 
Pity the wars ore e'er ! 

Hen. Why so ? 

Eric. Look on him ! 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen. He's very youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

Eric. That's net a faithful vassal's likeness. 

Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said, 

The wars are over . in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride. 
Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field, 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnash- 
ing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 

Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do yoa mean ? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 
.Is (Pauses.) 

Eric. What? 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living, 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 

Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave iron-visaged 
fellows, 
Sucb as old Tilly loved. 



Hen. And who loved Tilly f 
Ask that of Magdebourg — or for that matter 
Wallenstein either ; they are gone to 

Eric. Rest ; 

But what beyond 'tis not otirs to pronounce. 

Hen I wish they had left us something of their 
rest ; 
Thf country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with — God knows who : they flv 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Than the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulrio— 

What has all this to do with him ? 

Hen. With him ! 

He ^might prevent it. As you say he's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 

Eric. You'd better ask himself ? 

Hen. I would as soolB 

Ask of the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hen. The devil ! you'll hold your tong le t 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 

Hen. 'Tis nothing— but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwisr 
He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress. 
And she no doubt will soften whatsoe'er 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that I have said ! « 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count. 

Ulr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are order'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks promisirg 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
The toils of Monday : 'twas a noble chase ; 
You spear'd/owr ^vith your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Em 

I had forgotten — let it be the gray, then. 
Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

Ulr. I leave that to Weilburgh, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Ekio. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord ! 

Ulr. The uewB 

Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Hex- 

RICK.) 

How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 
Hen. For your commands, my lord 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty 



WEKNEK. 



40] 



And leam if he would aught with me before 

I mount. [Exit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Dpon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
'Tis rumor'd that the column sent against them 
Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Hod. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 

Ulr. I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

Rod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In high Silesia >vill permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men 
Whom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route : 
You know i* well ? 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we — - 

Ulr. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success : 
A.nd when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter. 

[Gives a letter. 
Add further, that T have sent this slight addition 
To our force with } «.m and Wolffe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 

Ulr. Why, 

1 do so — but it follows not fi*om that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
80 brief and burning with a lady's zone. 
Although 'twere that of Venus ; — but I love her, 
A.S woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Rod. And constantly ? 

Ulr. I think so ; for I love 

Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
Wo have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good 
Rodolph ! 

Uod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ? 

Ulr. Perhaps — my father wishes it ; and sooth 
'Tis no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 'twas a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as little kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever did he not? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod. I have heard it whispcr'd there was some- 
thing strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 
Is icaict 17 kr.own. 

51 



Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words ? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah ! here's the lady Ida 

Enter Ida Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ; 

Ida. N"* tei eailj 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me '■^ cousin f 

Ulr. (smiling.) Are we not so i 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; m^'.h.nV6 
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

Ulr. (starting.) Flood ( 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 

Ulr. Ay! doth it I 

Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes like a tonent 
Even to your brow again. 

Ulr. (recovering himself.) And if it fled. 
It only was because your presence sent it 
iJack to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cunsin! 

Ida. " Cousin " again. 

Ulr. ^ Nay, then I'll call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name still worse. — Would ^^tQ had 
ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

Ulr. (gloomily.) Would we never h^i. 

Ida. Oh heavens ! and can you wish that f 

Ulr. Dearest Id* 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then 1 wish'd it not with such a glance, 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me are so already ; 

But I can wait. 

Uh. Dear Ida! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Yo^ir laa, for I would be yours, none else's- 
Indeed I have non« ise left, since my poor father • 

[Shepauam, 

Ulr. You have mine — you have m«. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wiak 

My father could but view our happiness, 
Wliich wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed ! 

Ida. You would have loved him* 

He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
His manners were a little cold, his spirit 
Proud, (as is birth's prerogative;) but undei 

This grave exterior Would you had known vadl 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey 
He had not died without a friend to sooth 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Who says truti f 

Id<i. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general ruini> 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'or rcturn'd : that fever waa most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 



402 



'TV If they were near him, 

He c<"iJd not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
[t loves r — They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr. Say 

[t 1.D2S so. 

Ida. i sometimes dream otherwise. 

' Ulr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

liia. In sleep— I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But you do not see his face f 

Ida. (looking at him.) No! Oh, my God! do 
yout 

Ulr, "Why do you ask ? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

Ulr. f agitatedly. J Ida, this is mere childishness ; 
your weakness 
Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
Of vours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

/da. Child, indeed ! I have 

Full fifteen stimmers ! [A bugle sound.s. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida. (peevishly to Rodolph.) Why need you tell 
him that ? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

Ida. I vrill not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 

Rod. You will not, 

Liady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall ! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. ' 

Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rodolph. 

Rod. Truly 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'ei I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
Would soon restore me. I'm the true chameleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere : your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I'm a forester and a breather 
Of the sweet mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then ? You shall not 
go! 
Come ! I will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 

To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 

' \nd you vill live in peace on yoiir domains. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

Enter "Werner as Cottnt Siegendobp. 



Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves rnc 
"With such brief greeting. — You have heard ou 

bugle ; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them. — ^You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to folio* 
The chase vnth such an ardor as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

"Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric • 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanor. 

Sieg. (to Ida.) True, dear child, 

Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel, — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honors : 
Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house, 
But most in ours, that one should be found want 

ing 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
"WTiich gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving : first, for our country ; 
And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. {aside.} Devout, too ! well, sir, I obey at 

once. (Then aloud to a Servant.) 

Ludwig, dismiss the train v?ithout ! [Exit LuDWia 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. (smiling.) You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
"Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself ? But fear not : thou shalt rule hin 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall, 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsman 

Ulric, you'll come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your bug!»t : 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes ; 
I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And w,' y ^ot 

Old Tilly's? 

Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not witt 

music, 
Could aught of his sound on it : — but come q'.uc'ltly 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. 

[Exit Ida 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 

Ulr. My time's your vassal. — 
(aside to Rodolph.) Rodolph, hence . and do 
As I directed ; and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Roseuherg reply. 



WERNER. 



Kod Count Siegendorf, command^ od aught ? 1 am 
bound 
Ijpon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieff. (starts.) Ah ! — 

Where ? on what frontier ? 

Bod. The Silesian, on 

My way — (aside to Ulrtc) — Where shall I say ? 

Ulr. (aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 

(Aside to himself.) That 
Word will I think put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Rod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. (agitated.) Hamburgh ! No, I have nought 
to do there, nor 
Ain aught connected with that city. Then 
Cted speed you ! 

Rod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 

\^Exit Rodolph. 

Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason with you on. 

Ulr. My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 

But of his bearing. Men speak ligntly of him. 

Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the 
monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain, 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodjph : 
They say he is leagued with the " black bands '" 

who still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you believe 

The world ? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. In any case 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence. 

Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you : you refer to- -but 
My destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric ; you have seen to what the passions led me : 
Twenty long years of misery and famine 
Quench'd them not — twenty thousand more, per- 
chance, 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 
May not obliterate or expiate 
The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
By mine, and you behold me ! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honor'd 
By those he niles and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
K.\\ hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 
But if my son's is cold ! 

Ulr. Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, who sco \t—feel it — keener 
rhan would ycir adversary, who dared say so, 



409 

Your sabre in his heart ! Bu mrae survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling ; how should it be so. 
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 

Sieg. And did not I too pass those twelve tora 
years 
In a like absence ? But 'tis vain to urge you— 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let's change the theme. I wish you to considez 
That these young violent nobles of high name, 
But dark deeds, (ay, the darkest, if all Rumor 
Reports be true,) with whom thou consortest, 
Will lead thee 

Ulr. (impatiently.) I'll be led by no man. 

Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou shouldst wed the lady Ida*-more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly. 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For Glory's pillow is but restless, if 
Love lay not down his cheek there:) some strong 

bias, 
Some master fiend is in thy ser vice to 
Misrule the mortal who believ,;,.* him slave, 
And makes his every thought subservient ; else 
Thou'dst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her ; " or, "I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
Would I have answer'd. 

Tjlr. " Sir, you -ted for love 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-mat rh. 

Sieg. Still 

Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not uarn me 

Against your own example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist i 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ichx ? 

Vir. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey Tou in espousing her ? 

Sieg. As f;ir 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She's young — all beautiful — adores you — Ir 
Endow <1 with ijualitics to give happiness, 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something wliich your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom io love virtue) 
For which Philosophy niii^ht barter wisdom . 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A wttle in return. I wt)»ild not liave her 
Break her heart for a man who liaS' none to break, 
Or wither en her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she tliought a nightingale. 
According to the Orient tulc. She is 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralonlve.m, your fot 
I'll wed her. ne'erthelcss ; though, to say truth. 



404 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



L.: 



. Mst now I am not violently transported 
In favor of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think 
twice. 

Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 'tis time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. ^ 

Sieg. But you consent ? 

Ulr. I did and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'Tis usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not I 

For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I'll give mine. * 

Sieg. But 'tis your office 

To woo. 

Ulr. Count, 'tis a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother. 
With whom, you know the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have ? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls, 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer. 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting-needles, 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
What can a son or man do more ? [Exit Ulbic. 

Sieg. (soltis.) Too much ! 

Too much of duty and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
For such has been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But hoAv ! — obedient, but with coldness ; duteous 
£n my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious, 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 
And where — none know — in league with the most 

riotous 
Of our young nobles ; though, to do him justice, 
He never stoops down to their \-ulgdr pleasures 
Yet there's some tie between them which I cannot 
Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
Throng round him as a leader : but with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
A.ftei — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
5vcn to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
f o shed more blood ? or — oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee } 'Twas not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe, 
A-ud yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
.\iid only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
l,ikp poison in my hands ; 1 dare not use thee, 
Ndi- part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Met))iTiks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
r.ik* mine Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 



Thou villainous gold ! and thy dead Toaster's dtktci 

Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. The ab1[)ot, if it phase 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendani 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard ! — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent. 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers 
WTiere there is everlasting wail and wo. 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not ! 

Sieg. True, father ; and to avert those pangs £r(nn 
me. 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church. 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices, 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[SiEGENDORF offers the gold which hehadUUKU 
from Stralenheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms. 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

Sieg. (faltering.) For — for—- the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret ! I have none ; but, father, he who'i 
gone 
Might have one ; or, in short, he did bequeath- 
No, not bequeath — But I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who's gone was not my friend, but 
foe. 
The deadliest and the staunchest. 

Prior. ■ Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for tke soolf 
Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who ian forgive tnem living. 



WEENER. 



401 



Steg, Bat 1 did not 

Forgive this man. J loathed him to the last, 
A.S he did me. I do not love him now, 
But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ; 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell— 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold. 

Prior. Whose then ? You said it was no legacy. 

Hieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, thy,t he 
Wlio own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
'Tis yours, or theirs. 

Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 

Sieg. No : but there's worse than blood — eternal 
shame ! 

Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bedf 

Sieg. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge. 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 

Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 

Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know — ^but — ^he was stabb'd i' the 

dark. 
A.nd now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut- throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
I am 7wt the man. I'll meet your eye on that point 
As I can one day God's. 

Prior. Nor did he die. 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 

Sieg. No ! by the God who sees and strikes ! 

Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one, 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected,. 
As unemploy'd. E.xcept by one day's knowledge 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 

Sieg. ("agerly.) Oh ! am I ? — say ! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 

Sieg. Father ! I have spoken 

The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole : 
^et say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shod it, 
Though, by the Power who al)horreth human blood 
[ did not ! — nay <mce spared it, wlieii I might 
And could — ay, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attack of over-potent foes:) 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
For, ay I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remor.se is on me, 
\3 if be had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 
Fal'ier ! 1 have pray'd myself in vain. 

J yior. I will. 

Bo comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as iunocenc*. 

t>ipg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so. 

When the mind gathers by its truth within it. 
Remember the gr»*at festival to-morrow, 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles, 
Ks>, well as your brave son; and smooth your aspect; 
Nor Ln the general orison of thanks 



For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shei not rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse imto the guilt* 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 

A large and magnijicent Gothic Hall in the Cnsth Oj 
Siegendorf, decorated icith Trophies, Bamere inr 
Arms of thai family. 

Enter Arnheim and Meister Attendants of Co UK I 
S1EGENDOJ.F. 

Am. Be quick ! the count mil soon return : the 
ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 

Meis. I have, in all dkections, over Prague 
As far as the man's dress and figure corld 
By your description track him. The de\il take 
These revels and processions I All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the specta;v.rs. 
I'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Am. Go to ! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I'd rathet 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade. 
Than follow in the train of a great mer 
In these dull pageantries. 

Att. Begone ! and rail 

Within. [Exeunt- 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf ana 
Ida Stralenheim. 

Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over . 

Ida. How can you say so ! never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs. 
The banners, and the noblos, and the knights, 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the iiappy faces, 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even tha 

tombs, 
"Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns. 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like harmonious thunder ; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes ; the world 
At peace ! and all at peace with one another ! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [Embraci^nj JcsKPUTHk 

Jos. My beloved cnild ! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

Idn. Oh . 

I am so already. Feel how ray heart beats ! 

Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throj 
With aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it lo so \ 

How should it? ^Vhat should make us grierf f ' 

hate 
To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely ? Y«m, 
Tlie count, and Ulric, and your daughter Id» 

Jos. Poor child ! 

Ida. Do vou pitv nic i 

Joa. No ; bat 1 envy 



106 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A.iid Ihat in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida, I'll not hear 

A. word against a world which still contains 
you and my Ulric. Did you ever see 
A-Ught like him ? How he tower'd among them all 
How all eyes foUow'd him . The flowers fell faster— 
Rain'd from each lattice at. his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest : and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 
Will with<'r. 

Jvs You will spoil him, little flatterer, 

I( he should hear you. 

Ida- ■ But he never will. 

] dare not say so much to him — I fear him 

Jos. Why so } he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

Jos. How so ? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Yet he says nothing. 

Jos. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him, 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for instance 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. 1 did not see him, 

But Ulric. Did you. not see at the moment 
When all krelt, and I wept : and yet methought 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. 1 could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and diagging trains. 

Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dea/ mother, I am with you. [Exeunt. 

Enter Count Siegendckif, in full dress^ from the 
solemnity y and LuDWiu. 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lud. Strict search is making every where ; and if 
Xhe man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg. Where's Ulric } 

Lrid. He rude round the other way 

With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, witli his train, 
GnUop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed 

Sieg 7o Lud WIG.) See they cease not 

Their quest of him I have described. (£xi^LuDWia.) 

Oh, Ulric ! 
HoTf have 1 lor^'d for thee ! 



Your wish is granted' 



Ulr. 
Behold me ! 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom? Where? 

Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim 

Ulr. You dream. 

Sieg. 1 live 1 and as I live, I saw him— 

Heard him ! he dared to utter even my name. 

Ulr. What name ? 

Sieg. Werner . 'twas mine. 

Ulr. It must be 80 ; 

No more : forget it. " * 

Sieg. Never! never! all 

My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will not be engraved upon my tomb, 
But it may lead me there, 

Ulr. To the point— the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; the 
hymn was raised ; 
** Te Deum " peal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised" 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose, 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines, of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
A moment and no more,) what struck me sightless 
To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge 

The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks m.ann'd with revellers in their best garbs 
Which shot along the glancing. tide below, 
The decorated street, the long array. 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artiUery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
The standards o'er me, and th^ tramplings round, 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. • 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I look'd as a dying soldier 

Looks at a draught of water, for this man ; 
But still I saw him not ; but in his stead — 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest. 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflow' d the glittering streets of Prague 

Ulr. What's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much ; for 1 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Wer 
tier !" 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him ! I tum'd — and saw — and foil 

Ulr. And wherefore .^ Were you seen ? 



WERNEK 



40, 



Sieg The officious care 

Uf those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause ; 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
I'The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me, 

Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 

^ Sieff. In what ? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he's 

found, 
9> hat shall W3 do with him ? 

Sier". I know not that. 

Ulr. Then Trherefore seek ? 

Sieg. Because I cannd rear 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
Aid curs, seem intertwisted ! nor can be 
Unravftird, till 

Enter an Attendant. 

Aft. A stranger to wait on 

li'our exrellency. 

Sieg. Who ? 

Att. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[The Attendant introduces Gabor, and after- 
ward' exit. 

Ah! 

Gab. 'Tis, then, Werner ' 

Sieg. (haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by 
that name ; and you ! 

Gab. (looking round.) I recognize you both : 
f other and son, 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in s«!>irch of me ; I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you; 
you are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime aa — [Hepaitses. 

Gab Give it utterance, and then 

I'll i^'^et the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unloisb 

Gab. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men : the universal rumor — 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the time, 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on me only ; 

Pause ere you answer : is no other name, 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt ! Of all that 

breathe 
Thou best dost kno/v the innocence of him 
'dainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody 

slander, 
But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'Tis false ! 

Sieg Who says so ? 

Gab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gab. By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Sieg. Name him ? 

Gab. He 

Hay have more names than one. Your lordship had so 



Once on a time. 

Sieg. If you mean mt, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Gab. (pointing to Ulric.) Beside you . 

[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor; Sib 
GENDORF interposes. 

Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them 
{He t'M-ns ito Ulbic 
Ulric, repe) this calumny, as I 
Will do. I 'lyow it as a growth so monstrous, 
I cou-d not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavors to compose himself. 

Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 

Sieg. (first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric.) 

I hear thee 
My God ! you look 

Ulr. How ? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 

When we met in the garden. 

Ulr. (composes himself.) It is nothing. 

Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came 
\ hither 

Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
Amidst the people in the church, I dream'd not 
To find the beggar'd Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes ; but you have call d me. 
And we have met. 

Sieg. ■ Go on, sir. 

Gab. • Ere I do so, 

Allow me to inquire who profited 
By Stralenheim's death } Was't I — as pccx is eve» , 
And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honors and estates scarce less than princely. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence aliglit on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one among us 
I speak to you, Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me ? 
Dare you command me ? 

[Siegendorf ^>«< looks at the Hunganan, and 
then at Ulric, who has unbuckUd his sabre 
a7id is drawing lines with it on the floor— still 
in its sheath. 

Ulr. (looks at his father atid 6'ayS, J Let the m»c 
go oi; ! 

Gab. I am umum'd, count — bid your son lay Jc wa 
His sabre. 

Ulr. (offers it to him contemptuously.) Take it 

Gab. No, sir, 'tis euougL 

That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. (casts the sabre fivm him in contempt.) \\.- 
or some 
Such other weapon, in my hands— spared youn 
Once when disarm'd and at my mercy. 

Gab. True- 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me foi 



408 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tour owii especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

[ To SlEGENDORF. 

Sieg (takes his son by the hand.) My son ! I know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

Ey speaking of myself much ; I began 
Life f-arly — and am what the world has made me. 
At Fi ankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(WTiich I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
Tc hear related a strange cucumstance 
In February last. A martial force, 
Sent by the state, had after strong resistance 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. They proved, 
However, not to be so — but banditti. 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many among them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er th'c frontiers. 
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate 
I know no more. 

Hiecj. And what is this to Ulric ? 

Gab. Among them there was said to be one man 
Of wonderful endo^^•ments : — birth and fortune, 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman. 
And courage as unrivall'd, were proclaim'd 
His by the public rumor ; and his sway 
Not only over his associates, but 
His judges, was attributed to witchcraft, 
Sucli was hi'* influence : — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine — 
I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 

Hicg. And did you so ? 

Gah. You'll hear. Chance favor'd me, 

A popular affray in the public square 
Crew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions Avhere men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
The moment my eye met his, I exclaim 'd, 
" This is the )nan ! " though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly: 
I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
Btature, and bearing, and amidst them all. 
Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
1 could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. (smiling.) The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And .may sound better. — He appear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft dei)end ; besides. 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
\ear to this man, as if my point of fortune 
■Viis to be fix'd l)y bim. — There I was Wrong. 

i^ieg And may not be right now. 



^Gab. I foUow'd him, 

Solicited his notice —and obtained it — 
Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — we left it 
Together — and together we an-ived 
In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succor'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you hear further ? 

Sieg. I must do 80-»- 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his station — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it 

Sieg^ Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it ? 

Gab. Still you owe me something 

Though not for that ; and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That / had robb'd him. 

Sieg. I conceal'd you — I, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving ^iper 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge . 
Your hall's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and /'ll be merciful ! 

Sieg. You merciful ! 

Y''ou ! Base calumniator ! 

Gab. I. 'Twill rest 

With me at last to be so. You conceal'd ma- 
in secret passages known to yourself. 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer, 
Through distant crannies, of a t%vinkling light : 
I follow'd it, and reach 'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, where. 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through and beheld a purple bed. 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 

Y'ou slew him ! — Wretcn i 

Gab. He was already slain. 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieg. But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the — — 

[He pauses from dgiiaticn 

Gab. No 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. (to Ulric.) Then, my boy ! thou artguiltlasi 
still— 
Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gab. Be patient ! I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, — or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night: how he had enter'd 
He best knows — but within an antechamber. 



WERNER. 



409 



Hie dxj of which was half ajar, I saw 
A. man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
W th stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
Tie bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh '. God of fathers ! 

GaJ). I beheld his features 

A.S I see yours — ^but yoxirs they were not, though 
Resembling them — behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
WTien I first charged him with the crime — so lately. 

Sieg. This is so 

Gab. (interrupting him.) Nay — ^but hear me to the 
end ! 
Now you must do so. — I conceived myself 
lieti'ay'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tV between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance: but though arm'd with a short 

poniard 
(Having left my sword without) I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
1 turn'd and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept ; if I 
Had found you waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have 

prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams ! and such brief 
sleep, 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Wliy didst tiiou spare me ? I dreamt of my father— 
And now my dream is out 

Gao. 'TIs not my fault, 

/f I have read it. — ^Well ! I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
Uid show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. (after a pause.) Indeed! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Vour meditation .' 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gac You shall know it 

At oncc - When you were poor, and I, though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I ofFer'd you 
My purse — you would not share it: — I'll be franker 
W^lth you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
1 lie iirperial powers — you understand me ? 

Siv^ Yes — 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
true : 
Tis no ?fe88 true, however, that my fortunes 
Have mad*" me both at present. You shall aid me ; 
I W/Uld have aided you — and also have 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have 
said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation r 

Gnb. (casts hia ei/es on Ulric w?to ia leaning 
against a 2ntlar.J If I should do bo ? 



Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw inta 
This tower. [Opens a turret door 

Gab. {hesitatingly.) This is the second saft 
asylum 
You have ofler'd me. 

Sieg. And was not the first so ? 

Gab. I know not that even now — But will approT« 
The second. And I have still a further shield.— 
I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, they are 
Some tongue* without will wag in my behalf; 
Be brief in your decision ! 

Sieg. I wiJ be so.— 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

Gab. I'll take it for so much. 

Sieg. (points to Ulric's sabre still upon thi 
ground.) 

Take also t?iat-» 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab. (takes up the sabre.) I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. 

[GABOR^oes into the turret, which SiEGENECai 
closes. 

Sieg. (advances to Ulric.) Now, Count Ulrio I 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thou ' 

Ulr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster r 

Ulr. Most true, father 

And you did well to listen to it : what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villainy. 

Ulr. It Is no xntTw 

For trifling or dissembling. I have sail 
His story's true ; and he too must be silenced 

Sieg. How so ? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so duJ 

As never to have hit on this before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except • 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? Or had the prince's household bees 
Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could gnu, Wet Her, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have fled, unless by many an hour before • 

Suspicion woke ? I sotight and fathom 'd you. 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you. that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide ! no less 

Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fii 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil yon cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured. 
Could / be calm ? Think you that I have heaH 
This fellow's tale without pome foelin^ ? — you 
Have taught me feeling for gou and myself; 
For whom or what rise did you ever teach it? 

Sieg. Oh ' my dead father's curse ! tii woikin^ 



410 

ITZr. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Let it work on! the grave will keep it 

down! 
Aslies are feeble foes : it is more easy 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole, 
WTiich winds its blind but living path beneath 

you. 
Tet heai- me still ! — ^if you condemn me, yet 
Remember wJio hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him ! Who proclaim'd to me 
That there were crimes made venial by the occa- 
sion ? 
That passion was our nature ? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
Who show'd me his humanity secured 
By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 
All power to vindicate myself and race 
In open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Himself — a felon^s brand ! The man who is 
At once both warm and weak invites by deeds 
He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
That I should act what you could think f "We have 

done 
With right and wi'ong ; and now must only 

ponder 
Upon eflFects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
W'Tiose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown^ 
I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, 1 slew 
Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
Was a rock ia our way which I cut through, 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 
His life : when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy. You, kindled first 
•he torch — you show'd the path ; now trace me 

that 
Of safety — or let me ! 
Sieg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 

ixxC 

Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 

Of things which cannot be undone. We have 

No more to learn or hide : I know no fear. 

And have within these very walls men whom 

(Although you know them not) dare vent\ire all 

things. 
You stand high with the state : what passes here 
tyill not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me : 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulkic. 
Sieg. fsolm.J Am I awake ? are these my father's 

halls ? 
A.nd you — my son ? My son ! mine ! who have ever 
A-bhoiT'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plung2d into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he hath partisans. 
It seems : I might have guess'd as' much. Oh 

fool I 
Wolves prowl id company. He hath the key 
(As I too; of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Tii*a of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

[Exit into the turret, closing the door after him. 



SCENE II. 



The Interior of the Turret. 

Gabob and Siegendorp. 

Gab. Who calls ? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf ! Take these, and fly 

Lose not a moment ! 

[Tears off a diamond star and other jewels, %ni 
thrusts them into Gabok'« luind. 

Gab. What am I to do 

With these ? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard 

And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gah. You pledged your honor for my safety ! 

Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master. 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly : 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so ? 

Farewell, then ! Recollect, however, count 
You sought this fatal interview ? 

Sieg. I did : 

Let it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 

Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 

Sieg. Yes ; that's safe stul 

But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Farewell I [Exit Gabob 

Sieg. (solus and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
staircase. Ah I I hear 
The door sound loud behmd him ! He is safe ! 
Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint-— ^ 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near Die wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapon* 
drawn. 

Ulr. Despatch ! — he's there ! 

Ludwig. The count, my lord ! 

Ulr. Crecog7iizing Si-EG^^DOKF.) Fom here, sir! 

Sieg. Yes : if you want another victim, strike ! 

Ulr. (seeing him stript of his jewels, j "Where is the 
ruffian who hath plunder'd you ? 
Vassals, despatch in search of him ! You see 
'Twas as I said — the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom ! 
Away ! I'll follow you forthwith. 

[Exeuivt all bui Siegenborp and Ulwo 
What's this ? 
Where is the villain ? 

Sieg. There are two, sir : which 
Are you in quest of ? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

Sieg. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going 

Sieg. Stop ! I conmand — entreat — implore ! Oh 
Ulric! 
Will you then leave me J 



WE&KBR. 



411 



(/It What ! remain to be 

D«nouncoi— dmgg'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-hiunanity, * 
Belfiah remorse, and temporising pity. 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sieg. I never had one ; 

And would you ne'er had borne the useless name ! 
Where will you go ? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 

Ulr. Leave that unto me. 

I am not alone ; nor mereiy the vain heir 
Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

Sieff. The foresters ! 

With whom the Hungarian found you first at 
Frankfort ? 

Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the name ! Go 
tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been lain 
Witi Wallenstein ' 



Jt^ 



Enter Josephine and Ida. 
Whitt is't we hear ? My Si^eudorf '. 



Thank Heav'n, I see your safe ! 

Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear iatbei 

Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord ? 

Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon ! 
Ida. (taking Ulric's hand. J Who shall dare saT 

this of Ulric ? 
Sieg. Ida, beware ! there's blood upon that 

hand ! 
Ida. (stooping to kiss it.) I'd kiss it off, though it 

were mine ! 
Sieg. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric 
Ida. Oh, great God ! 

And I have loved this man ! 

[Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speech- 
less with horror. 
Sieg. The wretch hath f lais 

Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now alone t 
Would we had ever been so ! — All is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grare ; 
Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
I In miue !->Xhe race of Siegendorf is past! 



HOURS OF IDLENESS; 

i SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED 



* " Yiffintoa puenque Canto." 

HORACE, Ilb.S,Od»L 
M^r' ip Its iia\ aiPts, nf}rs r< veivet. 

HOMER, lUAD, x. 
** H« wtiistl«i1 u he w«nt for w&ut of thou^t." 

DRYDEN. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC. 

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 

BY KIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 

THE AUTHOR. 



Lord Btron first appeared as an author in 
November, 1806, when he printed a collection of 
pceras for distribution among his friends. The first 
copy of this volume, which is a thin qxiarto, was 
presented to Mr. Beecher, who immediately per- 
ceived, on looking over its pages, that some of the 
contents were by no means of a description to refiect 
credit on their author ; and at his friendly siigges- 
ti:>n the whole impression, with the exception of 
hco, or, at the most, three copies, was committed to 
the flames. After the destruction of this volume. 
Lord Byron directed the c«illection to be reprinted, 
•rith the omission of the Oujectionable poems. This 
edition, which was eonfined to a hundred copies, 
and, like its predecessor, designed for private circu- 
lation, was proceeded in so quickly, that at the endi 
of about sis weeks. January. 18'^7. it was ready forj 
delivery. The volume was entiled " Poems on v'a-! 
rious Occasions," and was printed at Newark by S. | 
♦nd J. Ridge; the author's name was not given. I 
The dedication was, "To those friends at whose' 
request they were printed, for whose amusement or: 
ipprobation they were solely intended, these trifles i 
are respectfully dedicated by the author." Imme- 
diately following the dedication was this notice : — 
"The only apology necessary to be adduced in ex- 
tenuation of any errors in the following collection 




is, that the author has not ret completed his 
teenth year. December 23 1806." The approba- 
tion which this volume received from the friends to 
whom it was submitted induced Lord Bvron to come 
more immediately before the public ; and in the lat- 
ter end of May, 1807, this colleCion, with considera- 
ble alterations, the omission of some poems, and the 
addition of others, was reprinted and published, un- 
der the title of "Hours of Idieness, a Series of 
Poems, original and tianslated, by George Gordon, 
Lord Byron, a Minor." This volume was also 
printed at Newark. In the four editions of tLia 
work, which rapidly succeded each other, many va- 
riations are found : several corrections were made ; 
several pieces were silently withdniwn, and replaced 
by others ; and after the first edition a dedication to 
Lord Carlisle was prefixed. In the present publica- 
tion, all those Poems from the " Private Volume," 
and the early coitions of •' Hours of Idleness,*' 
which were suppressed by the author, are reprinted, 
and all the variations of the diifexent impressioof 
are noticed. 



PREJACE.* 

In submitting to the puolio eye the following col 
lection, I have not only to ccmbat the difficultieff 

* PiMtnl in Ute imt aiiaoa of Boun jf l(li«r«M : <m ine4 la tto MoaoA 



HOURS OF EDLENESS. 



413 



that wr'iieit! of ««rsp generally encounter, but may I to others " Virum volitare per ora." 1 look to the 
Incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself! few who will hear with patience " dulce estdesiper* 
on thf world, when, without doubt, I might be, at! in loco," — To the former worthies I resign, withcu* 
my ago, more usefully employed. These produc-! repining, the hope of immortality, and content my 
tions are the»fruits of the lighter hours of a young | self with the not very magnificent prospect of rarik 



man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. 
As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, 
this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some 
few were \vritten during the disadvantages of illness 
and depression of spirits; under the former influ- 
ent , "Childish Recollections," in particular, 
were c mposed. This consideration, though it can- 
not excite the voice of Praise, may at least arrest 
Uie arm of Censure. A considerable portion of these 
poems has been privately printed, at the request 
and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible 
that the partial and frequently injudicious admira- 
tion of a social circle is not the criterion by which 
poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, "to do 
greatly," we must "dare greatly ;" and I have haz- 
arded my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must 
stand or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter 
event, I shall submit without a murmur; for 
though not without solicitude for the fate of these 
effusions, my expectations are by no meatus san- 
guine. It is probable that I may have dared much 
and done little ; for, in the words of Cowper, " it is 
one thing to write what may please our friends, who, 
oecause they are such, are apt to be a little biased 
In our favor, and another to write what may please 
every body ; because they who have no connection, 
or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to 

find fault if they can." To the truth of this, how- j honors granted solely to a title, 
ever, I do not wholly subscribe : on the contrary, I 
feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated 
with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, 
will be liberally allowed ; their numerous faults, on 
the other hand, cannot expect that favor which has 
been denied to others of maturer years, decided 
character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed 
at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any 
particular model for imitation : some translations 
are given of which many are paraphrastic. In the 
original pieces there may appear a casual coinci- 
dence with authors whose works I have been accus- 
tontif'd to read ; but I have not been guilty of inten- 
tional plagiarism. To produce any thing entirely 
new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Hercu- 
lean task, as every subject has already been treated 
to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my 
primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of 
indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, 
urged me "to this sin :" little can be expected from 
»o unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it 
muat be, is all I shall derive from these productions ; 
and I shall never attempt to replace its fading 
leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves 
where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accus- 
tomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless moun- 
taineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of 
late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so ele- 
vated a residence, as might enable me to enter the 
tst with genuine bards, wno have enjoyed both 
these advantages. But they derive considerable 
fame, and a few not lesB profit, from their produc- 
tions ; while I shall expiate my rashness as an inter- 
oper, certainly without the latter, and in all proba- 
bility with a very slight share of the former. I leave 



ing " among the mob of gentlemen who write ;"— 
my readers must determine whether I dare say " with 
ease," or the honor of a posthumous page in " Th<! 
Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors " a work to 
which the peerage is under infinite obligations, in- 
asmuch as many names of considerable length, 
sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the 
obscurity which unluckily overshadows several vol 
uminous productions of their illustrious bearers. 

With slight hopes and some fears, I publish this 
first and last attempt. To the dicta,te8 of young 
ambition may be ascribed many actions more crim- 
inal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age 
the contents may afford amusement : I trust they 
will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly im- 
probable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, 
that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on 
txie public ; nor even in the very doubtful event of 
present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit 
a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion 
of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of 
mine,* " That when a man of rank appeared in th« 
character of an author, his merit should be hand 
somely acknowledged," can have little weight with 
verbal, and still less with periodical censors ; but 
were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself 
of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitter- 
est censure of anonymous criticism than triumph in 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

Why dost thou bl:~.e the hall, box op thb 
winged dayf} ? trcj l00ke8t fhom thy t0we« 
to-day: yet a fe\» years and the blast of 

THE DESE?iT C ME8, IT HOWLS IN THY EMPTY 

COURT. -U&sian.f 

Thkough thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow 
winds whistle ; 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
Have choked up the rose which late bloomed io 
the way. 

Of the mail-coTer'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast 
rattle, 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing 
numbers, 
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-latuell'd 
wreath ; 
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan J slumbers 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 



Thr Eari o( CartWr. v»iu«> wortrt hmrr kmf niMtml ti» HMd aT pitiiW 
which, \-j thru IntrirMk vpnh, ihfj vct« wafl mtttai. 
t Th* mado vaa .ui<lr<1 in thr flial odkkia of Hoyn af liflw. 
I UoriMaii Ctmit, in DriiirMre, an uttrtA anl of Ik* l »i a« hmiir 



414 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 

For the safety of Edward and England they fell : 
Mv fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 

How you fought, how you died, still her annals 
can tell. 

On Marston,* with Rupert.f 'gainst traitors con- 
tending, 
Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak 
field ; 
F or the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
T'll death their attachment to royalty seal'd. 

Phadea of heroes, farewell! your descendant, de- 
parting 

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation. 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 



That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish : 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown , 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your 
own. 

1803. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE, 
AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE 
HILL.+ 

Oh I mihi prateritos referat si Jupiter anno*. 

Virgil, jEneid, lib. 8, 560. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 

WTiere science first da^vned on the powers of reflec- 
tion, 
And friendships were form'd too romantic to last ; 

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the reseseml: lance 
Of comrades in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 

Igain I revisit the hills where we sported. 
The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
we fought ; 
The school where, loud wam'd by the bell, we re- 
sorted. 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Aigain I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 



• The battle of Manton Moor, where the adbc/enu of Charlei I. ww« 
fcfeated. 

t Sot of the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles I. He afterward! 
wmmaoued th'; fleet in the reign of Charle* II. 

* Thii poem waa printed in the private Tolnme, and In the flrrt edition of 
Horn of Uktytm, where the motto from Virgil wai added, it was aller- 
vanli niiiU<«d. 



Or round the steep brow of the churchyard T 
wander' d, 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room with sp^tators snr 
• rounded, 

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 
Wliile to swell my young pride such applauses re* 
sounded, 

I fancied that IN^ossop* himself was outshone: 

Or, as Lear, I poured forth the deep imprecntiaii, 
By my daughters of kingdom and reason dcf rirod; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret yaa 
Uii faded your memory dwells in my breast : f 

Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you; 
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest 

To Ida;j: full oft may remembrance restore me, 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which 
await me. 
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall 
elate me, 
"^h! such were the days which my infancy 
knew." 

1806. 



TO J).§ 

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp 
A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 

Till envy, ■mth malignant grasp, 
Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 

True she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I'll lay my head- 
Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
February, 1803. 



• MoMop, a cotemporary of Garricli, fiiinoua for bii pertbrmaBoe o/ laaf » 
1 Toung'a traj^y of the Revenge. 

t " Your memory beams through thia agonized breaat." 



J " 1 thought thia poor tiraia, fevered even to madnesa, 
Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd ; 
But the drops wluch now flow down this bosom of 
Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd. 

" Sweet scenes of my childhood I your blest recollection 
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead, 
In torrents the tears of my wamiesi allection, 
The last and the fondest 1 ever sliali shed." 



t Printed in the private volume onlr. 




ULl) f^rKNES UKVlSITfflfc-=- 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



415 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.* 

Aarr^p rpiv (lev eXaftne^ evi ^oiotariv C(pos. 

Lcmriua, 

JH, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear.f 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 
Could tears retard the tyraiit in his course ; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force, 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight. 
Thy coEirade's honor, and thy friend's delight. 
X If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen tc weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb. 
Affliction's self deplores thy }-outhfuI doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer. 
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
But who with me shall hold thy former place ? 
Thine image what new friendship can efface ? 
A.h none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow. 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
To all. save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 

1803. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall cftll my spirit, jovful in their choice ; 
When, poised upon the gale', my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the motmtain's side ; 
Oh may my shade behold no sctilptured urns 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
{ No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone, 
My epitoph shall l)e my name alone: 
li that with honor fail to crown my clay. 
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
Th/it, only thjit, shall single out the spot; 
1 13y thiit rem3n;berd, or with that forgot. 

1803. 



TO EDDLESTON,* 



Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined 

And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth . 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercouse is not less sweet, 
Since worth of rank supplies the place, 

Noveriber, 1803. 



* Thete lino* were pririte.1 In tli.: prlvnie volume, the lille Miig " Kpilnph 
in u belovnd Friend." Thr inotia wiw milled In (Iik Aral edition ol Hour* of 
lilleiMi. 

t " Oh, Boy I for ever loved, for ever dear. "— /Mtni* voiumt. 
I " 'I'hoiifrb low thy lot, iliicr In ii cottugv Iwni, 
No ll'le* did thy himihle name adorn ; 
To me far diiirer wh» thy nrtleu love 
I'han all the )oy» wrnlth, lUnie, ami frlende eould prove i 
For Iheo altMir I lived, or wtiih'd li> llv ; 
Oh C^l I If inipliMi*, thia null word lur^^lvo I 
Hiwrt-bruken now, I widt un rtjii.d diHiin, 
CoriUMit tu Join th'-f In lliy inrt-clad tomb; 
Wh-'re, thiN frail (onii C(inip<M>><l in enilli-M real, 
I'll rimke rny liun cold pillow on thy hreiiat ; 
Thiu hreaat wh<in? oil in life I've laid my head, 
Will yei rrctilve me muulditring with the deud { 
Thl« Hie real^'d withotit one pnninjr ilgh, 
Toifi'thT In one bed of eait)> we'll lie I 
Tojrethtir ahare tiie hile to monnli given, 
Together niU onr duat, and hope for hHavan.** 
Slier. »H« ine i-oiicliMlnn In the private volume. 
\ " No lei gtlien'ii acroll of virtue and renown." 

PrioaU •oiunu, and Jtrtt irHHon of Hourt t»f tdl$m$§. 
Ht ti«t m ' ibiir'd, or fora'er loriruu"— /Ytaair M^uNM. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J M B, 
PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HW 
MISTRESS.t 

"Why, Pigot, complain 

Of this damsel's disdain. 
Why thus in despair do you fret ? 

For months you may try, 

Yet, believe me, a sigh 
"Will never obtain a coquette. 

"Would you teach her to love ? 

For a time seem to rcve ; 
At first she may frown in a pet ; 

But leave her awhile, 

She shortly will smile, 
And then you may kiss your coquetti* 

For such are the airs 

Of these fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt j 

Yet a partial neglect 

Soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquett*» 

Dissemble your pain, 

And lengthen your chain, 
Ard seem her hauteur to regret ; 

If again you shall sigh, 

She no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, from false pride, 

Your pangs she deride, 
This whimsical virgin forget; 

Some other admire, 

"Who will melt with your fire, 
And laugh at the little coquette. 

For me, I adore 

Some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly ; but jet, 

Though my heart they enthral, 

I'd abandon them all. 
Did they act like your blooming coquett*. 



Only priiiletl In IIm private vnluma, 
Prlotad In lb* privmw vulumo out*. 



416 BYRONS 


WORKS 


No longer repine, 


And if I should shun 


Adopt this design, 


Every woman for one, 


And break through her slight- woven net ; 


Whose image must fill my whole brsMt 


Away with despair, 


Whom I must prefer. 


No longer forbear 


And sigh but for her — 


To fly from the captious coquette. 


What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 


Then quit her, my friend ! 


Now, Strephon, good-bye ; 


Your bosom defend, 


I cannot deny 


Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 


Your passion appears most absurd ; 


Lest your deep-wounded heart. 


Such love as you plead 


When incensed by the smart, 


Is pure love indeed. 


Should lead you to curse the coquette. 


For it only consists in the word 


October 21th, 1806. 




TO THE SIGHING STREPHON.* 


THE TEAR. 


Your pardon, my friend. 


•' O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacrog 


If my rhymes did offend, 


Duceiitiuin onus ex atiiino : qii.iter 
Felix ! in inio qui scatentem 


Your pardon, a thousand times o'er ; 


Peciore te, pia Nymplia, senrnt."— Omy.' 


From friendship I strove 




Your pangs to remove, 


When Friendship or Love 


But I swear I ■will do so no more. 


Our sympathies move, 




When truth in a glance should appeai, 


Since your beautiful maid 


The lips may beguile 


Your flame has repaid. 


With a dimple or smile, 


No more I your folly regi-et ; 


But the test of affection's a Teai'. 


She's now most divine. 




And I bow at the shrine 


Too oft is a smile 


Of this quickly reformed coquette. 


But the hypocrite's wile, 




To mask detestation or fear ; 


Yet still, I must own. 


Give me the soft sigh. 


I should never have known 


Whilst the soul-telling eye 


From your verses, what else she deserved ; 


Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear 


Your pain seem'd so great, 


• 


I pitied your fate. 


Mild Charity's glow. 


As your fair was so devilish reserved. 


To us mortals below. 




Shows the soul from barbarity cleai , 


Since the balm breathing kiss 


Compassion will melt 


Of this magical miss 


Where this virtue is felt, 


Can such wonderful transports produce ; 


And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 


Since the " world you forget. 




When your lips once have met," 


The man doom'd to sail 


My counsel will get but abuse. 


With the blast of the gale. 




Through billows Atlantic to steei. 


Y',u say, when " I rove. 


As he bends o'er the wave 


I Know nothing of love ;" 


Which may soon be his grave. 


'Tis ^Tue, I am given to range : 


The> green sparkles bright with a Tear. 


If I rightly remember, _ 




I've loved a good number, 


The soldier braves death 


Ytf^. there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 


For a fanciful ^^Teath, 




In Glory's romantic career ; ^^ 


I will not advance. 


But he raises the foe 


By the rules of romance. 


When in battle laid low. 


To humor a whimsical fair; 


And bathes every wound with a Tear, 


Though a smile may delight. 




Yet a frown won't alfright, 


If with a high-bounding pride 


Or drive me to dreadful despair. 


He return to his bride. 




Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 


While my blood is thus warm 


All his toils are repuid 


I ne'er shall reform, 


When, embracing the maid, 


To mix in the Platonists' school ; 


From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 


Of this I am sure. 




Was my passion so pure, 


Sweet scene of my youth ! 


Thy mistress would think me a fool. 


Seat of Friendship and Truth, 


• Tiie»e rtauiai were only printed in the priTate wluine. 


• Tljii mouo WM uuened ui the fir»« edition of Houn of IdleM* 



HOURS OF ID ENESS 



417 



Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
Loth to leave thee, I mourned. 
For a last look I turn'd. 

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 

Though my vows I can pour 

To my Mary no more, 
M^y Mary to Love once so dear, 

In the shade of her bower 

I remember the hour 
Phf. rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, 

May she live ever blest ! 
Hey name still my heart must revere ; 

With a sigh I resign 

What I once thought was mine, 
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, 

Ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near : 

If again we shall meet 

In this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight 

To the regions of night, 
•And my corse shall recline on its bier, 

As ye pass by the tomb 

Where my ashes consume. 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow 

The splendor of wo 
Which the children of vanity rear : 

No fiction of fame 

Shall blazon my name ; 
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 26. 1803. 



TO MISS PIGOT.f 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 
Who to women deny the soul's future existence, 

Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd o^vn their defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general re- 
sistance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense. 
He nf 'er would have women from paradise driven, 

Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 

Yet still to increase your calamities more. 
Not content with d'-,priving your bodies of spirit, 

He allots one poor hutband to share amongst four ! 
With souls you'd dinpense ; but this last, who 
could bear it ? 

His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil ; 
Still i can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 

•* Thuugh women are angels, yet ^r'pdlock's the 
devil." 



* " And my Uudy ilioU tlaep ou lu UeT."^iVi«alt mImmm. 
t Fuuiul uiily 111 t)M privule 

62 



LINES 



WRITTEN IN ' • LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AN! 
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. BY J. J. ROUSSEAU 
FOUNDED ON FACTS." * 

*' Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simpler hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believinjir, 
And they shall weep at your decerning." 



ANSWER TO THE FOllEGOINQ, 
MISS . 



LDDR5S8ED TC 



Dear simple girl, those flattering arts. 

From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts 

Exist but in imagination — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face. 

With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polished mirror glance, 

Thou'lt there descry that elegance 

Which from our sex demands such praises* 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 

Believe me, only does his duty : 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

July, 1804 



THE CORNELIAN.t 

No specious splendor of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever ; 

With lustre only once it shone. 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's tieSf 
Have for my weakness oft reproved me > 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 

He offer'd it with downcast look, 
As fearful that I might refuse it ; 

I told him when the gift I took. 
My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd. 
And ever since I've loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures jitl^ 

But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 
Must quit the garden for the field. 

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
Which beauty sho%v8 and slieda per(\ime ; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 



* Only priiilril ill the privntn roliuiM. 

t Tu yuiuif £Ut.llMU>ii. This pu«ni k oulr kmiiil In I 



418 

Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
For once forgetting to be blind, 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well-proportion'd to his mind. 



But had the goddess clearly seen, 
His form had fix'd her fickle b'-east ; 

Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remain' d to give the rest. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* 
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
DEAR TO HIM.f 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom. 
Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb. 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay. 
That clay where once such animation beam'd ; 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep ? her matchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
WTiere endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 

And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, 
And, madly, godlike providence accuse ? 

Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain, 
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Btill they call forth my warm affection's tear. 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 



VO EMMA.+ 

Since now the Lour is come at last, 
"When ■yyx must quit your anxious lorer 

Slace ncT our dream of bliss is past. 
One pang, my girl, and all is over 

Alas that pang will be severe, 
Which bids us part to meet no more, 

%VTiich tears me far from one so dear. 
Departing for a distant shore. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Well: we have pass'd some happy hoiurS; 

And joy will mingle with our tears ; 
When thinking on these ancient towers, 

The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from the gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to nin, 
And spend the hours in childish play; 

O'er shades where when our race was done,' 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. 
Forgot to scare the hov'ring flies, 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 
It dared to give your slumbering eyes * 

See still the little painted bark, 
In which I row'd you o'er the lake, 

See there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone, 
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone ; 
Without thee what will they avail ? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved. 

The anguish of a last embrace ? 
When, torn from all you fondly loved. 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

This is the deepest of our woes. 
For this these tears our cheeks bede^v 

This is of love the final close. 
Oh God, the fondest, last adieu ! 



• MiM Parker. 

t To these Manoi*, which are from the private volume, the following note 
»M Rttachwl : "The author claim* the indulgence of the reaUer more for 
ttk piece lh.'<n. perhap«, any other in the collection ; but a* K va» written at 
IB earlier period than the reM (being comDosed at the age of fourteen,) and 
fill flrit e»»ay, ho prefpnecl iubmitting it uo the mdulgeuee of hi* trienda in 
U present state, to maldng eitiirr additli><i or ai'icration." 

* T)tk poem Is inserted from he prtrate vMurre. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE. 

DELITERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERPOHMANCE 0* 
"THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRITaTI 
THEATRE 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit. 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek. 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
Others appear more conscioiis of defect : 
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold. 
In all the arts of scenic action old ; 
No C00K.E, no Kembi.e, can salute you here. 
No SiDDONS draw the sympathetic tear ; 
To-night you throng to witness the debut 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings w« tiy. 
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can iiy • 
Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



419 



Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet yowc praise 

But all our dramatis personae wait 

la fond suspense this crisis of our* fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward ; 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 

^hilst Youth and Beauty form the female' shield, 

X he sternest Censorf to the fair must yield. 

Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail. 

Should; after all, our best endeavors fail. 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX. 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU AP- 
PEARED IN A MORNING PAPER, j 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT 
THE FOLLOWING REPLY. § 

Oh, factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth. 
What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate. 
With generous feelings, of the good and great, 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 
For noble spirits *' war not with the dead: " 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelming ouv conflicting state : 
When lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rcar'd : 
He, too, is fall'n who Britain's loss supplied. 
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ; 
Not one great people only raise his urn, 
All Europe's far extended regions mourn. 
" Ihese feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" 
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail. 
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. 
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep : 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
Nor. e'en to Pirr the patiot's palm resign ; 
Which Envy wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
For PiTT, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



TO M. S. 0.» 



* Our. In Die priviiir Tolume, thtir. 
t Omtor, In llio |iriviiie roliimp, critic. 
I " In the Moniing yun."—Privtiti uoiu m, 
" For huenion ki the MrroloK CliiwUi-o," 
Irt^u mluiM. 



wna hera MHed In tbc 



Whene'er I view those lips of thine 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallowed bliss. 

Whene'er I dve&m of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows ? 

Yet is the daring wish represt. 
For that, — would banish its repose, 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 

Yet I conceal my love, and why ? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 

And shall I plead my passion now. 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 

No ! for thou never canst be mine. 
United by the priest's decree ; 

By any ties hut those divine. 
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume. 
Let it consume, thou shalt not know; 

With joy I court a certain doom. 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart. 
By di-iving dove-eyed \ eace from thine 

Rather than such a sting ii ipart. 
Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
M9re than I here shall dare to tell 

Thy innocence and mine to save. 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes, yield that breast to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace, 

Which to obtain my soul would dare. 
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least fiom guilt shalt thou be free, 
No matron shall thy shame rcjn-ove, 

Though cureless pangs may prey or. me. 
No martyr shalt thou be to lovj. 



TO CAROLINE. t 

Think st thou I saw thy beauteous ej«s 
Suffused in tears inrplore to stay; 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighSf 
AVhich said far more than words can say? 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprcst, 
When love and hope lay both o'ertlirown 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
Throbb'd vAth deep sorrow as thine own 



• Only prinu-il In iho prl»i»tr voiuiiie. 
t Pnnletl unir Ui lite vtimxe vuUiin* 



420 



BYRON'S WORKS 



But when our cheeks with anguish glow d. 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could' St not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame, 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
Ixi sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst o'ercome regret, 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE.* 

When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disai-m. 
And your eye beams a ray which can never de- 
ceive. 

fet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring. 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear, 

That age will come on, when remembrance, de- 
ploring. 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 

That the time must arrive, when no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
breeze, 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining. 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
features. 
Though I ne'ei shall presume to arraign the decree 
Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his crea- 
^ tures. 

In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 

He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But M death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'er- 

take us, 

Ai^d our breasts which alive with such sympathy 

glow. 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 

When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low : 

Dh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
pleasure, 
Which from pa<»sion like ours may unceasinglf 
flow; 

* laaertad ftota tte pilviMe voluroe. 



Let US pass round the cup if love's blias in fu^ 
measure, 
And quaff the contents as c u nectar below. 

1806 



TO CAROLINE.* 

Oh ! whed shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow ? 

Oh, when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-d»y. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no 
curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurled me from 
bliss ; 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 
could assuage. 
On our foes should ray glance launch in vengeance 
its lightning. 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight, 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing. 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resigna- 
tion. 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consola- 
tion. 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place 
me. 
Since in life, love and friendship for ever are fled ? 
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee. 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

180& 



STANZAS TO A LADY 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAM0EN8. 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prise; 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disappointed maid ? 

Or pupil of the prudish school. 
In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 

* Thb poem aiio ia reprinted from the iMtrate TolmMw 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



421 



fhen read, dear girl ! with feeling read. 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 

To thee in vain 1 shall not plead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

Hs was no faint fictitious flame 
Like his, may love be thy reward, 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.* 

*E/uwro fiovvov »JX£'«" 

AWAT with yoTir fictions of flimsy romance 
t Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ; 

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 
Or the rapture hich dwells on the first kiss of 
love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow 
"Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove. 

From what blest inspirations your sonnets would 
flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the fiist kiss of love ! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 

Invoke them nAmore, bid adieu to the muse, 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 

i hate you, ye cold compositions of art, \ 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots re- 
prove, 

I court the effusions that spring from the heart 
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, J those fantastical 
themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
Ajcadia displays but a region of dreams ; 
What are visions like theee to the first kiss of 
love? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man since his birth, $ 
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness 
strove ; 

Bomu portion of paradise still is on earth, 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

WTien age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
past — 

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove— 
n.o dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our Rweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



rO MARY. 



• Thew! ttaiiziv* Wf re printed In thi> priwiu- »oli'n\e, nml In Ihe tint edition 
4 Koiin or I IImiM*, hut nmlttiMl in lli)* wc'iint. 
t " TSofo Um ie« of fancy Moriiih* tii«« w.i»p." PHvnU cofunu. 
J " Your thi-f jR-rUn, your plp>», SLc.—Privatti o-Zum*. 
^ ' Oh I esMT to Rlllnii ih«l innii, Iniiti hii l.irlh," &c.— /'Hartit volutm. 



I Uod(l(<«i of h'ollv. 



Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
With blight but mild affection shine, 

Though they might kindle less desire. 
Love, more than jnortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly te&m« 

We must admire, but still despair ' 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When nature stamped thy beauteous birfh, 
So much perfection in thee shone. 

She fear'd that too divine for earth. 

The skies might claim thee for their own 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
Lest angels might dispute the prize 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appal. 
When gleaming with meridia^n blaze, 

Thy beauty must enrapture all. 
But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 

*Tis said that Berenice's hair 
In stars adorns the vault of heaven : 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll. 
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear; 

E'en suns, which systems now control. 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere 

1806 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman ! experience might have told me 

That all must l(»vc thee who heboid thee ; 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought ; 

But plai-ed in all thy chiirms before me, 

All 1 forget but to adore thee. 

Oh, MfMuory thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still poesebklng 

But how much cursed by every lover 

\A1u«n hope is fled and passion's over. 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe hei 

How throbs the pulse when first we rle« 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows i 

How (juirk we crruit every oath. 

And hear her plight the willing trota 

Ft>ndly we hope 'twill last for aye 

When, lo ! sl»e changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

"Wt)mun, thy vows are traced in sand.'** 

Tlir Uit Unp ii alnuat » IllrnU timnslalk^i fnm • 



122 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



ro M. S. G. 



When I dream that you love me, you'll surely for 
give, 

Exiend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

"Whii rapture celestial is mine! 

I'hey tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given : 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven. 

Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

I hough in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may 
smile. 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
WTien di-eams of your presence my slumber beguile. 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.* 

(jWeet girl ! though only once we met. 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again. 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, " I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain to drive thee from my breast. 
My thoughts are more and more represt; 
In vain I check the rising sighs. 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget 

What though we never silence broke. 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels' : 

Deceit the guilty lips impart. 

And hush the mandates of the heart ; 

But soul's interpreter, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed. 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 

No spirit, from within reproved us. 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd I repress. 

Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders. 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I'll say, 

Thy form appears through night, through day : 



Thw«e line* wer- put)|i«h(?rt m tiie private volume, and the flnt eUition of 
an ot .tleneai, but ■ubaequentij omitted by the author. 



A tvake, "wdth it my fancy teems ; 
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams 
The vision charms the houi's away. 
And bids me curse Aurora's ray 
For breaking slumbers of delight 
WHich make me wish for endless night. 
Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 
Shall joy or wo my steps await. 
Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas ! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May heaven so guai-d my lovely Quake 
That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 
That peace and virtue ne'r forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ; 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discovei. 
And lose the husband in the lover ! 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 'tis to feel the restless wo 
Which stings the soul with vain regret. 
Of him who never can forget !" 



SONG.* 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark 

heath. 
And climb 'd thy steep summit, oh Morven, ol 
snow ! f 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath. 

Or the mist of the tempest that gathered below, J 
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew. 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 

Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you ? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,— 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As.1 felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild. 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 

Aud pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with 
you. 

I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as my guide, 
From mountain to mountain I bou ided along ; 

I breasted § the billow of Dee's Ji rushing tide, 
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song; 



To Mary Duflf. Pirsl publisiied in the second edition of Uoun ol 
Idleneu. 

t Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire : "Gormal of sno"*," ii an 
expression frequently to be found in Ossian. 

I 'I'his will not Hppeiir exlmonliimry to those who have been accuatomea 
to the r:ioi-.nuun8 ; it is by no means uncommon on iittainiiig iho top of Bei>- 
o-vis Ben-y-bourd, tc, lo perceive between the summit and the valley, clouda 
pouring down rstin, and occaaiuiiully acoKnpunied by lig^hlnibg, while tin 
spectator literally looks down upon the stom , pdrfeetiy secure from Its effect*, 

§ Brenstini^ the lofty surgt.— ShakspeTe. 

I The Dec is a beautiful river, which rises near Mai L<vlge, euad Uk \mt 

B sea at New . 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 



423 



Ht eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 

No dreams save of Mary were spread to my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose. 
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and nay visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no 
more : 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 

And dalight but in days I have witness'd before : 
Ah ! sple-udor has raised, but embitter'd, my lot ; 

Mr-re deai were the scenes which my infancy knew ; 
rhough my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
forget ; 

Though ssli is my heart, still it lingers with you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the 

sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ; * 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think on those eyes that endear'd the rude scene : 
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think of the long-flowing ringlets of gold. 

The locks that were sacred to beauty and you. 

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once 
more 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
But Mhile these soar above me unchanged as before, 

"Will Mary be there to receive me ? ah, no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred ! 

Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you ? 



TO 



-T 



Uh ! yes, T will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true; 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the aiFcction I cherish'd for you. 

But friendship can vary her gentle dominion. 
The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 

Like lo-^e, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion; 
But glows not, like love, with unquenchable firea. 

Fall oft have we wander'd through Ida together. 

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow ; 
f" the spring of our life, how serene is the weather, 
; r'jiter's rude tempests are gathering now. 

fJ ■• '«(ir*' w'/h affection shall memory blending 
Ihe wonted dolights of our childhood retrace: 

lilTien pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, 
And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 

However, dear S , foi i still must esteem you — 

The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 

The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 



' Co'blnen la t, inountuin near the 

I ruini of Dtn Ciutle. 

» Thk poem wiu D at putilklMd in 



rergv of the Hlghluuda, not bu f^Hn 



putilkhed in Uw Houn of IdlmeM. 



I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 

With me no corroding resentment shall live : 
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 
That both may be wrong, and that both should 
forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence 
If danger demanded, where wholly your own ; 

You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 
Tevoted to love and to friendship alone 

You knew but away with the vai»i retrospection 

The bond of affection no longer endures ; 

Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection 
And sigh for the friend who was formerly your* 

For the present, we part — I will hope not for ever. 
For time and regret Avill restore you at last ; 

To forget our dissension we both should endeavor, 
I ask no atonement but days like the past 



TO MARY, 

ox RECEIVING HEK PICTUBE 

This faint resemblance of thy charma, 
Though strong as mortal art could give. 

My constant heart of fear disarms. 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 

"Which round thy snowy forehead wave. 

The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mool^ 
The lips which made me Beauty's slavo 

Here I can trace — ah, no I that eye 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire. 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

Aud bid him from the task retire 

Here I behold its beauteous hue. 
But Where's the beam so sweetly strajint • 

"Which gave a histre to its bhie, 
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing t 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art. 
Than all the living forms could be. 

Save her who placed thee next .ny hewL 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 
Lest time might shake my wa^'erin - soul« 

Unconscious that her image thae 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Through hours, through ye;us, through tima 
'twill cheer ; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise | 
In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 

And meet my fond expiring guie. 



• But whfiv'i Uir brum of ••■ft il«»)i« 
Which gnrv h liulrr lo it« tiliic, 
Love, onJy lor* ooulJ e'er iMplm. 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO LESBIA.* 



Lesbia since far from you I've ranged, 
Oxii souls with fond affection glow not ; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost ? 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older, 
Since trembling first my heart I lost, 

Cr told my love with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age, 
Two years have lingering past away, love I 

And now new thoughts our minds engage 
At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Capr^e must be my only reason. 

I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 
"With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended. 
For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 

And though our dream at last has ended — 
My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning. 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared. 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed. 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love I 

More constant they may prove indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love! 



;.INES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.f 

In the author wnt (lischarging M» piatoli in a garden, two ladies pagsing 
near the spot wre alixnned by the goimd of a biillet hinin^ near tliem, to 
oue of whom the following gtanzas were addressed thg next mining. 

DoUBTLEES, sweet girl, the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms. 

And hurtling X o'er thy lovely head. 
Has tilled that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 

Impell'd the bullets* viewless course, 
Diverted from its first career. 



• Only pinted in the priv;itc Toluine. 

f Theie nanias are only found in the private Tolnine. 

Thi» wcrd is used by (iniy, in ins povm of tho Fatal Siaten : 
' Iron »l^*t of arrowy shower 
Hunles llirough die darkcn'd air." 



Yes, in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-bom f^^ ^ 
But Heaven, with interposing power, 

In- pity turned the death aside. 

Yet. as perchance one trembling tear 
Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 

Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear 
Extracted from its glistening cell. 

Say, what penance can atone 

For such an outrage done to thee ? 

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne. 
What punishment wilt thou decree ? 

Might I perform the judge's part. 
The sentence I should scarce deplon* , 

It only would restore a heart 
Which but belong'd to thee before 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake« 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect i 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Choose, then, relentless ! and I swear 
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent 

Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
Let it be aught but banishmeni 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.* 

'* Aei d', aei fie <f>£vyEi.'' 

Anaertan. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilAOf 

dew, ^- • 

Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them for ever in love's last adieu ! 

In vain mth endearments we soothe the sad heart. 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
The chance of an hour may command us to part. 

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ' 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swoUea 
breast, 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew ; ** 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine (»f youth* 
Love twined round their childhood his flowers af 
they grew ; 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth. 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu : 



'VhiM txiem was oriiitled in the second edition of Ho 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



426 



Bweet lady! -why thus doth a tear steal its way | 
Dr^wn a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 

Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 

Tht racuntains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; 

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul \vrapt in steel ! 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
WTio laughs at the pang that he never can ffeel, 

And di'eads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast ! 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea * declares that some penance is due ; 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god on his alt^r of light, 
Must mptle and cypress alteruately strew : 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAM^TAS. 

In law an infant.f and in years a boy, 

£n mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 

£n lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tooL; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from ecbcol : 

Damtetas ran through all the maze of sin. 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even st'il conflicting passions sliake his soul, 

A-i.d bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 

4.Kd what W!AS once his bliss appears his bane. 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
What disgust to life hast thou ? 
Change that discontented air : 
Frowns become not one so fair. 



1 he QiMliteM of Jiidlcc. 
It U w *>Ti ly pnrsoii In V 



iiieii iba &4V of twrutT- 



* 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
He in dimpling smiles appears, 
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 
Or bends the languid eyelid down, 
But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
Then resume thy former fire. 
Some will love, and all admire ; 
While that icy aspect chills us. 
Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 
Wouldst tnou wandering hearts beguile, 
Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
Eyes like thine were never meant 
To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 
Still in truant beams they play. 
Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns, — in short, she 
Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 
And flying off" in search of reason. 
Brings prudence back in proper season. 
All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
I think, is neither here, nor there) 
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 
Were form'd for better things than sneering t 
Of soothing compliments divested. 
Advice at least's disinterested ; 
Such is my artless song to thee, 
From all the flow of flattery free ; 
Counsel like mine is as a brother's, 
My heart is given to some others ; 
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 
It shares itself among a dozen. 
Marion, adieu ! oh ! pr'ythee slight not 
This warning, though it may delight not; 
And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 
These cannot fix our souls to love ? 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture : 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain, 
Which binds us to your humble train, 
To hail you queens of all creation, 
Know, in a word, 'tis Animation 



OSCAR OF ALVA.* 

A TALB.+ 

How sweetly shines, through azure s'xies, 
The lamp of heaven on Lorn'a shore; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise. 
And hear the din of arms no more. 



• TWi poem WM puhUitml lor tiw flint iliii* In Muun o' 1.1 

t Tlip eWMtrnphf ol lliii laic wm .u){m'*i<-'1 *»)' liir Mory c( " U 

niul bomao," In the flnt miiinir uf Uir " AniM-nlan, oi lihist-ttw 

to • MBiM ui tht thliU act of ■ Mm^*«K ' 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But often has yon rolling moon 
On Alva's casques of sUver play'd; 

A.n<i view'd at midnight's silent noon, 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 

And on the crimson rocks beneath, 
Which scroll o'er ocean's sullen flow, 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death. 
She saw the gasping warrior low; 

While-* many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark f the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once, to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light ; 

But now she glimmer'd from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night. * 

Faded is Alva's noble race, 
And gray her towers are seen afar ; 

No more her heroes urge the chase, 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man. 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 

It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

But there no more his banners rise. 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

Vhej feast upon the mountain deer. 
The pibroch raised its piercing note, 

To gladden more their Highland cheer. 
The strains in martial numbers float : 

And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Bhould play before the hero's child. 
While he should lead the tartan train- 

Another year is quickly past. 
And Angus hails another son ; 

His natal day is like the last. 
Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow. 
On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 

Tne boys in childhood chased the roe, 
And left their hounds in speed behind. 



• WhiU. FvM mlitioii, lehtn. 
i Mark. Pint editiow, n«w. 



But ere their years of youth are o'er. 

They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
They lightly wheel the bright claymore. 

And send the whistling arrow far 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
Wildly it stream'd along the gale ; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair. 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul 

His dark eye shone through oeams of truta 
Allan had early learn'd control, 

And smooth his words had been from youth 

Both, both were brave ; the Saxon spear 
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear. 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 

While Allan's soul belied his form. 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell ; 

Keen as the lightning of the starm, 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. , 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 
Aud Angus on his Oscar smiled : 

It soothed the father's feudal pride 
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
• Assembled wave in Alva's hall. 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes. 
Attending on th^ chieftain's call. 

It is not war their aid demands. 
The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands. 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait. 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
" Why comes not Oscar ? " Angus said < 

" Is not he here ? " the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade» 

** Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

** Oh, no ! " the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
" Nor chase, nor wave, my boy delav 

Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
Would aught to her impede his way f 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



427 



-Oh ! search, je chiefs 1 oa! search around: 
Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 

Till Oscar, till my son is found, 
Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 

All is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 

It rises on the murm'ring gale. 
Till night expands her dusky wings ; 

It breaks the stillness of the night. 
But echoes through her shades in vain : 

Tt sounds through morning^s misty light, 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar ss^arch'd each mountain cave : ' 

Then hope is 1 jst ; in boundless grief 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

** Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'n 
Restore the prop of sinking age ! 

Or if that hope no more is given. 
Yield his assassin to my rage. 

" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 

Then grant, thou God! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 

'* Yet he may live, — away, despair ! 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' araign my fate, my voice forbear ! 

God ! my impious prayer forgive I 

♦ What, if he live for me no more, 

1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er : 

Alas ! can pangs like these be just ? " 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn. 
Till Time, who soothes severest woe 

Had bade serenity return, 
And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 

For still some latent hope survived, 
That Oscar might once more appear ; 

His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
TiU Time had told a tedious year. 

Days roU'd along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remain'd. 

And now his father's only joy : 
And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 

For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 

SLe thought that Oscar low was laid, 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair; 

If- Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's oare. 

And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was puss'd away, 

His fondest scruples should be o'er, 
And he would name their nuptial daj. 



Slow roU'd the moDns, but blest at last. 
Arrived the dearly destined mom ; 

The year of anxious trembling past, 
What smiles the lover's cheeks adorn ' 

Hart, to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Haik to the swelling nuptial song l 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

^gain the clan, in festive crowd, 
Throng through the gate of Alva's hf 

The songs of mirth reScho loud. 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 

Before his eye's far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form. 
And tall his plume of gory red ; 

His voice is like the rising storm. 
But light and trackless is his tread. 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round. 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaflTd ; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are h\is\ 'd 

And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd 

" Old man ! " he cried, " this pledge is done . 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly diank by me ; 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now Avill I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mirth and joy. 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot. 
Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 

** Alas ! " the hapless sire replied. 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

•* When Oscar left my hall, or died. 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her conraa 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight; 

And Allan is my last resource, 

Since msutial Oscar's death or flight." 

*• 'Tis well," replied the stranger stem, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye; 

" Thy Oscjir's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom he moet loved, 
Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 

Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy Beltane ♦ yet may bum 

" Fill high the howl the table round, 
We will not chiim the pledge by stealth ; 




i28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



With -Wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

** With all my soul," old Angus said, 
And fiU'd his goblet to the brim ; 

*' Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped 
But why does Allan trembling stand ? 

Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 
And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

** And is it thus a brother hails 
A' brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus aflFection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear ? " 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 

** Would Oscar now could share our mirth " 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 
He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

** 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 

** A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies. 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 

A form was seen in tartan green. 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

Elis waist was bound with a broad belt round, 
His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there, 
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, 

Wliom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole. 
The thucders through the welkin ring. 

And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm 
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased : 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion oress'd old Angus' breast,* 

At length ms life-pulse throbs once more. 

«« Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes ; " 

His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 



But Oscar's breast is cold as clay 
His locks are lifted by the gale ; 

And Allan's barbed arrow lay 
With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
Eor Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; 

While Envy waved her burning brand, 
And pour'd her venom round his heart. 

Swift is the shaft of Allan's bow : 
Whose streaming life-blood stains his side 

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 
The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move. 
She bade his wounded pride rebel : 

Alas ! that eyes which beamed with love, 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell I 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb, 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 
Which held his clan's great ashes stood; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave, 
For they were stain'dwith kindred blood. 

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, • 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 
But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp mxist stand. 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand. 
His harp in shuddering chords would break 

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
Shall sound his glories high in air ; 

A dying father's bitter curse, 
A brother's death groan echoes there. 



Old Aofua preM'd the eaith with hli breaat. Firtl BdUon. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET, 



In looking over my papera to select a few additional pocm» for thb HBtoa 
edition, 1 found the followiiia: liiieB, which I had totally for^tten, ooinpoasd 
in the «ummer of 1805, a ehon time provioiis to my departure from HasTOQ, 
They wsre addressed to a yonng school lellow of high rank, who had baea 
my frequent companion in »me rambles through the neighboring couatqr 
however, he never saw tha lines, and most proliably never will. A*, on 1 
re-penisaj, 1 tound them not worse than some other pieces in the 'V>llecliaa. 
have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revisioa. 



Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have stiay'df 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade. 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend ; 




HOURS OF IDLENESS. — Page 429. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



i'l.ough the harsh oustoni of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;* 
Thee on whose head a feAv short years will shower 
The gifts of riches and the pride of power ; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
tienown'ft ^n rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control ; 
Though passive tutors, f fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

Whet, youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
A.nd even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
^^Tien these declare, "that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for di'udging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules," 
Belirve them not, — they point the path to shame. 
And Reek to blast the honors of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng. 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth. 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear ; 
For well I know that virtue lingers there. 

Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
Yen I have mark'd within that generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild. 
Whom indescretion hail'd her favorite child ; 
Though every error stamps me for her own. 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

Tis not enough, with other sons of power. 

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour . 

To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 

With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 

Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 

In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead. 

Except the dull, cold stone that hides thy head. 

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll. 

That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll. 

Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find 

Cue spot, to leave a worthless name behind : 

There slc^p, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 

t That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, ' 

A race with old armorial lists o'erspread, 

In records destined never to be read. 

Pain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 

Exalted moie among the good and wise, 

A glorious and a long career pursue, 

As first in rank, the first in talent too : 

Bpurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 



* At PTer public ichool Iho Junior boyi are coiiipleti-ly lutwrrienl to the 
rpjier fomw till they attain » mat In the higher cIiimmt*. Proni Ihia (Ule of 
^rotAtlon, Terr pA^poriy , no rank W ezeinp< ; but after ■ certain poriod they 
•nmmanil Id turn Ihooe who luecerd, 

t Allow inf V> ill»claltn any pertonal alluiloni, ernn tie moat illrtojit; I 
• . nly riinrillun jcneniUy what la loo often Uie weukiteia •' pnaefian, 

' Ave till taine Lua In Lara, lUiiat 11. 



Turn to the annals of a former day, 

Bffight are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 

One, though a courtier, lived a man of wcrth, 

And call'd, proud boast! the British draraa forth.' 

Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 

Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 

Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine ; 

In every splendid part ordain 'd to shine; 

Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 

The pride of princes, and the bo*»t of song.f 

Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name ; 

Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 

The hours draw nigh, a few brief days will close, 

To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 

Shades where Hope, Peace and Friendship all wew 

mine : 
Hope, that could vary like thctrainbow's hue. 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away. 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell 
Alas ! they love not 'ong who love ^o welL 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep. 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 

And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere 

Since the same senate, nay the same debate 

May one day claim our suffrage for the stAe, 

We hence may meet, and pass each other bv 

With faint regard, or cold and distant ey» 

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo. 

With thee no more again I hope to trace 

The recollection of our early race : 

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice. 

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 

To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 

If these — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain— 

Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 

The guardian seraph who directs thy fate, 

Will leave thee glorious as he found thee great. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 

DYING. ^ 

Antkula ! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes, comesque, corporis, 
Qua; nunc abibis in loca ? 
Pallidula, rigida, nudtila. 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos, 



Thomaa SaekrUls, l^irl BacJihurM, crsated Eari cf Dorwl, by JaH^ 
the Fitwl, wai one ut the oiirlieA And IriffhlFal urntunenU k> the puMiy of hk 
country, and the Aiat wlio product a regular druna.— Ami«r«on'* , 



t Charlea Hackrlllp, Earl of r>uf«n|, eatoenwHl the xn<m a<-cnniplla«1 mm 
o( hi* day, woe alike dlatinguUhed In the Toluptui>ua co\\n o( Chaxlra U aad 
the irli>uiiiy one ol Wlllliiin III. Hr brhavisl wlUi gmn ([nlUnuy in tb« Mi 
aghl with the Diitrh in IMS, oo <he tiny t<rr*li>iM t<i wlikh ht< compuwd Mi 
ceietratri aong. Ilia chamemr hae Uin dntwn In the hlfheM «at« If 
'J^6Kk Pape, r -lor, and ConKnn».-AfnUr»vm'$ Britbh Ftm. 



130 



TRANSLATION. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

TRA.NSLATION FROM CATULLUS 



Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friond and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
No more vvith wonted humor gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LBSBIAM. 

EauAL to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms. 
That cheek which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known. 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly : 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 
With deadly languor droops my head. 
My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
Ana life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light. 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIR- 
GIL AND TIBULLUS. 



BY D0MITIU8 MAR8US. 



He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 

By Death's* unequal hand alike controU'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.f 

" Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — JJb. Quart. 

Crtjei Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ? 

Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 

That I might live for love and you again ; 

But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 

By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



* The hand of Death U lakf to be unJiM or unequal, ai Virgil waa ooa 
Uerably older than 'J'^ullua at hU deceaae. 



** LIJCTUS BE MORTE PASSEBI8 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread; 
My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved 
For he was gentle, and so true. 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to clear the air, 
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having passed the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return, 
His death and Lesbia's grief I moxim, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly power can save 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; 
Thou art the cause of all her wo. 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire: 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss ; 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Naught should my kiss from thine disse^ei, 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavor : » 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACTL^ 

ODE 3, LIB. 3 

The man of firm and noble soul 

No factious clamors can control ; 

No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent; 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main. 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in Tai&> 



Only primed in the pchr«t« ^ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



4JI1 



ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors then unfurl'd, 

He would unmoved, unawed behold* 
f he flames of an expiring world, 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
In vast promiscuous niin hurled, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
Btill dauntless, midst the wreck of earth he'd smile 



TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON. 

TO HIS LYRE. 

I TriSH to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name: 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds. 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds, 
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel ; 
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim. 
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



ODE Ill.t 

'TwA.8 now the hour when Night had driven 

Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, scem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole ; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At tras lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy. 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with uU his little force. 

My visions flt-d, alarm'd I rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose ? " 

** Alas ! " replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

*' A haplftdH infant here I roam, 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh : shiald me from the wintry blast ! 

The nijf;itly stonn is pcuring fttet. 



Mm piiUIUhiid In Hjun o( Idleaaak 
r inl pnnttU tii Hw.n of IcUfimm. 



No prowling robber lingers here, 

A wandering baby who can fear ? '' 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe. 

Rut felt for all the baby's wo. 

I drew the bar, and by the light 

Young Love, the infant, met my sights 

His bow across his shoulders flung, 

And thence his fatal quiver hung, 

(Ah ! little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart.) 

With care I tend my weary guest. 

His little fingers chill my breast ; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing, 

WTiich droop with nightly showers, I wriEg . 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow : 

" I fain would know, my gentle host, ' 

He cried, **if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd: — 

" My bow can still impel the shaft : 

*Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ' " 



FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES. 

FBOM THE PK0METHEU8 VINCTU8 OF ^SCHYXrB 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
Both gods and mortals homage pay. 

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 
Thy dread behest ne'er disobey. 

Oft shall the sacred victim fall 

In sea-girt ocean's mossy hall ; 

My voice shall raise no impious strain 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure nain. 

How different now thy joyless fate. 

Since first Hesione thy bride, 
Wlien placed aloft in godlike state. 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smik J,. 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relanvlm 
frown'd. 

Harrow, Dee. 1, ltX}i. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EDRYALUa 

A PARAPHRASE PROM THE ,HNE1T>, LIB. !» 

NiBUR, the guardian of the portal, stood, 
Eager t») gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, 
O. . our his arruwb throuRb th' embattled field' 



432 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



• From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 

A.nd sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 

No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'Twas his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share— 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward; 

And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 

•* What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this fire ' 

Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 

My laboring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 

Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 

The love of fame with this can ill accord, 

Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 

Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 

Where I: :rken slumbers wrap each lazy limb? 

Where confidence and ease the Avatch disdain, 

And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 

Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 

Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine, 

(The deed, the danger and the fame be mine,) 

Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 

Methinks, an easy path perchance were found ; 

Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 

And lead iEneas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardor fired, and warlike joy. 

His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 

•' These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone ? 

Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 

Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 

As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 

Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 

Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 

Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 

I track 'd ^neas through the walks of fate : 

Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear. 

And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 

Hero is a ?oul with hope immortal burns, 

And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 

Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath . 

The price of honor is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus, — *' Calm thy bosom's fond alarms : 

>.'hy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 

More dear thy worth and valor than my own, 

I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 

Bo may I triumph, as I speak the truth. 

And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 

But shcuH I fall, — and he who dares advance 

rhTDugh hostile regions, must abide by chance, — 



»iCfa 



Hini Ida lent, a hunter now no more, 

To combat foes upon a foreign (hore. 

Near hlni, the loveliest of the Trojan band, 

Dill fair Euryalua, his conmule, wtiind : 

Pew are the aeasons of his youthful life, 

As yet a norice In the martial strife : 

The godt to him unwontwl ^fta impart, 

A female'i beauty, with a hero's heart. 

These bum with one pure flame of generous lore, 

In peace, in war, united still Ihey move ; 

rriendship and glory form their Joint reward, 

And now oombined, the nmssy gut* they guard. 

the original version of this passage, as given in ae private 



-J>aiie, wt»i« DO ntore than the above fragn.eut was printed. 



If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou — such beauties I would fain preserve* 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared. 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shai-ed; 
Who bra-'^ed what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
" In vain you damp the ardor of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; "it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste ! " — their brother guards aroft' 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield. 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high bequest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience " (thus Hyrtacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced. 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke. 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ! 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune, will allow. 
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's broiT 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight. 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : 
Then shall Jineas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn < 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead. 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray. 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober •wisdom famed. 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, 
•< Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raiet 
Yours is the godlite act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



438 



Then in his wann embrace the boys he press'd, 

And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 

With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 

And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 

*' What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 

Can we bestow, Avhich you may not despise ? 

Our deities the first best boon have given — 

Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 

Wliat poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, 

Doubtless await such young, exalted worth.. 

JEneas and Ascanius shall combine 

To yield applause, far, far surpassing mine." 

lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 

By those Penates* who my country love ! 

By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear • 

My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 

Restore my father to my grateful sight, 

And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 

Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 

Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown ! 

My sire secured them on that fatal Gay, 

Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 

Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 

Two talents polished from the glittering mine : 

An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave. 

While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave; 

But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down. 

When great ^neas wears Hesperia's crown, 

The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 

Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 

Aie thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 

I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 

Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive 

dames, 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
The labors of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
And near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun. 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 

The rising glories which from this I claim. 

Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown, 

But valor, spite of fate, obtains renown. 

Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 

One boon I best, the nearest to my heart ; 

My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 

Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 

Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 

Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 

{■Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 

A bright example of maternal love, 

Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 

Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave; 

From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 

No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 

By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 

Her parting tears would shako my purpose now ; 

Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 

In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 



* HouMtholil ^U. 

t " iUofM iA( inmt." Ill Uie Ant ntlUun, *' llWitr $h« t 

66 



Her dying hours. with pious conduct bleta. 

Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress ; 

So dear a hope must all my soul inflame. 

To rise in glory, or to fall in fame " 

Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 

in tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 

Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 

Such love was his, and such had been his wo, 

"All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied; 

" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 

To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 

Creusa's* style but wanting to the dame. 

Fortune an ad\erse wayward course may run. 

But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 

Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath- 

To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 

All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 

If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 

Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to vie\i 

A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 

Lycayon's utmost skill had graced the steel ; 

For friends to envy and for foes to feel ; 

A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 

Slain 'mid the forest, in the hunter's toil, 

Mnestheus to guai-d the elder youth bestows, 

And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 

Arm'd thence they go, while all th' assembled ..-aiu 

To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain 

More than a boy in wisdom and in grace 

lulus holds amid the chiefs his place : 

His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail. 

Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is pass'd, and, favor'd by the nighl, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between. 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first " for deeds of blood prepan 
With me the conquest and the labor share : 
Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
Watch thou, while many a dreamy chieftain dies j 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth reprcss'd, 
And pierced proud Khamnes through his panting 

breast ; 
Stretch 'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed : 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
His omens more than augur's skill evince; 
But he, who, thus foretold the fate of all» 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus* armor-bearer, hapless fell, 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage sweU. 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his sevcr'd neck divides ; 
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead; 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
From the swoU'n veins the blackening torrents pom, 
Stain'd is the couch and eiuth with clotting gore. 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
And gay Sorranus, tiU'd with youthful fire : 



The muOwtr of luliu, lust on ihr ul^t wlw-n I'iut ' 



434 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Half the long night in childish games was pass'd : 
LiiU'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
A-h ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 

In slaughter'd folds, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; » 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night, he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls ; 
Insatiate still, through teemftig herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Not less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name : 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Yet wakeful Rhaesus sees the threatening steel • 
His coward breast behind ajar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion searched his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : 
'''Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breath'd their last: 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

vVhat silver arms, with various ait emboss'd, 
Wliat Dowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave legardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
The gems which studd the monarch's golden belt ; 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour a band of Latian horse 

To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course ; 

While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 

The knights, impatient, spur along the way; 

Three hundred mail-clad men, by Yolscens led, 

To Turnus with their master's promise sped ; 

Now they approach the trench, and view the walls. 

When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 

The plunder'd helmet through the waning night. 

Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 

Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 

" Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms ? 

From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no reply : 

Trusting the covert of the night, they fly ; 

The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 

While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between. 

Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 

Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 

The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 

But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 

Co where Latinus' steed* in safety Kraae, 



Then backward o'ei the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
** O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft. 
In what impending perils art thou left !" 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tumultuous vcices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hear the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys . 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way cor foun<l i 
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare I 
Ah*! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ?" 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lanoe on high, 
Oh Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : 
" Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapons sung; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay. 
Transfixed his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temple riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies ; 
Burning with wrath, he viewed his soldiers fall. 
" Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all! ** 
Quick from the sheath Jiis flaming glaive he drew. 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies , 
" Me, me — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here ^eathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ■ 
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
All, all was mine — his early fate suspend 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest. 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the auTi 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower. 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower : 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide. 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide: 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



iSb 



Folsoens he seeks amid the gathering host, I 

Volscens mx st soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
Rage nerves nis arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond aifection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place. 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace ! 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim. 

Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 

Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 

No future day shall see your names expire, 

WTiile stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 

ind vauquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome ! 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES.* 

When fierce conflicting passions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
"What mind can stem the stormy surge, 

"Which rolls the tide of human avo ? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame. 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame. 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise, f 

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven. 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow. 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage internal war ; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be over distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be winged with joy, 

"Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh, 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die ! 



I^liat printed In Hoiin of lillptina.' 

Cbm««l In diirui—. In the AnK xlition, com': 



My native soil ! beloved before. 

Now dearer as my peaceful home. 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore 

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour. 

May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse than death 

Have I not heard the exile's sigh. 

And seen the exile's silent tear, 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah ! hapless dame ! * no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores , 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart. 

To fair aff'ection's truth unknown. 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone: 
"Who ne'er unlocks with silver keyf 

The milder treasures of his soul,-— 
May such a friend be far from me. 

And ocean's storms between us roll • 



THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATIOK.J 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god. 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fool^ 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried. 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd in English line to pen. 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advaniMi 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France; 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna ChArta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lyourgus made. 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; 



* Mcilfti, wIm> nccoin|miiip<l Jnioii to CoriuUi, wiu deacrtnl by him fur t<t 
dttii^liliT of Cn-on, kiiip of iluu city. Thp clioni» fmin whicl\ lhi» to (mk«n 
hcrp a(Uln-Mi>a Mrdni ; tlioiigli n cunsiili'nihti' lil«-tty I* uiKcn with vhB ortg^ 
nol, by i'X)>,iniliii^ tin- lili-n, ui alio in ■oiiit* utlvr piuU of (he mualalkm. 

t Thr oriiriniil 1. «« K i^.KxVr <it>' tinvTt xXii^n ((lorvMy;" H«er«l¥ 
" diacloaliiK tlin briiflit key of thi< mind." 

I Nu n-ftecliuii l> hi-rr Intrmlol ngrnlixt (hf prnon mrntioned iwder UN 
niune of Mntrniu. Ue \» nmruly rr|in>ti<n>iil at |«T(><riiiliifr ku imaTuUabto 
function (il hi* olfic<>. Indr<>d, ■iich nii i«l(riii|it coiiM only TfcuU upon 
niyd-lt ; lu tliiit f^iitlcii.un ii now lu much diMiiifulthrd by hk rInqiMtiM, 
•nil th« illjpilApd ^n>piifty with whirh hn HIli hi* Mlimtluu, •■ br nuta ht 
youniT'r ibiyi for wit nnd convivlnlity 

IV above tunr WM addf-d in the flnl eillUao •>( Um lloun of ItUruMB 



436 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 



Buch is the youth whose scientific pate 

Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await ; 

Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 

If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes 

But, lo ! no common orator can hope 

The envied silver cup within his scope. 

Not that o'lr heads much eloquence require, 

Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire. 

A manner clear or warm is useless, since 

We do not try by speaking to convince. 

Be other orators of pleasing proud : 

We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd ; 

Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 

A proper mixture of the squeak and groan ; 

No borrowed grace of action must be seen ; 

The slightest motion would displease the Dean ; 

Whilst every staring graduate would prate 

Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
Not matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest ; 
Who speaks the fastest' s sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space, 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 



The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie 
Unknown — unhonor'd live, unwept-for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls : 
In manners rude in foolish forms precise. 
All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentley's,*»Brunck's,* or PoRSON'sf 

note. 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
X Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, 
AVhen Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 'tis Pitt or PETTy rules the hour ; § 
To him with suppliant smiles they bend the head, 
U While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guaid ; 
B'ach is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much at least we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 

1806. 



TO THE EARx. OF -.• 



• Celebrated critic*. 

' The preient Greek profenor at Trinity College, Cambridge; a man 
wnose powers of mind and writings may perhaps justify their preference. 

The condudinj clause of the foregoing note w;i« abided in the first edition 
if Hours of Mleness. 

\ Vain at their Konori, &c. — The four ensuing lines were Inserted In tts 
«cor.il edition nl Hours of Idlent!a» 

§ Siiici' tills w IS writti-n, Lord H. PeUy lua lost hk plaee, and iubseqnenti^ 
hiid almost »iii<l consequently) the honor of representing the Ururerrity. 

fact so glaring requiris no conunent. 

I WhiU ditlaru mitrtt, ftc. In the priraie Tolume. MHiHt witnt pr»- 
«m1« f' tMr <yM art iprmuL 



" Tu semper i 
Sis memor, et can comitis ne aJbecedat imago." 

Valtrhtt inmcsu* 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roTed 
Like striplings mutually beloved 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I've known 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again adieu ! 

My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy 'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever : 
The measure of our youth is full. 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vaio ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or wo. 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, ray friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought bptide, 

Now flow in different channels • 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals : 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard t 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he who sang before all, 
He who the lore of love expanded, 
By dire reviewers should be branded 

As void of wit and moral. f 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favorite of the Nine ! 



* Theae stanzas were first published in the second edition of Bo«n » 
IdleneM. 

t These stanias were written soon after the appearance of « aevMk 
critique, in a noithein leriew, on a new publication of titf Britiah Aoaveoa 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



487 



Repine noi at thy lot : 
rhy soothing rays may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit. 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them; 
And though myself may be the next 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really will not fight them.* 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now, , I must return to you ; 

And sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 

In truth, dear , in fancy's flight, 

I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'twould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state, — 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign. 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet, since in danger courts abound. 
Where specious rivals glitter round, 

From snares may saints preserve you ! 
And grant your love nor friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care 

But those who best deserve you. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure unerring way ! 

May no delights docoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move ! 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love ! 

Your teare be tears of joy! 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow, 
Be still, as you were w()n| to be, 
Spotless as you've been known to me,— 

Be still as y(ju are now. 



And though some trifling share of [jraise, 
To cheer my last doclining days. 

To mo wore doubly dear; 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I'd wave at once a poet's fame, 

To prove a. prophet here. 



GilANTA. 



A MEDLEY. 



'*Apyvpcaii Aojx;ai(rt liuxov Kai tavra Kpa'^CDif * 

Oh ! could Le Sage's f demon's gift 

Be realized at my desir^. 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St, Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroof d, old Granta's hall« 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows wlio dream on lawn or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
"Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day. 

Lo ! candidates and voters lie J 
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number ! 

A race renown'd for piety, 
"Whose conscience won't disturb their slumbev 

Lord H , indeed, may not demur ; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, now and then. 

They know the chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal: 
Each hopes that one may be his lot. 

And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

Now from the soporific scene ^ 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows l^ter. 

To view unheeded and unseen 
The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp. 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 

Goes late to bed, yet eaily rises. 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
With all the honors of his college. 

Who, strivijig hardly to obtain thorn, 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

I Who sacrifices hours of rest 

' To scan precisely metres Attic ; 

[ Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic : 



* A bnnt (homwco n'frrent) i»pft«l hi* revlpw^r to niortai eomtmi. If 
iAll exiin:ple twcoinfl* prfviUent, our pciioi liuil cciiton n«i»l \m lUppcrl In llie 
ivn Htyx ; for wtmt sIm Ga.-i MCiin^ Ui«p 'Viiiii thr nuinnruut liust ol Uair 
uiruKudaMAjMiur 



* 1')ie fiintto WHS not giTTit in thr private TolimtA, 

t Thf Dlnlilf BiJliMix ol !,«« Ship-, wherr Amumlnn, thr il«r 

Don CInoliii iiii mi clfviilttil ■liiiiitlon, niiil uiirociln ili>- lioiwr-i for li 
1 Lo ! inniliilntu nnrf ixilfrt lit, Ac Tlir Iniinli nml flflh Kui 

urti gi*mi hpi« HI they weir prlnU'd in lh<> Hour* d IdlenxM, imii 

la U)r priviilo voltiinn ;— 

" (^ii" on hl» powrr i\nil plnc«> drppmli, 
TliK olhiT oil Uh- l*inl kii.iw* wli.il j 
Ei>rh 10 •iiiTH' rlornirncr prfieiiji, 
TlioU(rti iiellhrr will wmvliirr liy that. 

•' 'Hie rtrat, ln>t<wl, may not tloimir." 

f pyam IA# to}ior^ •ofM. In thf prirmt* vohun*, i'Vam ta 



438 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Who reads false quantities in Sele,* 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
In barbaious Latin f dooiu'd to wrangle : 

Renouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage 

The square of the hypothenuse.J 

Still, harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared mth other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent . 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 

When vice and infamy combine. 
When drunkenness and dice invite, 

As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

Not so the methodistic crew. 

Who plans of reformation lay ; 
In humble attitude they sue. 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial. 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

*Tis morn : from these I turn my sight : 
Whiat scene is this which meets the eye ? 

A numerous crowd, array'd in white, § 
Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'Tis hush'd : — what sounds are these I hear ? 
The organ's soft, celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song. 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long. 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Oiir choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended, 
Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken, 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 

Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken 
On Babylonian river's border. 



• Sele'i publication on Greek metres diiplays considerable talent and inge- 
Scdty, but, ai naght be eipected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for 
Kcuracy. 

\a the private vohime, " Seie's publication on Greek metre* ia not remark- 
ibte for its accuracy." 

t The Latin of the schools is of the oanin* tpeatt, ancj not very Intel- 

In the private volume, " Every Cambridge m»n will aoent to thia. The 
lAtin of the schools is aininst unintelli^ble." 

t The ciscovery of Pyihagorsi, that the square of tlie hypothenuie is equal 
() the sQ'iares of thf other two siiles of a right-angled traii((le. 

I On a Htiot's day, the studenu wear surplices ia -bappl. 



Oh ! had they sung in notes like these. 

Inspired by stratagem or fear. 
They might have set their hearts at ease 
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But if I scribble longer * now, 
The deuce a soul will stay to read 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
'Tis almost time to stop indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires 

No more like Cleofas I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires 

The reader's tired, and so am I. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT TERSEfi 

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, CGMrLAIK' 
ING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS 
RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.f 



' But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second edition; 
If good Madam Squinium my work should abuse, 
May 1 venture to give her a smack of ray muse ? " 

Anstey's New BsUh Guide, p. ] 



Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
Your strong, yet just, reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent % cause. 
For this Avild § error which pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart ; ) 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
The fierce emotions of the fiowing soul. 
When love's delirium haunts this glowing mind,] 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing powei 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose la;or'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon I boast in youth ; — 
My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far he't from me the V virgin's mind " to " taint • ' 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile^ 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leei. 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe- 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine, 
Will ne'er be " tainted " by a strain of mine. 
But for the nj-mph whose premature desires 
Torment the bosom with unnoly fires. 



• 1/ [terUMe longer, lu the private volume, 1/ I f»riu ntueh lonfr. 
t These lines were printeil in the private volume, and in the fim eOUk 
of Hours of Idleness, but afterwanls omitted. 
J frr.prwUnt. In the private volume, ma 
\ ""Vtld. Private Toiume, toU. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



439 



No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 

She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 

For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 

Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 

Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 

The light effusions of a heedless boy. 

I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 

Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 

Theii warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 

"'ueii sneers or censures I alike despise, 

November 26, 1806. 



LACHIN Y. GAIR.* 



f «cUn y. Goir, or, aa it is pronounceU ic the Erse, Loch na Oorr, torren 
protKlJy preeminent iu tlie Northern Highlands, near Invereauld. One of 
our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great 
Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and 
pk-turesqur among our " Caledonian Alps." Its nppearai;oe is of a dusky 
\tiM; but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y. Grair I 
«peAt some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given 
'an h to the following stanzas. • ' 



A.WAY, ye g,»,y landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Hestore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes. 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-floAving 
fountains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

A-h ! where my yo.ung footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ; f 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd. 

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

'♦ Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ? " 
Burely the soul of the hero rejoices. 

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
71ouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochna Garr. 

'Ill-8tarr'd,J though brave, did no visions fore- 
boding, 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause? " 
Ah ! were you dc'stined to die at Culloden,^ 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 



* Fint published in (luiin ot IdlcneM. 

f This word Is erroneuuiiy proiumncud plad ; the proper pronuiidatiou 
(Mconllng to the Scotch) ia known by the ortliogniphy. 

J I allude hrre to my irmicrMul »nc«"Blori " tlie O'orrfont," many of whom 
Inighl for the unfc nunulu Prince Charlna, bettor known by the nuine uf tlie 
pretender. Tliis bninch was nearly allloil by bloinl, ns well u» attiichmonl, 
U> thi- Stuarts, (ieorge, tho second earl iif Huntley, niurrietl tlie Hrinctts 
Annalxlta Stuart, duiiglitiT of James the First of Scotland. By her he left 
bur Muus : the third. Sir W'llUajii Gordon, 1 have th« houur to dulni as one of 
by prugtniton. 

I Wheilior any perished In the bottle of Culloden, 1 ixtn not certAlu j but, 

BMDV fell in tho uurrection, 1 have used the nune of Itw priiicipul setloa, 



Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar •* 

The pibrochf resounds to the piper's loud number. 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; 
Nature of verdui-e and flow'rs has bereft you, 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved on the mountains afar. 
Oh, for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Q&n 



TO ROMANCE.I 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems. 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign. 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles are true 

And must we own thee but a name. 

And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
Nor find a sylph in every dijme, 

A Pylades § in every friend } 
But leave at once thy realms of au 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ? 
Confess that woman's false as fair. 

And friends have feeling for — themselTM t 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway ; 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er; 
No more thy precepts I obey. 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh. 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear. 

Romance . disgusted with doicit, 

Far from thy motley court 1 fly 
Where Atfectatiou holds her seat. 

And sickly Sensibility ; 



* A tract of die Ili^tilaiids so cuUod. Thoiv is also a Castle uf . 

t The l«gpi,x.. 

I Kinit pulilislied In the Hours of IdlencM. 

§ It is hiirlly necessary to sd.l, timt I'ylades was tlie amiiianlon ol Otm 
and a |iunner in one of thoai* fririidshi|w which, with tluw \.>( Achillea i 
H'itn«lus, NIsiu tiiiil Kuryalus, Oiimon snd Pvihi.is, li i»e hrm 
<louii lu iMslerily its n<Mhirkat>le insL\iicrs of sttnchMirnu, which In sll fto»» 
iMlity never eiisled beyond the iiiu^nalk» of the poet, or "Jw {««• of M 
histuriiui or modem uovaliM. 



4*0 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Whose silly tears can never flow 
For any pangs excepting thine ; 

Who turns aside from real wo, 
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

No-w join with sable Sympathy, 

With cjT)ress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
"WTio heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir. 

To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
Who once could glow with equal fire, 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Sfe genial'nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and frenzy glow ; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view. 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
WTiere you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ELEGX ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 



' It la Oie voice of years that 
cU." t— 0*«ian. 



gone I they roll before me with all their 



Newstisad ! fast-falling, once resplendent dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Hkxry's X pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. 

Hau to thy pile ! more honor'd in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall. 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

So mail-clad serfs, ^ obedient to their loi-d. 
In grim an-ay the crimson cross 1| demand ; 

l>r gay assemble round the festive board, 
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : 

Klse might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time ; 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A. votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 



* Ai one poem on this subject is printpd in ilie licginning, Uic author had, 
inginill/, no intention of inserting the following: it is now added at the 
iMurtic'ilur requusi of some frii'nds. See page 413 of tliig edition. 
' Tlie motto w^ts not given in llie private volume. 

( Henry II. founded Newgiead »oon after the ni.irder of Thomua a fieclcet. 
( This woni is use<l by Walter Scott in his foem, " The Wild Huntsman," 
nciymous willi \'is«al. 

Ilie reo aum was tbe bmifie of the crusader. 



But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay : 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found. 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, [ptovl 
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont tc 

And superstition's crimes, of vai^jus dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay. 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now tne bats tneir wavenng wings extend, 
Soon as the gloaming * spreads her waning shade, 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons to Mai-y X paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield, 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry § reared the Gothic walls, 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another Henry the kind gift recalls. 
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat or supplicatmg prayer; 

He drives them exiles from theii- blest abode, 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their Ood. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
High crested banners, wave thy walls within. 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd amui 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser di'um, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress ]■ now. 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threat'nin| bro nr, 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege. 

Though oft repulsed by guile, o'ercomes the biave, 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege. 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 



• As " gloaming," tlie Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetiuj, 
and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly Jjr 
Dr. Moore in liis Letters to Burns, 1 have ventured to use it on account of id 
hariiii.ny. ,^ 

t Gloaming spreadg her vnnmg tkade. In thn private volume, TinligM 
ytindt a teaning shade. 

I I'he priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

§ At thi- dissolution of the monasteries, Henry Vlll. begtoweU Newstea* 
AlAew on Sir John Byron. 

n At wsiead Rtuuiined a considerable iwge ii' the war betweee Chorlet i 
and his parlituneal. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



441 



Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

Tlie blood of traitors smears the purple plain : 
r'/nconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, 

Ind days of glory yet for him remain. 

btill in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gathcr'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 

Trembling, she snatch'd him* from th' unequal 
In other fields the torrent to repel ; [strife, 

Pot L.bler oombats, here, reserved his life. 
To lead the band where godlike Falkland f fell. 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given. 
While dying groans their painful requiem sound, 

Far different incense now ascends to heaven. 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; 

O'er mingling man, and horse commix'dwith horse. 
Corruption's heap, the savage s'Doiler's trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould • 

From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
Raked fxom repose in search for buried gold. 

tfush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 

No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, 
Or sings the glories of the martial X wreath. 

At length, the sated murderers, gorged Avith prey. 
Retire ; the clamor of the fight is o'er ; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway. 
And sable Horror ^ guards the massy door. 

xlcre Desolation holds her dreary court ; 

What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort. 

To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his laboring breath ; 
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones, 

L lathing || the offering of so dark a death. 



' lor Tyron nnd his ttrother : Sir Wiliiam held MgYi command in Uie 
roy».' army ; tiw foniier wu* gtMienil-in-chict In In-lnnd, ll«iiU-nunt of Oic 
lower, and ^veriior to Jiimi>s, Diikn of Vork, ufterwunli Ow unhiippjr 
la.7i>M 11. ; tlic latlur hiul a principal ihiire in muiiy ucUona. — Vide Cluren- 
lOD, U i.,^' *c. 

j Luciiu '«iy, Ijord Vlicoiint Faikland, the moat accom;>!tilMHl nuui of 
,ij« u^<-, WHS killeii lit tlie IhiuIp of Nowb<-rry, cluirf^ng in the runki of Lord 
9yron'i nprii'icnt of ciivnir)'. 

J Martial. 'V\w. priviiu* volume reada laurell'rt. 

( Hable llotror. In the private volume, Homtr iHUking. 

\ 'hi» in iin hintoriad fict. A violent UMiip<«". (KCurrral Inirnwllalely iuJwj- 
V»ent tc till- deutli or inlerni'iit of C'roiiiwell, which iicf.i»iiined many diipute* 
Btwei-n hilt purtlnaru mid tlit: cwullcn ! both liiti-tpreied the clrciim»Uiiic<' 
uto itlvlnn inlt'r|HiNitiiiii ; tiitl u tieili<-r oi iippniliitUon or condeninntion, wn 
eiiVB to •Me ciiaiiUt ol Ihiit ngw I > decide. I ht»i' nmdc inch iiw ut lUr ucciir-, 
«iioe M wUtMl the aubti-ci of vu puem. I 



The regal ruler* now resumes the helm. 

He guides through gentle seas the prow d*" stat» 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful i .aim 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied aate. 

The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptur'd zest. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 
Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to morirn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float. 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees • 

An'^ hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note 
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the Dree«e 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake ; 

What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase 
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; 

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 

Ah happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such sports our plain forefathers knew : 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprtais nis dart; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine 
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ; 

The last and youngest of a noble line 
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn trowers • 
Tuy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 
These, these he views, and views them but M 
weep. 
■ 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret ; 

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 
Pride, hope, and love, forbid him to foi^et, 

But warm his bosom with Impassion'd glow 

Yet he ])refer8 thee to the gilded domes 
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great . 

Yet lingers' mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fat*. 

Huply thy aun, emerging, yet may shine, 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
t Hours splendid as the past may still be thine. 

And bless thy future as thy former day. 



• Charlea II. 

t //our. tpUwUd, tu. In the prlva^ volume and lb« ftrrtodiUwi*. 
Hour* Jf IdleiiflM, the aiania endeit with Uio following lUieai 

" Fortune inuy tmlle upon a future ute 
tiut Uoaven realun an V9t eluuiilMa tia* ' 



442 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC .SCHOOL.* 

Where are those honors, Ida! once your own, 
When Probusf fill'd your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate. 
And scat Pomposus;^ where your Probus sate 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd. 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. 
He governs, sanction'dbut by self-applause. 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you but the name. 

Julyy 1805. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.^ 

" 1 cannot but remember such lhing» were, 
And were most dear to me." 

\ When slow Disease, with all her host of pains. 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 



* These lines were only printed in the private volume. Lord Byron most 
Mucerely resetted having written this and the subsequent attack on Dr. 
Butler, contained in the poem called Childish Recollections. A reconciliation 
look place between them before Lord Byron's first departure for Greece ; and 
Mr. Moore inioniis us that, " not content with this jjrivate atonement to Dr. 
Buder, it was Lord Byron's intention, had he published another edition of the 
Hours of Idleness, to substitute for the offensive verses a^iiist that gentleman, 
frank avowal of the wrong he had been guUly of, in giving vent to them." 
'-Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 188. 
t Probus, Dr. Drury. 
J Pomposus, Dr. Butler. 

§ This poem was published in the private volume ; and, with many addi- 
8;)n8 and corrections, in the first editions ot Hours of Idleness; but was after- 
Vtrds suppressed. 
I h the private volume the poem opened with the folUwing lines : 
" Henee I thou unvarying song of varied loves. 

Which youth commends, maturer age reproves ; 

Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote, 

By thousands echo'd to the self-same note I 

Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious straia, • 

My soul is panting to be free again. 

Farewell ! ye nymplis propitious to my verse, 

Some other Damon wi'l your charms rehearse ; 

Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss. 

Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss. 

Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, 

No more entrance my senses in delight ; 

Those boKitns, form'd of animated snow, 

Alike are tasteless, are unfeeling now. 

The»e to some happier lover I resign— 

Ths n.emory of those joys alone is mine. 

Censure no more shall brand my humble name 

The child of passion and the fool of fame. 

Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 

I rest a perfect Tim-jn, not nineteen. 

World 1 1 renounce the* I all my hope's o'ereait; 

One sigh 1 give thee, but that sigh's the last. 

Friends, foes, and females now alike adieu I 

Would 1 could add, remembrance of you too I 

Yet, though the future dark and cheerless gleam% 

The curse of memory, hov'ring in my dreams. 

Depicts with glowing pencil all those years, 

Ere yet my cup, empfjison'd, flows with tears j 

Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway. 

The past confounding with the present day. 

Alas I in vain 1 check the maddening thought : 

It rill recurs, unlook'd for anil unsought ; [ 



When Health, afiirighted, spreads her rosy Win^ 
And flies witlj every changing gale of sprius;; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined. 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife. 
While Hope retires appah'd and clings to afe. 
Yet less the pang when through the tedious hom 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and Beauty formed our heaveii 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summel 

storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant form, 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The sun of memory, glowing through ray dreama, 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze. 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought : 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : • 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view. 
To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
"Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the soui'ce ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.* 

Ida ! bless'd spot, where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful choir ; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same \ 
Through winding paths along the glade, I trate 
The social smile of every welcome face^, 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy arid wo. 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship pass'd : 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breaat 
To love a stranger, friendship made me bless'd: — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught by worldly Avisdom how to feign, 
And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose- 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes : 
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased- by deceit , 



• The next fifty-six lines, to 

" Here first remember'd be the joyous tiand," 
were udded ia tha first edition of Hours of Idleoeas. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 



443 



Hjrpocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 

Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 

WTier now the boy is ripen'd into man. 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 

Instructs his son from candor's path to shrink, 

bmoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A. patron's praise can well reward the lie : 

A.iid who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 

Would lose his evening prospects for a word ? 

Although against "--hat word his heart rebel, 

AjQd truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

A-Way with themes like this : not mine the task 
Frorr •'lattering fiends lo tear the hatefjil mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire'^: sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's \ving : 
Once, and but once, she aimed a deadly blow. 
To hurl defianc°i on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame. 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hi at, perchance, retired. 
With this submission all h« rage expired. 
From drt aded pangs that feeble foe to save. 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
* Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
PoMPOSUs' virtues are but known to few; 
I never fear'd .the young usurper's nod, 
And he wh o wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall. 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again. 
Boon must t ^r early song forever cease, 
And all may ail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remeraber'd be the joyous band, 

Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; 

Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 

Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 

xNor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 

Or all the sable glories of his gown ; * 

Who, thus transplanted from his father's school — 

Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule. 

Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 

The dear preceptor of my early days ; 

pROBrs,^ the pride of science, and the boast, 

To Ida now, alas ! forever lost. 



* Or f im/ mute a pedant's portrait drew, 

Ponipoauj' virtues, Ac. 
Mr. Mooru infuruui us, that Inatead of thii paiaage, Lord Byron meant tu 

KWtfl. 

" If once my mtiae a hanher portniii drew, 
Warm with her wruii^, and deem'd the likeneis true, 
By 'ooler judg^ient tuug^ht, her laiill ihe owim, — 
With ooole minds a fault, confi'iiM, moiic«." 

Life of Byron, vol. I. p. 188. 

t Taitnail of the prctent couplet, the private volume ho* tlw followinjf four 

'- Ctrelet* to »oothe llio podant'i fiiriou» frown, 
■ jucfly reipectinjf hit niuji-nlic sfown j 
B/ which, in vidn, he (riviu'd n horrowi-d grace, 
Addlnf^ new lermr to hii ineoriiiff lace." 

f Thii mott able aii<l exe«>l|pi»t man redrrd from hU dtuatlun In March, 
1805, lifter Imving ruhideil thirtyliv.' yeiini at Harrow ; the hut twenty aa 
»ead ma«t<;r ; an ottici< hi' held witli <miii«I homir to nlimt'lt, and advuntiijp' to 
liw vflry (ixteniiVH iichool ovor which hr pnildnd. Panfifyric would h'-rr Iw 
mperfluoiii : It would be \\i'\r— to •^nuini-mtf quiillficadiiM* which were n.-vrr 
*oul'«!i. A connldcmble contort took pluo- bulwecn tlire« riviU candidate* 
iir hia va'^Dt chair : of thi> I can only any, 

St mea, o>im Teatrii valuiuent votn, P<>laafl I 
Mod foTM a.nU<ruu* «"»' cenuiiilnla Ilmrw. 



With him, for years, wb search'd -the clasbic page» 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the cage , 
Retu-ed at last, his small yet peaceful seat 
From learning's labor is thf> blest retreat. 
* Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot : f 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade. 
To him my tribute is akeady paid.J 

§High, through those elms, with hoary branchfif 

crown'd. 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favor'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature, claims her praise , 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pui'sue ; 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun. 
In rival bands between the wickets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their' way 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid cuiTent's stray. 
While yonder few search out some green retreat. 
And arbors shade them from the summer heat ; 
Others again, a pert and lively crew. 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose. 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
*"Twas here the gather'd swains for vengetLioc 

fought, 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought 
Here have we fled before -uperior might, 
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous flight.' 
While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
In lingering tones resounds the distr.nt bell; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall. 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 



• Pomposus jaii his magitlerial cSmr ; 
Pomposus governs, &c. 

Hud Ijord Byron putili8he<l another eilition cf Houn of I^ 
intention to give the lollowing turn to thu pnjauge ;— 

" Another tlllk hia magiatnriid chair : 
Relucttnt Ida owna a alr»ii|ri'r'a care ; 
Uli I may like honon cn>wn hit luiun* name, - 
If audi hia virtues, auch ahall l)e hia lame." 

Moore's L\fe nf Byron, vol. 1. j». 18Sl 

t His name, &c. Inaicad of this line, 0\e private volun e Ktn\», 

•' Soon ahall hia ahallow pr«"C«"pU be forgou" 
I Thia a.ludea lo a diameter prlnleil in a fonurr prlvaie edhioa fcr tlM 
peruaal of «>m* frienila, which, witli uii.ny other pit'cci, ia witlihrld from tin 
pnai-nl volume.* To draw the ntl-ntion of the public to inaigniftcanoa, 
wouM lie deaflrvedly r>'i-m>l«iti'd ; and .inothrr roaaou, though not i>l oqiMU 
coaDotpience, may lie given in thi> following cou|)let: — 
" Bnlire or aenae, aliu I can Bpoaiia fcel t 
Who bnaka a butterfly upon the wheel f " 

POPK.—ProUifus k) the SM$krM. 

f Tke emulnf hundred and twenty-two line*, t* 

•' AloDio I U'al and dcar-at of my frienda," 
arv not fonnd in the (irirate volume, b it were liitroduoed In iM Snl ariMsa m 
Houra ^ Idleneaa. ^ 

* ThoM piacea are raprinted In the ■ooond editlii. 
to It oowfliwil In the pnomUat pooio. 



444 



BYRON'S WCRKS. 



There, deeply carved, behold I each tyro's namp 
Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
Here mingling view the names of sire and s ^jx— 
The one long graved, the other just begun ; 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone. 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place. 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe. 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law, 
And now in turn possess the reins of power. 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day 
They pass the di-eary winter's eve away — 
*' And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Jkist in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 
And here he falter' d forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at home ; " — 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race, though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember' d face, 
Some old companion of my early race. 
Advanced to claim his friend, with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around^ 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found; 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! I've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, 
Could hardly charm me when that friend was near : 
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove. 
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 

Yet why should I alone with such delight 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern death forbade m^ orphan youth to ahare 



The tender guidance of a father's care: 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made by a parent's early loss my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
WTiat sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwin«i 
I cannot call on»'^ single blossom mine : 
What then remain* ? \n solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship , or to sigh alone ? 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

* Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the words of truth. 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.f 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
Oft have we di-ain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; " 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant | limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be but the 



Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy I 
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy , 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made- 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feeL 
Still I remember in the factious strife 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of terror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe. 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow , 



* AlonMo. Id the privatft volume, Johanru: 
t The lollowing four Unas of the private volumea 
Houn of Idleness :— 

" Coiild aught Inspire me with poetic (Ire, 
For thee alone I'd strike the hallow'd lyre ; 
But to »ome abler hand the task I waive, 
Whose strains immortal may outlive the fl 

t PUatU. Private volume, lutty. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



445 



Ifour arm, brave boy, arrested his careei'— 
Forward you sprunt;, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and bafTled by your cor.quering hand, 
The grc veiling savage roll'd upon the sand: 
* An act like this can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labors of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen 'd song.f 
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit— 
A Spartan firmness M'ith Athenian wit: 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius tbus refined ! 
When time at length matures thy growing years. 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
With honor's soul, united beam \n thee. 

Bhall fair Euryalus pass by unsung ? 

From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung : 

What though one sad dissension bade us part. 

That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; 

Yet at the mention does that heart rebound. 

And palpitate responsive to the sound. 

Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 

We once were friends, — I'll think we are so still. 

A foiTn unmatch'd in nature's partial mould, 

A heart untainted, we in thee behold: 

Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield. 

Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 

To minds of ruder texture these be given — 

Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 

Haply in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 

But that thy tongue could never forge deceit ; 

The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 

The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 

Would make that breast with indignation burn, 

And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 



An act like thU, &c. In the private volume, the last four linei of this 
HI wen^ a^ followi : — 

" Thus (lid you save that life 1 scarcely prize— 

A life unworthy such a sacilfice : 

Oh I when riiy breast forgeU the generous deed, 

That instant, Oavus, It deserves to bleed." 
t In the private volume, we find the followiiiy lines concluding the chnrao- 
tor of Lycus ; and thfl ronialndi-r of the piuis;ige relating to him was origi- 
ttJly fiven a* descriptive of a friend entitled Claru§, of whom no mentica is 
ra.lt In the last published copy of the poem :— 
" For ever to possess a friend In t'lee, 

Was bliss unho|X'd, though not uiuiouglit by me. 

Thy softiT soul was forni'd for love alone, 

To miliar pr.ssions and to hate unknown ; 

Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous fonn, 

Was gi-nlli', but unfit to »lem the »lonii ; 

That face, an Index of celestial worth, 

Proclaim'd a hi-art nhdtnictod from the earth. 

Oft, -vhen dcpress'd with sad fon-UKlIng gloom, 

I sat reclined upon our favorite tomb, 

I've seen thos^ sympathetic eyes o'erflow 

With kind -^impassion lor thy comrade's wo ; 

Or, whisn less mournful subjects form'd our themee, 

We tried a thousiuid fond romantic sshemes, 

on hast tliuu sworn, in frlendnliip's suotliing tore. 

Whatever wish was mine must tie thine own. 
** The next can Imast U) lead In senaies fit— 

A BpHtUii flnnnnss with Alhnnlati wli : 

Though yet in embryo lhe«5 pptfi«i<in« shtahi, 

CUiiisI tliy fnllier's fame will soon Ik IhkM. 

When iMmlnc, ft»., Ac. 



Domestic happiness will stamp thy fatt) 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adcr« . 
* Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, and nearest of the social band. 

See honest, open, generous Cleon stand; 

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene; 

No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 

On the same day our studious race begun, 

On the same day our studious race was run ; 

Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 

Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 

At last concluded our scholastic life, 

We neither conquer'd in the classic strife ; 

As speakers t each supports an equal name, 

And crow^ds allow to both a partial fame : 

To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 

Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide, 

Yet candor's self compels me now to own 

Justice awards it to my friend alone. J 

On ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear. 
Remembrance hails you with her wnrmest tear . 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
§ Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined ; 
When Probus' praise repaid my Ivric snng. 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng, 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
What gratitude to hira my soul possest, 
While hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast! 
II For all my humble fame, to him al m: 



• " Where is the restless fool would wish for more i " — PuraU voluim, 
t This alludes to t)ie public speeches delivered at the schi'o' vbare Ih 
au'.hor was educated. 

J Tlie six concluding lines of this passage were given as foliowi »• 
private volume :■— 

" As speakers, each 8\ipport» a rival name. 

Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame. 

Pomposus »iu, unequal Ui decide : 

With youtliful candor, we the piUm divide ; 

Yet candor's self compels me now to own 

Justice awanis it to my friend alone " 
f " Yet in retrospection finds relief 

And rcvirls in ihi- luxury of grief. "—/Viroto oolum*. 
I From this pl.ice to the end, the copy of tlie potni, ns priited fei M 
Hours ol Idlrncss, ditl'ers entirely from that In the private volume vhhl 
and concludes llius : — 

*' When, yet a novice in ifie mimic art, 

1 frign'il the trauB|>ort» of a vengiful heart ; 

When as the Uoyal Sl.ive 1 trod tlie sta«v, 

To vent in Zang-.i more than mortal ragi> ; 

The pnuse of Probus made me feel uiim' pnjor* 

Than all the plaudiu of tlie llil'nlng crowd. 
" Ah I vain endeavor in diis childish stnun 

To B<H)the the wn<s of wliiili i thus complain. 

What can avail the IruitU »^ Iinis of Ume, 

To meiuuro sorrow In a Jingling rhyme I 

No sixinl sniare fmui a friend Is near, 

And heartless striiigen <lrop no leeling leu. 

1 sei'k not Joy in woman's s)Mrkllng eye ; 

The smiliS ol beamy cannot check the sigh. 

Adieu t thou world I thy pleasure's still • 

Thy virtue but a visionur)- theme j 

The years ol vice on year* of folly mil, 

Till grinning death assigns the distitnl (0*1, 

Where all an' hastening to the drend aboJe, 

To meet the Judgment of a righo-ous tJod j 

MU'd In Oie conctnirse uf tlie thoughtl^as 

A moiinier midst of mirth, I glitle along I 

A wmcheil, leoiKtrtl, gloomy U<lng, 

Cvm tor leAeeiiun't d<«|HeurroUii.< •da«i 



446 



B^KON'S WORKS. 



The praise is due, who made that fame my own. 

Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 

These young effusions of my early days, 

To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 

The song might perish, but the them? must Uve. 

Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 

His honor'd name requires no vain display : 

By ever}' son of grateful Ida blest. 

It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 

A. fame beyond the glories of the proud, 

Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme, 

Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 

How many a friend deserves the grateful strain, 

What scenes of childhood still unsung remain, 

Yet let me hush this echo of the past. 

This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 

Ajid brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 

To me a silent and a sweet employ. 

While, future hope and fear alike unknown, 

I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 

Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 

A.nd chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 

And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 

Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 

Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ;— 

That tear perhaps the fondest which mil flow 

O'er their last scene of happiness below. 

Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along. 

The feeble veterans of some former throng, 

Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempest 

whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth. 
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth. 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of wo ? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toyg, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,) 
Recall one scene so much beloved tp view 
4.B those where Youth her garland twined for you. 



But not that mental sting which stabs within, 
The (lark avenger of impunish'd sin ; 
The silent shaft which goads the giiiltv wretch 
Extended on a rack's niiliring stretch : 
Conscience that rting, that shaft to him lupplie^- 
Hi» mind the rack from which he ne'er can ri»e. 
For me, whate'er my folly or my fear, 
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here : 
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest, 
No dreams of injurefl innocence infest : 
Of hope, of pf'ace, of almost all bereft, 
Conscir-noe, my laat but welcome guest is left. 
Sland-r'? iaipoisoti'd bn'ath may blast my name 
Envy delights to blight the huds of fame : 
Deceit may chill the current of my blood, 
Ann ''rceze aii'e.ction's warm impassion'd flood ; 
Presaging horror darken every sense ; — 
Fven here will conscience be my best defence. 
My bosom feels no ' worm which ne'er can die 
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. 
Thus crawling on with many a reptile rile, 
My heart ts bitter, though my cheek may wnPe 
No more with former bliss my heart is glad ; 
Hope yields to anguish, and my aonl is sad : 
^Voni fond regret no future joy can mre ; 
B*iBe-'n|>nnce •lumtx^rs only in the gt^n." 



Ah, no ! amid the gloomy calm of age 

You turn with faltering hand life's varied page; 

Peruse the record of your days on earth, 

Unsullied only where it marks your bb-th ; 

Still lingering pause above each checker'd leal, 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 

"Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw; 

Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 

Traced by the rosy finger of the mom, 

"When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of trathi 

And Love,* without his pinion smiled on ycuth 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM.f 

WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OP "TOM 
WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND," &C., &C., BW- 
TITLED " THE COMMON LOT." 

Montgomery ! true, the common lot 
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave : -; 

Yet some shall never be forgot — 
Some shall exist beyond the grave. 

** Unknown the region of his birth," 
The hero % rolls the tide of war ; 

Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or wo. 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all ; 

Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
T/iat -will arise, though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 
Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 

The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye revives, 

Still beaming through the lover's strum; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The roiling seasons pass away. 
And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 

"Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh unlfcding spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and fo€« 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 



* " L'Amiti^ est I'Araour sans ailes " is a French pioTeifa. 

t Only printed in the private volume. 

J No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Baywd, 
Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modem time*, the fame of 1 
borough, Frederick the (Heat, Gaunt Saxe, Charies of Sweden, tc 
familiar to every historical reader, but the exact place of tbeii birth h ki 
•o a "ery unall proportion of their admiren. 




WRECKS OF PILLAR'D PRIDE." — Page 447. 



HOURS 0¥ IDLENESS. 



44? 



rhe mouiuering marble lasts its day, 
Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 

To .- in's ruthless fangs a prey, 

T'?.3 wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

What though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
j'rom dark oblivion meant to guard ? 

A bright renown shall be enjoy 'd 
By those whose virtues claim reward. 

^hen do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 



1806. 



TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER.* 

DEA.a Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind : 
I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 

Bat retirement accords with the tone of my mind ; 
I will not descend to a world I despise. 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 
^mbition might prompt me, at once, to go forth ; 

Wlien infancy's years of probation expire, 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd. 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; 

At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, 
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 

Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
Bids me live but to hope for prosperity's praise. 

Could I soar with the phtcnix on pinions of flame, 
With him I would wi^i to expire in the blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 
What censure, what danger, what wo would I brave ! 

Their lives did not end when they yielded their 
breath. 
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her lea^jers, or cringe to her rules ? 
WTiy bend to the proud, or api)laud the absurd ? 

Wby search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe; 
My passitn the matrons of prudence reprove; 

1 have fouud that a friend may profess, yet de- 



I mc what is wealth ? it may pass in an hour, 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown. 

To rae what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 
To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 

Ueoeit is a stranger as yet to my soul, 
I still am unpractised to varnish the truth ; 

Vhen why should I live in a hateful control ? 
Wliy wast 3 upor. folly the days of my youth ? 



Dniv lounil in liv- prlvnto »oI>uih 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.» 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSOX'S OSSIAN.f 

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on 
their remembrance through the mist of time. In 
the twilight, he recalls the sunny hours of mom. 
He lifts Jiis spear with trembling hand. " Not thus 
feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers ; " 
Past is the race of heroes I ^ut their fame rises «.n 
the harp ; their souls ride on the wings of the wind ; 
they hear the sound throxigh the sighs of the storm, 
and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! Such is Calmar. 
The gray stone marks his narrow house He looks 
down from eddying tempests ; he rolls his form in 
the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the moun- 
tain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief ; a beam of war to Fin- 
gal. Kis steps in the field were marked in blood ! 
Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear ; but 
mild was the eye of Calmar : soft was the flow of 
his yellow locks : they streamed like the meteor of 
the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul : his 
thoughts were given to friendship ; to dark-haired 
Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were their swords 
in battle ; but fierce was the pride of Orla : gentle 
alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave 
of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue 
waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal 
roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover thf 
ocean ! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They 
come to the aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. 
But the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. 
The sons of Lochlin slept; their dreams were of 
blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal 
flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was 
the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Theii 
spears were in their hands. Fingal culled his chiefs ; 
they stood around. The king was in the midst. 
Gray were his locks, but strong was the arm of the 
king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of 
Morven," said the hero, " to-morrow we meet the 
foe : but where is Cuthullin, tlie shield of Erin ? He 
rests in the haUs of Tura ; he knows not of our 
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to the 
hero, and call the chief to arms } The pat a is by 
the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. They 
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! WliO 
will arise ?" 

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said d.%rk- 
haired Orla, " aud mine alone. What is death to 
me ?• 1 love the sleep of the mighty, but kittle is the 
danger. The sons of Lc chlin drenui. I will seek 
car-borne Cuthulin. If I fall, raise the song of 
bai'ds ; and lav me by the stream of Luhar." — ** And 
shalt thou fall alone ?" said fair-hairod Caltnar 
" Wilt thou leave thy friend afar ? Chief of Oithona ! 
not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die 
and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been 
the chas ; of the roebuck, and the feast of shells . 
ouf be the path of danger : ours haa been the care 
cf Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on th« 



• nm piihllthH in Flcmn of l(!lrn(«fc 

' ii miiv hB iiroraanrr ti> tibmnrtr, ihi>t Ihr rtorr, tNyirh emwiilrniNT i 
In uir oit^titropho, U tiki-n from " Nl»ui ami K«ii7»l< »," •■' »*• cii ryM 
InMUuiNi ki Hlnad/ ffivon in Uw prH^ni tuIuioiv 



448 



BYHON'S WORKS. 



banks of Lubar," " Calmar," said the chief of 
Oithona; "why should thy yellow locks be dark- 
ened in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My 
father dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his 
boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for 
her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the 
hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of 
Calmar. Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by 
the steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the 
chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the 
azure eye of Mora ? Why should her voice curse 
Orla, the destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! 
Live to raise my stone of moss ; live to revenge me 
m the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards 
»bDYe my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to 
Orla from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall 
smile on the notes of praise." " Orla," said the son 
of Mora, "could I raise the song of death to my 
friend .' Could I give his fame to the winds ? No, 
ray heart would speak in sighs. Faint and broken 
are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall 
hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on 
high. The bards will mingle the names of Orla and 
Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps 
xre to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak 
dim twinkles through the night. The northern star 
points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests 
on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they 
frown in sleep ; their shields beneath their heads. 
Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires 
are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ; 
but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel 
the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the 
journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, 
meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glist- 
ens through the shade. His spear is raised on 
high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of 
Oithona ? " said fair-haired Calmar. " We are in the 
midst of foes. Is this a time for delay ?" " It is a 
time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. 
"Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear ? 
Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The 
olood of Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I 
slay him sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his 
wound : my fame shall not soar on the blood of 
slumber. Rise ! Mathon .' rise ! the son of Conna 
calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon 
starts from sleep ; but did he rise alone ? No : the 
gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Cal- 
mar ! fly ! " said dark-haired Orla. " Mathon is 
mine. I shall die in joy. But Lochlin crowds 
around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla 
turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls 
from his arm ; he shudders in his blood. He rolls 
I)y the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him 
fall : his wrath rises : his weapon glitters on the 
head of Orla: but a spear pierced hi& eye. His 
brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the 
spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on 
two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of 
Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in 
loam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise 
the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Loch- 
lin. The din r f arms came to the ear of Fingal. He 
strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; the peo- 
ple pour along the heath. Ryno boimds in joy. 
Ds'^ian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes his spear. 
rhe easrle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dread- 



ful is the clang of death ! many are the widows ol 
Lochlin. Morven prevails in his strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills ; no living foe is seen , 
but the sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. 
The breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do nol 
awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a 
chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they 
mingle with the dark hair of his friend. " 'Tis Cal- 
mar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is cue 
stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy 
Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame. 
It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in 
Calmar's ; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. 
"Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis 
mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet 
bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Mor- 
ven with Orla," said the hero. " What were the 
chase to me alone ? Who would share the spoils of 
battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was 
thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. 
It glared on others in lightning ; to me a silver 
beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; 
let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure fron* 
blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my 
friend. Raise the song when I am dark !'' 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. 

When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the 
blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven. 
The bards raised the son!^. 

" What form rises on .the roar of clouds ? Wl ose 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempevts ? 
His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the biown 
chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. 
Peace to thy soul, Orla ! thy fame will not perish. 
Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue- 
eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It 
hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek 
around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It 
dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name 
shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch 
of the rainbow ; and smile through the tears of thf 
storm."* 



TO E. N. L. ESQ.t 

" Nil ego contulerim jucundo aanus aniico.' —Hot. &■ 

Dear L , in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
Thus if amid the gathering storm, 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow. 
Which spreads the sign of future peace. 
And bids the war of tempest cease. 



• I fear Lsdng't late edition baa completely overthrown every hape hat 
Macpherson's Ossian might prove the Iraiial.aion of a series of poem* cam. 
plete in themselves ; but, while the impostvire is Uiscovered, the merit tt tin 
work remains undisputed, though not without faults— rertjculariy, in tome 
parts, tnrgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation wj IM 
pardoned by the aflmirere of the original as an attemr*, bowersr fafci^i 
which evinces an attachment to '.heir favorite au'V* 

t Fiist Dubllabed in Hours of Idleimo 



HOURS OF 


IDLENESS. 449 


Ah . ihougL the present brings but pain, 


And passion's self is now a name. 


I think those days may come again ; 


As, when the ebbing flames are low, 


Or if, in melancholy mood, 


The aid which once improved their light, 


Some lurking envious fear intrude, 


And bade the^i burn with fiercer glow. 


To check my bosom's fondest thought, 


Now quenches all their sparks in nighl , 


And intermpt the golden dream, 


Thus has it been with passion's fires. 


I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 


As many a boy and girl remembers. 


And still indulge my wonted theme. 


With all the force of love expires. 


Although we ne'er again can trace, 


Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 


In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore. 


But now, dear L , 'tis midnight's nrria, 


Nor through the groves of Ida chase 


And clouds obscure the watery moon, 


Our raptured visions as before, 


Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 


Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion. 


Described in every stripling's verse; 


And Manhood claims his stern dominion ; 


For why should I the path go o'er, 


Age will not every hope destroy. 


Which every bard has trod before ? 


Bnt yield some hours of sober joy. 


Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 




Has thrice perform'd her stated round 


Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 


Has thrice retraced her path of light, 


Will shed around some dews of Spring : 


And chased away the gloom profound, 


But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 


I trust that we, my gentle friend. 


Which bloom among the fairy bowers. 


Shall see her rolling orbit wend 


Where sm'ling Youth delights to dwell, 


Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 


And hearts mth early rapture swell ; 


Which once contain'd our youth's retre&i ; 


If frowning Age, with cold control, 


And then with those our childhood knew, 


Confines the cm-rent of the soul, 


We'll mingle vriih the festive crew ; 


Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 


While many a tale of former day 


Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 


Shall wing the laughing hours awa) , 


Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan, 


And all the flow of souls shall pour 


And bids me feel for self alone ; 


The sacred intellectual shower, 


Oh ! may my bosom never learn 


Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 


To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 


Scarce glimmers through the mist of mum 


Still, still despise the censor stern. 




But ne'er forget another's wo. 




Yes, as you knew me in the days 




O'er which remembrance yet delays. 




Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, 




Aud even in age at heart a child. 


TO .• 


Though now on airy visions borne. 


Oh ! had my fate been join'd «nth thine. 


To you my soul is still the same : 


As once this pledge appear'd a token, 


Oft has it been my fate to mourn, 


These follies had not then been mine. 


And all my former joys are tame. 


For then my peace had not been broken. 


But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 




Your frowns iie gone, my sorrows o'er ; 


To thee these early faults I owe. 


By every bliss my childhood knew. 


To thee, the wise and old reproving : 


I'll think upon your shade no more. 


They know my sins, but do not know 


Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 


'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving 


And caves their sullen roar enclose. 




We heed no more the wintry blast, 


For once my soul, like thine, was pure. 


When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 


And all its rising fires could smother f 


Full often has my infant Muse 


But now thy vows no more endure, 


Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 


Bestow'd by thee upon i^nother. 


But now, without a theme to choose, 




The strains in stolen sighs expire. 


Perhaps his peace I could deslioy, 


My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 


And spoil the blisses that await him ; 


E is a wife, and C a mother, 


Yet let my rival smile in joy, 


And Carolina sighs alone, 


For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 


And Mary's given to another ; 




And Cora's eye, which rolled on me, 


Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 


Can now no more my love recall ; 


My heart no more can rest with any , 


In truth, dear L , 'twas time to flee; 


But what is sought in thee alone, 


For Cora's eye will shine on all. 


Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 


And though the sun, with genial rays, 




His beams alike to all displays. 


Then fare thoo well, deceitful maid, 


And every lady's eye's a nun, 


'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 


These last should be confined to one. 


Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid, 


The soul's meridian don't become her 


But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 


Whose sun displays a general svmmtr ' 






Thus faint is every former flame, 
67 


• Mm Chawunii. Ptnt pubUihrd In Um ftnt •OlUun of Hour sf IdlMMM 



450 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
These varied loves, these matron's fears, [ures ; 
These thoughtless strains to Passion's meas- 

II thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : 
This cheek, now pale from early riot. 

With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once this rural scene was sweet. 
For nature seem'd to smile before thee, 

A.nd once my breast abhorr'd deceit. 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys ; 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal. 

In spite of every vain endeavor ; 
And fiends might pity what I feel, 

To know that thou art lost for ever. 



STANZAS.* 

I "WOULD 1 were a careless child. 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxonf pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul, 
WTiich loves the mountain's craggy side. 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sound, 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks I love. 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me : 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Tnith ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

I loTed — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
Ho'p^. cheerless feels the heart alone, 

When all its former ho j es are dead ? 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still. 

How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 



Have made, though neither friends nor foi 
Associates of the festive hour. 

Give me again a faithful few. 
In years and feelings still the same, 

And I will fly the midnight crew. 
Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 

And woman ! lovely woman, thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall. 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid wo. 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
My breast requires the sullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest.* 



LINES t 

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCFrAHJ 
OF HARROW ON THE HILL, SEPTEMBER 2, 1807- 

Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; 
Where now alone I muse, who TTft have trod. 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who. scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
Thou drooping Elm ' beneath whose boughs I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
But, ah ! without the thoughts which then were mine. 
How- do thy branches, moaning* to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
'* Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell ! ** 
When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast. 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought 'twould soothe my dying hour, 
If aught may soothe when life resigns ner power, 
To know some huinbler grave, some narrow cell. 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell : 
With this fond dream methinks 'twere sweet to die— 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arcse. 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shadr, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play 'd , 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved. 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful eat, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those, in early days allied, 
And unremember'd by the world beside. 



* Flnt pubUahed in the teeond edition of Houn of Idleness. 

* 8MMnag(^, or Saxon, a Gaelic word lig tlf' ing either Lowland or 



Psalm It. ver. 6.—" And 1 said, Oh t that I had winfs liln> a dove ; fk 
then would I fly away, and be at rest." This verse also constititw a poll 
of the most beautiful anthem in onr hn^a^. 

t First published in the second edition of the Hours of i 



CRITIQUE, 



KXTR ACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, FOR JANUARY H08 



Roura of Idleness ; a Series of Poems ^ original and 
Iranslated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a 
Minor. 8vo. pp. 2m.— Newark, 1807. 

The poesy of this young lord belongs to the class 
which neither gods nor men are said to permit. 
Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity 
of verse with so few deviations in either direction 
from that exact standard. His effusions are spread 
over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below 
the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. 
As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author 
is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We 
have it in the titlepage, and on the very back of the 
volume ; it follows his name like a favorite part of 
his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the pre- 
face ; and the poems are connected with this general 
statement of his ca«e, by particular dates, substan 
tiating the age at which each was written. Now 
the law upon the point of minority we hold to be 
perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the 
defendant ; no plaintiff can offer it as a siipplement- 
ary ground of action. • Thus, if any suit, could be 
brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of 
compelling him to put into court a certain quantity 
of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, 
it is highly probable that an exception would be 
Caken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of 
this volume. To this he might plead ininority ; 
but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the 
article, he hath no righ#to sue, on that ground, for 
the price in good current praise, should the goods 
be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on 
the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. 
Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us 
about his youth is rather with a view to increase our 
wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly 
means to say, " See how a minor can write ! This 
poem was actually composed by a young man of 
eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen ! " — But, 
alas ! we all remember the poetry cf Cowley at ten, 
and Pope at twelve ; and so far from hearing, with 
any degree of sur])rise, that very poor verses were 
written by a youth from his leaving school to his 
leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to 
be the most common of all occurrences ; that it 
happens in the life of nine men in ten who are 
educated in England ; and that the tenth man 
writes better verse than Lord Byron. 

His other plea of privilege our author rathtr 
oring^ forward in ord^- to waive it. He certainly, 



however, does allude frequently to hin fam y nni 
ancestors — sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes ; 
and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, 
he takes care to remember us of Dr. .Johnson's 
saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, 
his merit should be handsomely acknoAvledged. In 
truth, it is this consideration only that induces us 
to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, 
■beside our desire to counsel him, that he do foith 
with abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which 
are considerable, and his opportunities, which are 
great, to better account. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to 
assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final 
syllable, even when accompanied by the presence o( 
a certain number of feet, — nay, although (which 
does not always happen) those feet should scan 
regularly, and have been all covaited accuratelj 
upon the fingers, — is not the whole art of poetry 
We would entreat him to believe, that a certain 
portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is neces- 
sary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the 
present day, to be read, must contain as least one 
thought, either in a little degree different from the 
ideas of former writers, or differently expressed 
We pwt it to his candor, whether there is any thing 
so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the 
following, written in 1806 ; and whether, if a yo ith 
of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to 
his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it 

" Shn'les of Iipwp*, (nrewfll I your tlricei Vnt, (lepnrtiiij 
From till- sent of his iinrpatort, hiiln yt\ mlii-ii | 
AbnNul or m home, your rpniemhmnc*' iin)nrtin|f 
New cuiirage, he'll Ihiiik upon glory mui you 

" Though n tear ilim hia I'yc nt thin »b(1 ippnnuion, 

"ri» iinturn, not frnr, that cxclti-s his rpRTet : 

Fur illMHiit h'' go«§, with the gimii- Piniil.iliiin ; 

Tlie fume ol hi< fiuh«>r'i hi- in-Vr ciiii forifPl. 

« 

•• Thill fiimi*, «n<l that mcnmry, »lill will \\« cherinh 

Hi! »ow» ihiil he iicVr will iliijcnice your n-uown ; 

Like yau will |)e li»c, or lilcr you will hr |ii-rl»h ; 

When ilecnyM, umy he niiiif^le liia ilu»l with yowr ov*. 

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothi^9 
better than these stanzas in the whole compcss «* 
the noble miiuu's volume. 

Lord Byron shtnild also have a care of attempting 
what the greatest poets have don" before him, fo« 
comparisons (as he must have had occasion to rie€ 
at his writing-master's) are odiotjs. — Gray's Ode on 
Eton College should really have kept out the ten 
hol)Miiig stanzas " On a tlistant View of the "Villaot 
and Sihool of Harrow" 



452 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Where feney yet )oy» to Tetrsce the reKmblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and niiscliief allied ; 
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remeinbrance, 
Which re«t» in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, 
* On a Tear," might have warned the noble author 
off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen 
neh stanzas as tlie following : 

" Mild Charity's glow, 

To us mortals below. 
Shows the soul from barbarity deai ; 

Compassion will melt 

Where this virtue is felt. 
And its (lew b diti'used in a Tear. 

" The man doo.n'd to sail 

With the blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 

As^he bends o'er the wave, 

Which may soon be his grave, 
The green sparkles bright with a Tear." 

And so of instances in which former poets had 
/ailed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was 
tnade for translating, during his nonage, "Adrian's 
Address to his Soul," when Pope siicceeded so 
indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, how- 
f 'er, are of another opinion, they may look at it. 

" Ah I gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay I 

To what unknowij region home ; 
Wilt thou now wJng thy ilistant flight ? 
No more with wonted humor gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and foriom." 

However, be this as it may, we fear his transla- 
tions and imitations are great favorites with Lord 
Byron. "We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon 
to Ossian ; and, viewing them as school exercises, 
they may pass. Only, why print them after they 
nave had their day and served their turn ? And 
why call the thing in p. 79* a translation, where 
two words {ScXoj Xeysiv) of the original are expanded 
into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81,t where 
fi€<rovvKTiai(; tto^' cjpais is rendered by means of six 
hobbling verses ? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are 
not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately 
(Skilled in that species of composition, that we 
should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of 
the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express 
our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, 
the following beginning of a "Song of Bards" is 
by his his lordship, Ave venture to object to it, as far 
as we can comprehend it. ** What form rises on 
the roar of clouds, whose dat-k ghost gleams on the 
red stream of tempests ? His voice rolls on the 
thunder; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. 
He was," &c. After detaining this "brown chief" 
»ome time, the bards conclude by giving him their 
advice to "raise his fail- locks;" then to "spread 
them on the arch of the rainbow; " and " to smile 
through the tears of the storm." Of this kind of 
thing there are no less than nine pages ; and we can 
»o far venture an opinion in their favor, that they 
look very like Macpherson ; and we are positive 
they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists: 
kut they should "use it as not abusing it;" and 
particularly one who piques himself (though indeed 
%t the ripe age of nineteen) of being " an infant 



T H»fe431. 



bard," — (" The artless Helicon I boast is youth ) 
■^should eittier not know, or should seem not tt 
know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a 
poem above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, 
we have another of eleven pages, on the self-sarot 
subject, introduced with an apology, "he certainly 
had no intention of inserting it," but really "the 
particular request of some friends," &c. &o. It 
concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the last 
and youngest of a noble line." There is a good 
deal also about his maternal ancestors, in a poem on 
Lachin y Gair, a mountain where he spent part oi 
his youth, and might have learned that pibroch if 
not a bagpipe, any more than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of hia 
'volume to immortalize his employments at school 
and at college, we cannot possibly dismiss it with- 
out presenting the reader with a specimen of thes* 
ingenious effusions. In an ode with a Greek motto, 
called Granta, we have the following mapniiicent 
stanzas : 

" There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for coUege pri^ea 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp, 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

" Who reads false quantities in Sele, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprlired of many a wholesome meal. 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle! 

" Renouncing every pleasing page. 
From authors of historic use, 
Preferring to the letler'd sage 
The square of the hypothenuse. 

" Still harmless are these occupations. 

That hurt none but the hapless stuaent. 
Compared with other recreations, 

Which bring together tlie imprudent." 

"We are sorry to hear so bad an account of th« 
college psalmody as is contained in the foLcwing 
Attic stanzas : 

" Our choir would hardly be excused 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking unnen. 

" If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads sing before hfan. 
To us iis psalms had ne'er descended : 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em I " 

But whatever judgment may be passed on the 
poems of this noble minor, it seems we must take 
them as we find them, and be content; for they are 
the last we shall ever have from him. He is, at 
best, he says, but an intruder into the groves of 
Parnassus ; he never lived in a garret, like thorough- 
bred poets ; and " though he once roved a carelese 
mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland," he 
has not of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, 
he expects no profit from his publication; and, 
whether it succeeds or not, "it is highly improba- 
ble, from his situation and pursuits hereafter," that 
he should again condescend to become an author. 
Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. 
What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We 
are well off to have got so much from a man of this 
lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but 

has the sway " of Newstead Abbey. Again, we 
Bay, let us be thankful ; and, with honest Sancho^ 
bid God bless the giver, nor look the gift horse in 
the mouth 



ENGLISH BAUDS 



AND 



SCOTCH EEYIEWERS;* 

A SATIRE. 



" I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew I 
Than one of these suine metre ballad-mongen," 

SHAKSPKARE. 
" Such ihamelen barda we have ; and yet 'tis true. 
There are as mad, ubondon'd critic* too." 

POPE. 



A. FIFTH edition of the "English Bards and 
Scotch Re^iewe^s," in which Lord Byron intro- 
duced several alterations and corrections, was jirc- 
pared in 1812, but was, at his desire, destroyed on 
the eve of publication. One copy of this edition 
alone escaped, from which the satire has been printed 
in the present volume. The Author re-perused the 
poem in the latter part of the summer in 1816, after 
his final departure from England. He at that time 
also corrected the text in several places, and added 
a few notes and observations in tlie margin, which 
the reader will find inserted. On the blank leaf 
preceding the title-page of the copy from which he 
read. Lord Byron has written — "The binding of 
this volume is considerably too valuable for the 
contents; and nothing but the consideration of its 
being the property of another prevents me from 
consigning this miserable record of misplaced anger 
and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames." 



PREFACE.f 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, havc^ urged 
me not to publish this satire with my name. If I 
were to be " turned from the career of my humor 
by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," 
I should have complied with their counHcl. But I 



• In tha ojV-lnal manuicript, the title wa« "THE BRITI8H UARHb 
k BiTlRZ." 

t Thto (vefnce wna written for the (Rcond pilition, iiiid priiitnl with It. 
IV noue author ha.1 Irll thi» tnunlry pr<'»UMm to thr puhllcatioji ol thiil r<li- 
lon, and !■ not yet returmd.— Nii(' Co tht /nurih tiUtion, IHIl. 

Hj la. Mki ffOM ^7I> II. XHIH- MS. ruiU hu Lor^d B^nm. 



am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied aj reTiev» 
ers, Avith or without arms. I can safely say thai 1 
have attacked none personally who did not com- 
mence on the ofiensive. An author's works ar€ 
public property : he who purchases may judge, and 
publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the author! 
I have endeavored to commemorate may do by me 
as I have done by them : I dare say they will 
succeed better in condemning my scribblings than 
in mending their own. But my object is not to 
prove that I can wi-ite well, but, if possible, to make 
others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than 
1 expected, I have endeavored in this edition to 
make some additions and alterations, to render it 
more worthy of public perusal. 

In the fii-st edition of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of B::'wles'i 
Pope were written by, and inserted at the xoquest 
of, an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in tLe 
press a volume of poetry. In the present edition 
they are erased, and some of my own substituted m 
their steud ; my only reason for this being that 
which I conceive would operate with any other 
person in tlie same manner, a determination not to 
publish with my name any production whi rh was 
not entirely awd exclusively my own compos'tion. 

With * regard to the roal talents of many of trie 
poetical persons whose performances are mentiontd 
or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumwd 
by the author that there can be little ditferenco ol 
pinion in the public at large; though, like other 
sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of pro*»> 
lytcK, by whom his abilities arc overrated, ixis 'aultl 



Tha pnfiMe to Iha Anl wiltioa be«aa hMS. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



overlooked, and hi* metncal canons received without 
Bcruplfc and without consideration. But the unques- 
tionable possession of considerable genius by several 
of the writers here censured renders their mental 
prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be 
pitied, or, vat worst, laughed at and forgotten ; per- 
verted powers demand the most decided reprehension. 
No one can wish more than the author that some 
knsrm and aUle writer had undertaken their expos- 
are ; but Mr. Giffordhas devoted himself to Massin- 
gf r, and, in the\absence of the regular physician, a 
country practitio'<ner may, in cases of absolute neces- 
aity, be allowed lo prescribe his nostrum to prevent 
the extension of ? :> deplorable an epidemic, provided 
there be no quaci ery in his treatment of the mal- 
ady. A caustic is here offered, as it is to be feared 
nothing short of ^ "tual cautery can recover the 
numerous patients affli ?ted with the present preva- 
lent and distressing rabus for rhyming. — As to the 
Edinburgh Reviewers — it v\ould indeed require an 
Hercules to crush the Hyura; but if the author 
succeeds in merely "bruising cue of the heads of 
the serpent," though his own hsinC should suffer in 
the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. 



Still* must I hear ? — shail hoarse Fitzgeraldf bawlj 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse i 
Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish, right or wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let satu-e be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
Blave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen forodoom'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
Our task complete, like Hamet's^ shall be free ; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by nie : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme. 
No eastern vision, no distemper' d dreamjj 



* 'Ikie first ninety-alx lines were prefixed to Che second edition : the origiaal 
Op&jiid with — 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days, 
Ig-nohle themes, &c. — Line 97. 
t Hoarte Pitzgeraid. — Right enough ; but why nJt'xe iticb a nr>jnte- 
kaok i~-MS. noU by Lord Byron. 

X IMITATIO.N. 
" Semper (!go au(iitor tantum ? nunquamne reponam, 
VexatUB toties rvjci Theseide Codri ? " 

Juvenal, S;<tipe I. 
Mr. Fitigerald, raceuou«ly termed by Coblyett the " Small Beer Poet,'' 
Inflicts his annual tritnite of verse on the " Literary Fund : " not content 
«rith writin?, he spouts in iierson, after the company have imbibed a 
ble quantity of bad port, to enable them to suauin the operation. 
§ Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose lo his (jen m the last chapter of 
don diiixote. Oh I that our voluminous gentrj would follow the example 
«f Ciil Hamet Beneueeli. 

jl No etisttni oision, no dUtemper'd drenm. — This must have been writp 
BD m tb jpirit t.f prophecy i—MS. noU by Lor. I i^v^on. 



Inspires— our path though full of thorns, is pUlu 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triump^iant holds her sov'reign STvay^ 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequer^t harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap witn bells of every clime ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevaily 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law 

Such is the foyce of wit ! but not belong 

To me the arrows of satiric song ; 

The royal vices of our age demand 

A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 

Still tiiere are follies, e'en for me to chase. 

And yield at least amusement in thc^ race : 

Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame 

The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 

Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and smalls 

Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 

1 too can scrawl, aini once upon a time 

I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 

A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame J 

I printed — older childi-en dt) the same. 

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; l 

A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.S 

Not that a title's sounding charm can save 

Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 

This Lambe must own,* since his patrician name 

Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 

No matter, George continues still to write,J 

Though now the name is veil'd from public sight 

Moved by the great example, I pursue 

The self-same road, but make my own review : 

Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 

Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time Imd ev'ry trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by lote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jetfrey go, be silent and discreet. 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet: 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caresp'd. 

And shall we oviti such judgment ? no— a» a<v^ 

Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 

Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaiF; 

Believe a woman or an epitaph. 

Or any other thing that's false, before 

You trust in critics, who themselves a.e r jre, 

Or yield one single thought to be mi.^l' J 

By Jeffrey's heart or Lambe's Boeotian Ae».d.$ 



* This Lambe mutt own, — lie's a very good fellow, a ,6 except hia motba 
and sister, the best of the set, lo my nrind. — MS. noU of Lord Byron. 

t This ingenuous youth is mentioned more partib aarly, with hit prDa«» 
tlons, in another place. 

X In the Kdinburgh Review. 

§ By Jeffrey's heart or iMmbe't Baotian liead — 'I'his wom not ta«, 
Neither the bean nor the head of these feutlemen are m du what tbej ut 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



45^ 



i 



To these young tyrants,* by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To those, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law — 
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare ; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'Tis douutful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our baxds and censors are so much alike. 

tT}ien should you e.sk ms, why I venture o'er 
Xhv path which Pope and Giftbrd trod before; 
If 1-0 1 yet sickeu'd, yo"a can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyu.e will tell you as you read. 
But hold ! X exclaims a friend, — here's some neglect ; 
This — that — and 't other line seem incorrect. 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got. 
And carelessj Dryden — ay — but Pye has not,— 
Indeed ! — " tis granted, faith ! — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days, 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
When sense and wit with poesy allied. 
No fabled graces, fiourish'd side by side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to chann, nor sought in vain ; 
A poljsh'd nation's praise aspired to claim. 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song. 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's 

melt — 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
ifet to such times our lingering lonkp are cast. 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now: 
The loaded press beneath her labor groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Soufhey's epics cram the .creaking shelves. 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
fThus saith t^ie preacher: |1 "Nought beneath the 

sun ; 
Is new," yet still from change to change we run : 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 



Vte rbfoveiiiurl. it the tiiiiu tliiu wim writloii (1808) I waa penoiially uiioo- 
IJ&iiib^d w 'li citV 1816.— A/5. note by Lord Byron. 

Meura. Jai^'-^ty ami (jaiiil)r- are thu ulpliii uiiil umeg^, the tint and the Uit 
w( (he l:Miiibur|, < Retrinw ; tin; otliKnt are riii'iiliuiu-il hereafter. 

• " Stuitu i!»t Clrti.Riitia, cum tot libiqiie ' 

— ^ occiimi p<>ritura) ptinuin- cliutas," 

Juvenal, S«tlr« I. 
t IMITATION 
" Cur tan^n hoc IIUmI doiIu» dcciitrcre campo 
Prrqiicni nmgntiii i-qiiiiii Auriiiiue flexil aliimnua 
Si viicut, e( pliiciilu lulfoiieiii udinittilii etiani." 

Juvtnat, 8alir« I. 
Out hold t tselttimt a/rUnd, ftc,— The foUuwiiig «U tinea were luaerteU 
W the fifth eilillon. 

% Thui tnith th« preacfutr, &c -1'lie rulli>wliif fourteen Uiiea wen Imerteii 
ai the lecond ediUuii. 
I Kecioaliatea, chup. 1. 



In turns appear, to make th3 vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts- -and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of pcetry arise. 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters noi, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stolt * 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribblirg crew, 
For notice eager, pass in long review 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equdl rtoe , 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle oix the road : 
Immeasurable measures move along ? 
For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
To strange mysterious dullness still the friend, 
Admii-es the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrelsf — may they be the last!— 
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites. 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high. 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
While high-born ladies in their magic cell. 
Forbidding knights to read who cai^jiot spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
And fight with honest men to shieid a knave - 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace, 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 



* Stott, better known in the " Morning Post " by llw name of HaAs 
Thi» personage b at present the most pr^lauiid explorer of the luithoa. 
remember, when the reigning family left Portugal, a special ode of MuatM 
Stott 's, beginning tlius: 

(Stolt loquitur quoad Ilibernia.) 
" I'rincely ort'spring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," 4c. 4c. 
Also a sonnet to Rats, well wurtny uf tlie subject, and a most ihuudering odo^ 
commencing aa follows : 

" Oh I for a Lay I lond as the surgp 
That laxhes Laphtnd's sounding shore." 
Ix>nl have mercy on us ! the " Lay of the Last Minslrvl " was iiothlp|r ta 
this. 

t See t)i8 " liay of the l^ast Minstrel," pa»«tm. Never waa any plan », 
incongruous and ulMunl iw the groundwork of tliis production. The entranea 
of Thunder anil Lightning prologuizing to Bayes's ir.igedf unfom iiKkt.y 
tixkes away the merit of uriginulity from the dialogue Unw^-.-i Me«iiip.;r» the 
SpiriU of Flood ami Pell in the first cauto. Then we have Uie ainl*^ • 
William of DeloraJne, " a Jl.irk motis-trooiier," videlicet, a happy em'i>ou:J 
of poaclier, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The pivprieiy uf >»» ntaflea 
lady's injunction nut to rt<ad Citn only lie ■■quallinl by liis c;\ndld acJi.Atklmtf' 
nient of his inilependence uf the trammels uf spi-lling, although, to lur his 
own elegant plurtue, " 'twiu his neck-versr at haii-U>«'," i. e. the gallows. 

The biography of Cllpin Horner, anil the inarvelioiu p<.destiiiti iviifr-, «k<' 
Iravelled twice us fast as his master's hurw, without the i\w\ ol » v.ii leag\io< 
bouts, an) the chtf dt oiutn'M in the improvement ol iatXr. Kor iiaid 'Ut w« 
have the invisible, but by no moans sparing box on the ear, N-stiiWed 'in (h( 
juige, and the entrance of a knight and charpT into the ciLStl^, invler tbt 
very natural dt«giilse uf a wain uf hay. Marmiun, the lieru uf I <• IniW 
romanct', is exactly what Wllliain of Uelorulne would have been had ha 
been aUe to read and write. I'lie |X)em wiu mtiiiifACtiired for Mewsre 
Consttblii, Murray, ani: Miller, vorahli-ful biN>k»'llere, iii CJiulU'rwikm m 
the nv'ipl of a sum of ni'iiey mid tn..y, conaidering Um* lr.i|>im.\'n, tt U a 
very en .llul4o p.-iKbiciion. If Mr. 8*-4itt will write lor hlj", l-' liliii <}o hk 
best fur his paymasiera, Init nut dtsgmce his fiilua, whidi ■ undtMltaHA* 
ureal, by a rapoUtkui uf Uuck-letter ballad buiuuioM. 



.is^i^i. 



456 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And think'st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line ? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame : 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain, 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For 5 his we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long "good night to Marmion."* 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot. 
Resign their hallow' d bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was young. 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ! 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years.f 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth. 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them 

birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labor spent : 
With eagle pinions soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To himjet Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England and the boast of France ! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phcenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, J 
Arabia's monstrous, wild and wond'rous son ; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Sirice startled metre fled before thy face, 
^\'ell wert thou doom'd the last of all tny race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious contjuerer of common sense ! 
New, last and greatest INIadoc spreads his sails. 
Cacique in Mexico and prince in Wales : 
Tells us sti-ange tales, as other travellers do. 
More old than Mandeville's and not so tnie. 



• " Good nijiu to Marmion " — ^the pnihetic and also prophetic exclamation 
ft 'Jenry B'.ount, Esquire, on the death of honest Marniion. 

f As tlie Odyssey is so closely conm-cted with .the story of the Iliad, they 
«iay almost be cl'^'-d as one grand liistoricaf poem. In alluding to Milton 
■ud Tasso, we consider the " Paridis'- Lt,gi," and " (licrusalc mnie Liberata," 
M tli'Mr standard t-lTorta, since neither the " JrnJsaleni Conquered " of the 
Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained " of the Knglish banl, obtained a pro- 
portionate celebrity to their former poems, (iuery : Which of Mr. Southey'i 
will survive ? 

X ThalalM, Mr. South">y's second poem, is wricten in open defiance of pre- 
cedent ana \*h try. Mr. S.. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded 
toamirade. Joan of Art was marvellous enough, but Thalaba wa* one of 
bow poemr " which,'' in the words of Poison, " will be read when Homer 
ad Vir^i iji forgot 'a, bM—w}l ill l/i4n." 



Oh ! Southey ! Southey ! * cease thy varied Bontk 
A bard may chant too often and too long ; 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare I 
A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,t 
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
*' God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too.t 

§Next comes the dull disciple of thy schoo.. 

That mild apostate from poetic rule. 

The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 

As soft as evening in his favorite May, 

Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and troubU 

And quit his books for fear of growing double ; " |j 

Who, both by precept and example, shows 

That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; 

Con'»-incing all, by demonstration plain, 

Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 

And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 

Contain the essence of the true sublime. 

Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 

The idiot mother of " an idiot boy ;" 

A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way. 

And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; 51 

So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 

And each adventure so sublimely tells, 

That all who view the " idiot in his glory, 

Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here. 

To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 

Though themes of innocence amuse him hest, 

Yet still obscurity's a welcome guest. 

If Inspiration should her aid refuse 

To him who takes a pixy for a muse,** 

Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 

The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 

So well the subject suits his noble mind. 

He brays, the lam-eat of the long-ear'd kiiid-ft 



* We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc disdains W degrading tJUe • 
epic." See his pn^lUce. Why is epic degraded i and by whom ? Certainly 
the late romaunts of Masters Cottle, Laurent Pye, Ogii' > Hole, and gentto 
Mistress Cowley, have not" exalted the epic muse; b • as Mr. Southey*! 
poem " disdains the appelhtion," allow us to ask— hi' '« substituted anj 
thing better instead ? or must he be content to rival Sir .icliard Blackmore kl 
the quantit / as well as the quality of his verse i 

t See "The 01.1 Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by M Southey, wherein bo 
aged gentlewoman is carried away by Beel/.ebub, on a r jh-tro«tiug howe." 
X Tlie last line, " God help Ihee," is an evident pla arism from the AnC^ 
jacobin to Mr. Southey, on his dactyiics : 

" God help thee, sil'y one I " 

Poetn,' of tKe A ' / cobin p. 25. 
§ Against this passage on Wordsworth and Col ,6, Lord Bfta bu 
written " unjust." 

II Lyrical Ballads, p. 4.—" The Tables Turned." tanra L 
" Up, up, my friend, and cleir yo' .jok». 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 
Up. up, my friend, and quit yoi woks, 
Or surely you'll grow double. 
TT Mr. W. in his preface labors hard to prove at prose and rcise Ml 
much the tame; and certainly his precepts and ftictic<;,are ttrioUjr «•« 
formable. 

" And thus to Betty's questions, < 
Made answer like a travelle X)ld, 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, t« *rhoo, 
And the sun did sliine so col.i," &c. &c. 

Lyricu^ Ballads, p. I2t. 
•* Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, Songs of the Pixitd, i. e. Devorjlire fiUita) 
p. 42, we have " Lines to a Young Lady ; " and p. 52, " Lines to a youag 
Ais." 

tt He bmya, the Uiureat of the long-ear'd k r«f — Altere<l by Loul Byro* 
in hia laat revision of th'- satire. In all former editions tiie line Rond. 
" A fellow-feeling mlWtea u« wood Vvius Wad." 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



451 



OU ! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard, 
Wlxo fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
Lo ! -vreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou takest thy stand, 
By gibb'ring spectres hail'd thy kindred band; 
C: tracest chaste description on thy page. 
To please the females of our modest age : 
Ail hail, M. P. ! ♦ from whose infernal brain 
Tiun siy.eeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
At whose command "grim women" throng in 

crowds. 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
V*''iih " small gray men," " wild yagers," and what- 
not, 
To crown with honor thee and Walter Scott ; 
Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease ; 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, sorrounded by a choir 

Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire. 

With sparkling eyes and cheek by parssion flush'd. 

Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are 

hush'd ? 
'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just. 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar bums ; 
Brorn grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bi.'s thee "mend thy line,t and sin no more." 

Fov taee, translator of the tinse^. song, 

To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 

Hibernian Strang ford ! with thine eyes of blue, J 

And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 

Wnose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 

And o'er harmonious fustian^ half expires. 

Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense. 

Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 

Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 

By dressing Camoens|| in a suit of lace ! 

Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; 

Be warm, btit pure ; be amorous, but chaste : 

Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 

Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

^ Bsho.i! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the text — 
Hayley « last work, and worst — until his next ; 



• " r> ereiy one Icuow* little Matt'i mi M. P."— See a poem to Mr. 
L<e*^j .« Tiie Sut'funian, •uprKwetl to Ix- wriueii oy Mr. Jekyll. 
t lu (iie (.rigiiml iiiaiiuacripl, " Meiiil tliy life." 

I The rea'ler, who inay wlih tor an explimalion of Ihia, may refer (o 
' Sjanf*t>i'< Ortioeni," pa^; VZJ, note lo page 56, or to the lait page of 
htL^UuL^i^i itt'Tiew of Stningfonl'i Canioeiii. 
yFuttmn; in lli« flnl eililiuii, norueriM. 

n U la H^ao to t« remarked, that the tiling given to ttie puUlc ai poems of 
'Jamoi'iia are iiu more 13 'je found in Ibu original Portugeae, than In Ibe 
longi of boluiiiun. 
If " Rhold I— yj tara I one moment •jmrr' hli text— 

n .y\ey'» iiu*. woru, and » oral— until hi« next; 
W hPlliiT he apliia poor coupl^u Into pliyi', 
Or diiinn* iho liead with piirynujrial pniiae." 
%n emended by I. <nl Hyron in the fifth edition oi this ialiie. The line* 
•ei* Wfinally priiite<l : 

" In iiiBTiy martile-eorer'd »oluir.ei view 
Hnvley, In v.iln attemplinjr aompthlng new } 
W|,i-l)icr he aiilna hla ciime<liii< In rhyme, 
Or Mnwl ua >rood and Barciay waiii, 'gsinal lint. ' 

58 



Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 

Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, 

His style in youth or age is still the same, 

For ever feeble and for ever tame. 

Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shtn^ 

At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 

Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 

That luckless music never triumph'd there.* 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme; 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,t 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.J 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 

A thousand visions of a thousand things, [years.^ 

And shows, still whimpering through threescore ol 

The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 

And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles I 

Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 

II Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief. 

The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 

Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 

What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells.^ 

Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 

In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 

All ! how much juster were thy muse's hap. 

If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 

Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 

All love thy strain, but children like it best : 

'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 

To soothe the mania of the amorous throng I 

With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears. 

Ere miss as yet completes her infant year^ : 

But in her teens thy whining pow^ro are vain , 

She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 

Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 

The lofty numbers of a harp like thine , 

" Awake a louder and a loftier strain,"** 

Such as none heard before, or will again 



* Huyley'a two most notorioiu rene producticna are " I'numpha 9 
TemixT," and " Triumphs of Music " He haa alio wriffn much corned/ 
in rhyme, epiallcs, &c., Ac. As he i« rather an elffir-uit writer of notea and 
biogniphy, I'-t u> n-coinmend Pope'i advice to Wychvrley id Mr. H.'ieoo- 
aideratiou, vii. " to convert hia pocirj' inl^proae," wVlch may be eaallr doM 
by taking away the fiu.il aylliihle of each couplet. 

t " Breaks into blank the Goapel of 8^ Vuke." 

In Uie first edition, 

" Breaks into mawkish lines nch hol> b»ok." 
X Mr. Gmhnme has poured forth two volunas of eanl, un<ler tbe nans i 
"SaNmlh Walks," and " Bibliod Picuir™." 

§ HtUI uhiinpering through Oireetcort tsf y«ar«.— Thjs kitsted la tkl 
fifth edition. The original failing wiu, 

" Uiiiaolvrd in thine own melting tean.' 
U Whether thou eing'et, &c.— This couivlal, in all tiie editioo* brfofa Ito 
fifth, was ivinted, 

•' Whether In sighing winds Omw seek'at niht. 
Or consolation in a yellow ie«f." 
^ See Bowleg's Sonnets, Ac. — "Sonnet to Oxfcni," and "BtaiiM* oo 
liearine tlir [tells of Usti-nd." 

•* " Awiikr a loudrr," kc., ftc, is the first line In Bowles's "ttpM 4 
niscoTfry ; " u very spiritetl and pretty dwarf epic Among other exquMlli 
lines we lM»»e the following ;— 

•• A kia 
Stole on the list'nlng silence, nerer yet 
Here Iwnrl ; ihry tirniNr^i rven am if the power," Ac, Ae. 
That Is, the wooils of Maileim irrniJiJetl to a kias, very laiKh astonlshwl, •• 
well iIk V iiiiglit tr, at sudi it |iheiiunienon. 

|Miai)ii<i|iNl an*! iiilaumlrraluiKl by in>- ; hut not inieittionally. It was a* 
the " wihkU," Un ttie |ie<<|ile in them wh« iivint'id — why, Hea««a o*^ 
knows— unlraa thry were ovcrhfsaiU making the pswllftous miwii^ MB 



4.58 



BYRON'S \V0IIKS. 



Where ail discoverfes jumbled from tlie flood 

Bince first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 

By more or less, are sung in every book, 

From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 

Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 

The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;* 

And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss !— 

When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 

Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 

Stick to thy sonnets, man ! at least they sell.f 

But if somei.ow-born whim, or larger bribe. 

Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe; 

If chance s^me bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 

Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 

If Pope whose fame and genius from the first 

Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 

Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan ; 

The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 

Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 

Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ; J 

Let all the scandals of a former age 

Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 

Afifect a candor which thou canst not feel. 

Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 

Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 

And do for hate what Mallet^ did for hire. 

Oh ! had'st thou lived in that congenial time, 

To rave with Dennis, and \nth Ralph to rhyme ; || 

Throng'd with the rest around his living head. 

Not raised thy hoof agairist the lion dead ; 

A meet reward had crown'dthy glorious gains, 

IT And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains.** 

tt Another «pic ! Who inflicts again 

More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 



• The episode above alluded to is tlie story of " Robert a Machin " and 
" Attr.e d'Arfei," a pair ol coiisumt lovers, who perlbrmed the kiss above 
•cttiQDed, that stiirtled the woods of Madeira. 
t " Stick to thy sonnets, man 1 — at least they sell : 

Or take the only path tliat open lies 

For mwlern worthies who wouki hope to rise : 

Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit, 

Pare off the merits of liis worth and wit ; 

On each alike employ the critic's knife, 

And when a comment fails, prefix a lite ; 

Hint certain failings, faults before unknown. 

Review forg'otten lies, and add your own ; 

Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape, 

And print, if luckily deformed, his shape : 

Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last, 

Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past; 

Sards once revered no more with favor view, 

But g-ive the modem soi^eieers their due : 

Thus with the dead may living merit cope. 

Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope." 
m the firet edition, the observations on Bowles ended with theae lines, 
Vhich were written by a friend of Lord Byron,* and omitted when the saure 
WOM published vrith the author's name. The following fifty-five verses, con- 
taining Ihi' conclusion of the pasa.'xge en Bowles, and the notices of Cottle and 
fclauriee, were then printed for the first time. 

J Curll ii one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a bookseller. Lord 
fVnny is Jie poetical name of Lord Ilervey, author of " Lines to the Inutator 

§ Lo-.d Boiingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, because 
tie poe,. had retained some copies of a work by Lord Boiingbroke, (the 
Patriot King,) which thai splendid, but malignant genius, had ordered to be 
*Mti-JV;i. 

I i>e.i.i.i the critic, and Ralph the rhymester. 

" Silence, ye wolves I while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
Making night hideous : answer lum, ye owls I " 

Dunciad. 

^ And hruc'd thee to the Dunciad for thy paint.— Too savage all this on 
Bowles.— AfS'. nute by Lord Byron. 1816. 

•• See Bowles's late etiition of Pope's works, for which he received three 
Wndred potmds ; thus Mr. B. has experienced how much easier it is to profit 
07 the repuuUon of another than to elevate his own. 

tt Anothtr tpic /—Opposite this passage on Joseph and Amo« Cottle, Lord 
9ftou I «» w«tlen, " AU right." 



BcRotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's bo\st. 

Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast 

And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 

Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 

Fresh fish from Helicon ! * who'll buy ! who'll buy ( 

The precious bargain's cheap — in faith not I. 

t Your turtle- feeder's verse must needs be flat, 

Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 

If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brair 

And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 

In him an author's luckless lot behold, 

Conderr^i'd to make the books which once he sold 

Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name 

To fill the speaking trump of future fame !-• ' 

Oh, Amos Cottle ■ for a moment think 

What meagre profits spring from pen and ink . 

When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 

WTio will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 

Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 

Had Cottle ;J: still adorn'd the counter's side, 

Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 

Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 

Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limt, 

He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.$ 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 

Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep 

So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 

Dull Maurice \\ all his granite weight of leave% : 

Smooth solid monuments of mental pain ! 

The petrifactions of a plodding brain, [again 

That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 

Lo ! sad Alcaeus wanders down the vale ; 

Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd «j 

last. 
His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast: 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales. 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
O'er his lost works let cZasszc Sheflield weep ! 
May no rude hand distiu'b their early sleep ! fl 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 

His claim to favor from the sacred nine ? 

For ever startled by the mingled howl 

Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 

A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 

** By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 



• Fyfh fiih from Helicon I — " Helicon " is a mountain, and uol • Sibf 
pond. It should have been " Hippocrene."—MS. nole by Lord, Bjfron, 
1816. 

t Your turtle feeder't verse, &c.— This couplet was altered ia the ttlb 
edition. It originally stood : 

" Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight. 
Too much o'er bowls of sack prolong She night." 

J Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, i don't know which, tut one or both, oan 
sellers of books they did not write, and now writers of books that do not sell, 
have published a p;ur of epics. " Alfred," (poor Alfred t Pye has been at 
him too I) " Alfred," and tlie " Fall of Cambria." ^ 

§ He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.— I saw some letters of tliE 
fellow (Joseph CotUe) to an untorlunate poetess, whose productions, which 
the poor woman by no means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and 
bitterly, that 1 could hiu-cUy resist assailing liiin, even were it unjust, which '4 
is not^for verily he is an ass.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

I Mr. Maurice hath manufactured tlie component parts of a pou'lerooi 
quarto upon the beauties of " Richmoua Hili," and llie like. — it ilso take* 
in a charming view of Tuniham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old abd 
New, and the parU adjacent. 

IT Poor Montgonjery I though praised by every English Review, has beef. 
Utterly reviled by the Kdinburgh. After all, the bsird of Sheffield is a man 
of considerable genius : his " Wanderer of Swilierland," b worth a < 
" Lyrical Li.''ad»," and at least fifty " degraded epics." 

** Bee Lord Bjron's letter to Mr. Mur^y, Joue IS. 1813^ volaiae % 



EJ^GLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



459 



a.ged or young, the living or the dead, 

No mercy find — these harpies must be isd. 

Why do he injured unresisting yield 

The 'aim possession of their n ative field ? 

Why ■ amely thus before their fangs retreat, 

Noi hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat ? * 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 

Englaid could boast a judge almost the same; 

In soul so like, so merciful, yet just. 

Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 

And given the spirit to the world again. 

To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 

With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 

With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 

Brfd in the courts betimes, though all that law 

As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 

Sir. ce well instructed in the patriot school 

To rail at party, though a party tool, 

Wlio knows, if chance his patrons should restore 

Back to the sway they forfeited before. 

His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 

And raise this Daniel to the judgniont seat ? f 

Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope. 

And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 

" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 

Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 

This cord receive, for thee reserved with care, 

To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to gieat Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 

To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 

And guard it sacred in its future wars. 

Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars . 

Can none remember that eventful day, J 

That ever glorious, almost fatal fray. 

When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 

And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by ? § 

Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 

Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock : 

Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth. 

Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 

Tweed ruffled half his wave to form r tear, 

The other half pursued its calm career ; |1 

Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. 

The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 

The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 

On such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 

If Jeffery died, except within her arms : f 



* Art.*>ur'i »eal ; O.e hill whic*; ovprhiiiif^ Kiliiilmrgh. 

t And roiw thU Daniel U, Iht juriginenl-ieat.— Voo ferociou»— thi« U 
bere inianily. MS. nou by Lorfi li/ron. IHIS. 

X Clin nont ismember, tc— All thl» ii bad, Usciiusc peraonal.— MS', 
ly t^d Byron. 1816. 

f In :i*j6, M(-t»r» Jeffrey and Mcore met al Chalk-Farm. The luel 
mu prcTen «U by the iii',erfrpnc« of .'ip iii«gfi«iniry ; and, on examinaioD, 
«K iwdli of the pi»toU were lound to have evaporated. TliU Inciileiu gt.re 
tacuien Vo much wiiKt^'Ty in tho dully prima. 

1 lun infimied that Mr. Moon- iiuhli»he<l at the timo a dibii'uwal of the 
lUtementi in the ne-vipapTTi, a« fiir an r<-^»rdod hlni»elf; and in Jniiiw to 
him I mention tlib cirr.iinwUnce. At I never tieanl of it iK-fore,,! cannot 
•Ule the partkulun, an<l wbj only made aoqtiain ed with tlie faa rtry 
lately.— Novembtr 1, i8l I. 

I The Tweed here (xOiavcil wlt)i proper docornm ; It would ha»« been 
»i(Chly reprehennible in the Kngli»h hall of the river to have shown the 
fiiinll'-»t RVMiptom o( npprrhontioii. 

^1 Thin ilinplny of sympnthy on the part of the Tolliooth (the pHn^lpal 
prlao" m Edinhnrifh), which tnily lefini to have Ut.-n nitwl «rtecte<l on 
i€c:iMun, u much lo be cominendid. It wn» to l« apprtihended, Itial the 
Biaiiy unhappy orimlnaU exrcuUK' In the front nil|{IU hav.- rrndoiwl the 
Klif.ce rioK! cnlloti.. Hh.- k latd to he of the foltrr tnt, \<ec*\\f her dell:i>cy 
of fvWug on Ihii ilay wiu truly feinlnliie, Ihoiifh, Uke nnal feniinlue Uiipul- 
■M. uertuin* a lltUc lelllali 



Nay last, not least, on that portentous morU; 
The sixteenth story, where himself was born. 
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
And pain Edina shudder'd at the sound : 
Strew'd were the streets around with milk- white 

reams, 

Flow'd all the Canongate with inky sti-eams ; 
This of his candor seem'd the sable dew, 
That of his valor show'd the bloodless hue ; 
And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
The mingled. emblems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moo f , 
From either pistol snatch'd the vei-geful les^d, 
And straight restored it to her favorite's head : 
That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r. 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r. 
And, though the thickening di'oss will scarce refine, 
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
" My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again. 
Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
O'er politics and poesy preside. 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ? 
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit. 
So long shall last thine unmolested reign. 
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan 
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phalanx * shall be seeu 
The travell'd Thane, Athenian Aberdeen.f 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, ;J; and sometimes, 
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes 
Smug Sydney ^ too thy bitter page shall seek, 
And classic Ilallam,|| much renown'd for Greek ; 
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry Pillans H shall traduce his friend ; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votiu-y, Lambe,** 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. ft 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 



• Oat-fed phalanx.— So altered in the fifth eilition. Tlie orient 

reading wna, " ranl(s illustrious." 

t His lonUhip haa lic-i-n much abroad, ia.a mejiiber of the Athcnku 
Society, and reviewer ol " Llell's Tojx)srruphy of Troy." 

I Mr. Uertv-rt is a translator ut Icelandic and oti >r poetry. One of tt 
principid piecea ia a "Song on the Recovery of 1 lior't Hiunmer;" Ite 
tiaiulatioQ ia a pleaaunt chant in ttie vulgar lonjfue, and cndoth thus: 

" Insti^ad of money and rings, I wut, 

The hammer's bruiscn were hei^t. 

Thus Odin's son his hiunnier got." 

§ The Rev. Sydney Smitli, the reputetl autlior of Poter Piymley's Letteia, 

and sundry criticisms. 

II Mr. Hallam n-virwed Payne Knight's " Tiute," and was excwnlingjjr 
severe on some (lre.-» verses therein : It was not discovennl that the llnM 
were Pindar's till tlie press rend<-ivd it impossiUe U) cmcel Uie aitique, wiLdh 
still stunils an everliutm;; monumi-nt »t Hatlani's mgi-nuity.* 

The mM Hallam is inc«-nsed lieciAe lie Is Msely ac«<u»e.l, sreiiif thai kd 
never di leth at Holland House. If tlib tie true, I am sorry— i.ot ftir haratg 
sidd so, hut on his account, ivs I undi'rstand his lonlship's te.ists tuv fnftrtljt 
to his aini|)o*iliouk. — If he did not n-view Uird llolL-xnil's iK<rli>rmuiioe, 1 an 
<;-lail, liecause it nmst Imve Iwon )Uiinful u> rt\ul, and irksoiite to i<rai*e IL L 
Mr. Hallam will tell me who did n'vlt-w it, tlie real name sha:'. And a ptata 
in the text J provided, nevertheleas, the siml n ime be of two onho.iox mi»k«l 
syllables, and will come into the verso : till Uicn, Haliiun must stand fcx vaiU 
of a lieiter. 

^ Pillans Is a tutor at Katon. 

•• The Hon. li. I.ainlw reviewe«l "Berrsfonl's Miseriei," ar.il Is imiiWi'W 
n\it)ior of a fmw enacted with much api'laii*? al the Pnorv, Sianiiiore ; mad 
damneit with great expiMlillou at tlw late thratre, (.L'vent tisrUeu. It Vai 
enUtle.1, " WlilsUe for It." 

1 1 itamn'.i likt tfu d»ml, dnU-tiJt* mU unmn.— The Uue Mood, hi U 
editiinis before the f\tUi, 

" As he hlntaeK "»«s damn'd shall try to damn." 



* HmUam'iinotniiitO—T*^ \.<*t andeU ban In Ute Am < 



460 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While giatefui Britain yiells the praise she owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution, ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron .and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks; cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kist 
Her son, and vanished in a Scottish mist.f 

Then prosper, Jeffrey ! X pertest of the train 
'.Vhom Scotland pampers with her fiery gain ! 
'.-rDatever blessing waits a genius Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets. 
And showers their odors on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rcar.^ 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone ; 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 

Illustrious Holland ! || hard would be his lot. 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! 
Holland, with Henry Petty at his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub street dine^ while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
HAnd, grateful for the dainties on his plate. 
Declare his lordship can at least translate !** 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight. 
They write for food — and feed because they vmte ; 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape. 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape. 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek. 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 



* Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, throughout 
he article concerning Don Pedro de Ci^vallos, has displayed more politics 
Jban policy ; many of the worthy burgesses of Edingburgli being so incensed 
U the icfarious principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subsbrip- 
tioiu.* 

It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as 1 supposed, but a Borderer, 
and his name is pronounced Broom, from Trent to Tay : — So be it. 

t 1 ought to apologjfc to the worthy deities for introducing a new goddess 
with short petticoats toTheir notice : hut a|as ! what was to be done f 1 could 
not say Caledonia's genius, it being well known there is no such genius to be 
(bund from Clackmannan toCathness; yet without supernatural agency, how 
Was Jeffrey to be saved ? The national " kelpies" are too unpoetical, and 
Oie '• orownies," and " gude neighbors" (spirits of a good dispostion) re- 
fused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been called for the pwtrpose ; 
and grea. ought to be the gratitude ol Jeffrey, seeing it is the only communi- 
cation he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any thing heavenly. 

\ Then prosper, Jeffrey ! Sfc. — This paragraph wag introduced in the fifth 
bdUion. 

$ See the color of the back binding of the Edingburgh Review. 

I llluttnous Holland ! hard would be his lot, 

Ais hirtlinge merMon'd, and himself forgot I 

Bad enough, and on imstaken gi^ounds too.— MS. note by Lord Byron. 
BIS. 

^ And, grateful for live dainties, ^-c— In all editions before the Sfth, this 
•Duplet was printed, 

•' Ant', grateftil to tlie founder of the fea«t, 
Declare his landlord can tnnslate at least." 

*• Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inaerted 
to hb lile of the author ? both are liepraised bv his disinterested gaesUi. 

* Their substriptionj. — Here followed in the first edition, " The name of 
^ j^reonagfe is pronou iced Broom in the south, let the truly northern and 
nusical pronunciation is 3rou^h-am, in two syllaljlcs " 

The C4Micluaicu of the note waa lubaiituted for the above in the second 



Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul. 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole.* 

Now to the drama turn — oh ! motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite I 
Puns, and a prince within a barre^ pent,t 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's o'CT 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
WTiile British critics suffer scenes like these ? 
While Reynolds vents his " dammees ! " " poohs ! * 

and" zounds ! " J 
And common-place and common sense confounds I 
While Kenny's "World" — ah! where is Kennt* 

wit?— 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; ^ 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words ? |1 
Who but mup*- mourn, while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone ? 
Have we no living bard of merit } — none ! 
Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake ! 
Ring th' alarum bell ! let folly/quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen. 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of German schools ; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age. 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread ? H 
On those shall Farce display bufFoon'ry's mask, 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose, 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot. 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the dailj' prints proclaim 
The rival candi4ates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise. 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renovrn'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ; ** 
Nor sleeps vrith " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,tt 



* Certiiin it is, her ladyship U suspected of having displayed her matchleai 
wit in the Edinburgh Review. However that may be, we know, from good 
authority, that the manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no dot bt, for Mr 
recticr.. 

t In the me'io-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prinse is elapt into k banelM 
the stage ; a new asylum for distressed heroes. 

X All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and piomineBt hi Ml 
comedies, living and defunct. 
§ " While Kenny's " World," — ah t where is Kenny's wit ?.— 
Tu-es the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit." 
Thu* corrected in the fifth edition. The lines were originally nrinted, 
" While Kenny's " World," just suffered to proceed, 
Proclaims tlie audience very kind indeed." 
H f/lr. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury-lane theatre, stripped tbs 
tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, and exhihited the scenes as the spectaek 
of Caractivcus. — Was this worthy of his sire, or of himself? 

IT SiddoTJ lives lo trtad.—li\ all editions previous to the fifth, " K«inbi« 
lives to tread."' 

* * Mr. Greenwooc is,>we believe, scene-painter to Drury-lane tbeatm— at 
such, Mr. Skeffingtoi. is much indebted to him. 

ft Mr. Skeffing^on is the illustrious author of the "Sleeping Beauty;" 
and some comedies, pjirticularly " Maids aud Bachelor*:" Baculaurii hti 
culo maitis q-iam lauro dixui. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



461 



While poor John Bull, bewilder'd Anth the scene, 
Stares^* wor.dering wh^it the devil it can mean ; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Buch are we now- -ah ! wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ' 
Degen'rate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dullness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles ^i our present race 
Watch each dislortiou of a Naldi's face ; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalina's pantaloons, f 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 

To soften manners, but corrupt the heart. 

Pour her exotic follies o'er the to^m, 

To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 

Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 

And bless the promise which his form displays ; 

While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 

Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes : 

Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 

Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 

Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow. 

Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe; 

Collini trill her love-inspiring song. 

Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng 

""^ hetj not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 

rveforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 

By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 

No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave; 

And beer undra^vn, and beards unmown, display 

Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

§0r hail at once the patron and the pile 

Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle !|| 

Where yon proud palace. Fashion's hallow'd fane, 

Spreads wide her portals for the motley train. 

Behold the new PetroniusH of the day. 

Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 

rhe«e the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 

The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. 



* " Starit ;" firBt edition, " ketpt." 

f NnUU and Catalina nxiiiire little notice — for the viange of the one, iird the 
■Oary of the other, will euuble iw lonj to recollect the»e ainimin^ viii^iibondH. 
Beddea, we are Htill hlack nnd blue from the aqueeze on the firet nlsrlu of the 
laJy'a appeamnce in •.roiiaens. 

1 Wh«l not your tcyOie.— From Lwrd Byion'a correctinn in 1818. In the 
brnier edition), " Rjibe not your, icythc." Agpainnt the lix cuncluding' linea 
»f thia paru/fnph the author hiia written — "Good." 

\ C/r hail at once the jxitron and the piio. — Tlie foliminng aeventy llnea to 

ufor the ■ninllcr fry," Ac, were first inimrted in tlie aecond eflition. 

I To pre»ent any blunder, lucli aa miatokinf^ a atreei for a man, 1 beg 
«iv« tn itale, thiit it i« the initliiition, and not the duke of that nunie, which 
h here Hlluclod to. A p'^nlli'inan, with whom I ^lui aliglitly acquainted, loat 
!■ me ATgyle Hoomi icvcnd thouaand pounda at buckj^imuiion.* It la but 
irOw t0 the mana^ra in thia Inatance to say, that aonie degree of dlanppmlin- 
fon vaa inanifeitt'd : l)ut wliy aru the iuipleinenta ofgiuning allowed in a place 
^Toted to the aociety of Ixith aexea t A pleivannt thing' lor the wirea or 
tlauif^tera of thoae who ore bleat or curird whh auch connections, In hear the 
Mlliard-lablea nittllng In one room, and the illce In another I That this is the 
»ae I inyaelfcan teatify, aa a late worthy member of an institution which ma- 
teriaily aU'ecIs the morals of the higher onli-ra, while the lower may not eTrn 
more to the aound of b tabor and Addle without a. ehnnee of Indictment for 
lUituga betiaTlor. 

TJ Piaronlua "Artilter elejnntlarum" to Nero, " and n rrij pretty fellow In 
A day," aa Mr. Congrere'a " Old Bachelor " aalth ol Haanlbal. 



True. It wta Billy W y who loat tlm money. I know Mm, and waa 

to tkf Aigj %: tiio dine oTUie erwL—MS. nati *y Lord Bfroit. 



[The song from Italy, the step fro'i France, 
The midnight orgy, and the maz) dance. 
The smile of beauty and the flush of wine, [bine 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords com 
Each to his humor — Comus all allows ; 
Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's spouse 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, which yourselves have made ; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of poverty, except "en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire wa3. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 
The audience take their turn upon the floor; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep. 
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 
The first yi lengthen'd line majestic smm. 
The last display the free unfetter' d limb ! 
Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which nature could not spaiA 
These after husbands wing their eager flight. 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease. 

Where, all forgotten but the power to please. 

Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 

Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught; 

There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spai^, 

Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main; 

The jovial caster "s set, and seven 's the nick, 

Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 

If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 

And all your hope or wish is to expire, 

Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 

And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife :• 

Fit consummation of an earthly race 

Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 

While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 

Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering bteatH' 

Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 

The mangled victim of a drunken bjawl. 

To live like Clodius,t and like Falkland^ fall. 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his haxj 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
Even I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose tne wrong 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost. 
To fight my course through passion's countless host. 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en [ must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, slioh men, destroy the publK weal. 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
"What art them better, meddling fool,|| than th«y ? ** 



7%»o PagtU for your i»^#.— Thua altered In the Lfth 
orlgiiiul reading waa, " a Fajfet for your wifi<." 

f Mutatu nomene d« !• 

Piibuln narmtur. 

\ 1 knew the late Ix>rd Kdhlind well. On Sunday at«te I betwU kta 
prealdlnff at hla own tAhle, In nil the honiat prHile of huapiulity ; on WoikrMi 
lay morning, nt thr«<' o'clucJi, I saw stretched Ix'forr me all that rrn.atned • 
courage, iisellng, and n ho*, of |u.jaions. He wiu a gidlaiil ami siKoaaiAt 
odVo^r: hb laulu went the fnulu i>r a sidlor— na such, Itr^tons will Ibiflvt 
He died like a hmve man In a liettrr c.-\uw< : fur had lie fallen In Ukt 
manner on the ileck of tlie fri)(me to which he was ]us( appoliiieit, ha \m0 
inoMienls would have b<<en held up by his ouunlrymen aa an eianptoM 

ecei'iling hettiea. 

S A) jkght my oowTM lAroufA /MiMton'a counU—t tio»L—t*% %Mi 
ptvciuus ehoae they led me. — MS. nott by Lortt Byron. 1818. 

I Wttmt mrt Aom tMMr, nudriHng foot 7—f^ol Fnou(b, Mftalntr •■■ 

Ml p« wiHt db«.-i«tf. MM* H I'arrf awTMt. UllL 



»62 



BYRON'S WOKKtJ. 



A.nd every brotnei ralte will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
!^o matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
GifFord perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 

From silly Hafiz* up to simple Bowles, 

Why should we call them from their dark abode, 

In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 

Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 

To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 

If things of ton theii- harmless lays indite. 

Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 

What harm ? In spite of every critic elf, 

Sir T. may read bis stanzas to himself; 

Miles Andrews still his strength in coxiplets try, 

And live in prologues, though his dramas die ; 

Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 

And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 

Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 

Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymesPf 

Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 

No future laurels deck a noble head ; 

JNo muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 

The parylytic puling of Carlisle. 

The puny schoolboy and his early lay 

Mer. pardon, if his folly's pass away , 

But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 

Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes groAV worse ? 

What heterogenous honors deck the peer ! 

Lcrd, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer I§ 

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 

His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage, 

But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough !" 

Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 

Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 

And case his vtilumes in congenial calf; 



• What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, could he 
kie freiii his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Perdcusi 
MUX Saili, the oripntal Hcmfr and Catiyius, and behold his name aasnmed by 
or^e iStoU uf Uromore, the most impudent and execrable of literary poachers 
for It-e daily prints. 

t Here followed in the original manuscript, 

On one alone Apollo deigns to smile, 

And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle. 

The provocation alluded to in Lord Byron's note, page 262, took place 
while '.he aaiire was in press. These lines were erased in coiisttjuence, and 
all Uiose down to, " With you, ye Druids," &c., substituted in their place. 
The SjUowing additional lines were written, but suppressed before publication : 

In these our times, with daily wonders big, 
A lettered peer is like a lettered pig ; 
Both know their alphaliet, but who, from thence, 
Infprs that peers nr pigs have manly sense ? 
Rtill less that such should woo the graceful nine ? 
Parnassus was not made for lords and swine. 

J No muse trill cheer, toith renovating fmile, 

The paralytic puHng of Oarliale. 

Tb\a souplet itood in the fint edition, 

«« Nor e'en a hackney'd muse will deign to smile 
On ninor Byron, or mature Carlisle." 

OpT^lte these Ifi.es on Lord Carlisle, Lord Byron has written, In the 
iBI-y which he yerused in 1816, "Wrong also— the provocation was not 
RifBckm: to Justify the acerbity." 

4 1 .le Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet 
•n the state of the stag*^, and offers ' lii plan of building a new theatre. It is 
t> be hoped hit !c«liihip will be perni te I to bring forward any thing for the 
I ' ^ except Ui own tragea ->•. 



Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shines, 
And hang a calf-skin* on those recreant Hnes. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
"^Vho daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not : GifFord's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantlet prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best rewari. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
But now at once your fleeting labors close. 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa'^ prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. J 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fill, 
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still 
Last of the howling host which once was Beirs,^ 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of 0. P. Q.|| 

HWhen some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall. 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse. 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds ap 

plaud ! 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best ? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
And Capel LofFt** declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade 
Lo ! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Gifford was born beneath an adverse star. 
Forsook the labors of a servile state, 
Stemm'd the rude storm and triumph'd over fa4e : 



• " Doff that lion's hide, 

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 

Shak. King Jaiin. 
Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a 
ornament to his bookshelves : 

" The rest is all but leather and pnitiella." 
t " Melville's Mantle," a parody on " Elijah's Mantle," a poem. 

J This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K , leeini te 

be a follower of the Delia Crusca school, and has published two volumes 4 
very respectable alwurdities in rhyme, as times go ; besides simdry novels la 
the style of the first edition of the Monk. 

To the above, liord Byron added, in 1818 : " She since marr'ed tlM 
Morning Post — an exceeding good match — and is since dead— which il 
better." 
§ From this line the pa'-ese c^ in the first edition stood thus : 
Thoujrh Bell ha \)st liis nightingales and owls, 
Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls. 
And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead, 
Revives in Laura, (iuiz, and X. Y. Z. 
H These are tlie signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetfeal 
departments of the newspapers. 

^ When some bi-Uk youth, ^c— The following paragraph was inserted b 
the second e<lition. 

This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then patronized by A. J. B., 
but that I did not know, or this would not have been written, a: least I thint 
not- MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 

•• Cnpel l»Ht, Esq., the M.ecenas of shoemakers, and prefece-WTiter-ge» 
eral tn di»ties«e<l versemen ; a kind of gratis accoucheur to those who wish U 
be delive'ed of rhynre, but do not know how to hrinjf fcith. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



463 



ITien why no more ? if Phoebus smile on you, 

Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too ?* 

Ilim too the mania, not the muse has seized ; 

Not inspiration, but a nind diseased : 

And now no boor can seek his last abode, 

No common be enclosed, without an ode. 

Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 

On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 

Let poesy go forth, pervade the Avhole, 

Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul ! 

Ye tun?ful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 

Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 

Bo shaL the fair your handiwork peruse ; 

YriT sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 

May Moorlandf weavers boast Pindaric skill. 

And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 

While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 

And pay for poems— when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 

Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 

Come forth, oh Campbell ! t give thy talents scope ; 

Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 

And thou, melodious Rogers [§ rise at last, 

Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 

Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 

And strike "to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre; 

Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 

Assert thy country's honor and thine own. 

What ! m.ust deserted Poesy still weep 

Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 

Unless, p9r±:ince, frrm his cold bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns ! 

No : though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 

The race who rhyme from folly ,*or for food, [brood, 

Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, 

Who ^east affecting, still affect the most : 

Feel as +hey write, and write but as they feel — 

Bear witness Gifibrd, Sotheby, Macneil.|| 

" AVhy slumbers Gifford ? " once was ask'd in vain ;1[ 

Why slumbers GifFoi-d ? let us ask again. 

Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 

Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 

A.re there no sins. for satire's bard to greet ? 

Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 



• Sci! Nathnniel Blooniftpld's ode, elftgy, or whainver he or any one el«e 
noospg to c:vll it, on the enclosure of " Huiiingtun Grei'ii." 
t Viile '♦ R»Hjolli'cU.)Ti8 of a. Wpnver in the Mcnrhui'U of SU^fTordshim." 
J It would lie Hiiprfluoiw to n-call to llif mlml of the riiudor thn iiuthors of] 
■' The PI'MBun's of Memory" and " Tlie Pleusure* of IIo]ie," tlio irioiit 
^ftutiful did iciic poeina in ou- l.iiij»iiiigre, if we except Pope's " Essay on 
«Iai\: " b«it so inany poetar^rs have started up, that even the niuiies of 
ramphoU and Rf p rs are liocoiue stransre. 

Ber.mOi tl b notr I^)7"l Byi in lia* written, In the copy of this satire which 
(« rasa in 1.^^0 

' Pn-fty Miss .lai'/iucline 
Jiiid a nose aquiline, 
And would assert rn<le 
'I'hin^fs of Miss Ciertnuie, 
While Mr. Mannlou 
lied a !(Teat army on, 
M iking Kehama look 
Like a flerr« Mainehik'J." 

MeiocHoui Poger$.—Hi>gi'n has not rulflUnd the promise of his first 
poeilM, Uit has still very ;fre;il m^ril — M.9. note by Lord Byron, 1818. 

I OllfonI, author of the Raviad and Mmviiul, Uin Urst siitires of the dity, 
■ltd trmnalalor of Juvenal. 

SothoDy, iriimlalor of Wleland's Oboron and Virgil's Georglcs, and author 
nf "Saul," ini epic piw'Tii. 

Maciieil, wh'we pmMns arc flescnrediy popnlnr, particularly " Scotia mi's 
8c«ith, or llic Ways of War," of which ten thimsand eoplna w«re solil In 
sue month. 

\\ Mr. (jlIoH promised F"Wcly that the Ravlail and MnvkJ should not 
hit !«•( originn) norin ' let Itlin reiMoiikber, ■■ Mox In nluctantef Ira- 



Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path. 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White !* while life was in its spring, 

And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 

fThe spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 

Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 

Oh ! whit a noble heart was here undone, 

When Science' self destroyed her favorite SOE ; 

Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 

She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit 

'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. 

And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low 

So the struck eagle, strt tch'd upon the plain, 

No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 

View'd his own feather on the fatal dart. 

And wing'd the .shaft that quiver'd in his heart; 

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 

He nursod the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 

While the same plumage that had warmed his neat 

Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days. 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
That straiti'd invention, ever on the wing. 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing: 
'Tis true, that ail who rhyme, nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fat..l word to genius — trite; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires. 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in V.rtue's name let Crabbe;] attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 
'JAnd here let Shee|| and genius find a place. 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine. 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line; 
Whose mngic touch can bid (he canvas glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow : 
While honors, doiibly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the muses 'at their natal hour : 
Whose steps haA-e press'd, wtiose eye has ina.'k d 

a fur. 
The climo that nursed the sons of sung and war, 
Tlie scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
iler place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 



• Henry KIrke White died at Canihridge, In Octol>er, 1806, In ( 
ol too much exertion In (he pursuit of sludies which would have n<atx..v i ■ 
uiiiid which iliniMse anil povetty coidd not iiN|mir, and which AfvJk .^tl 
destroyed rather than sAxlued. Ills jtoenis aliuinid in such beaMlies as mM 
luipnss 'he render will the llvrl|.-ii n>jfret t)<at so short a p<'rlo«l was a.Mti4 
to tulenu wliii-h wuuid have Jijfnilled even tin sacred lunclkiiia la w I 
destined lu lusunio. 

t Thi tpoUtr iw«j4 that toaring ly^ fuaoy, 

W^i."! ill* Adrf louniliil an i'tmcrfav! lav. 

Bo ailitmd by I.onI Ryivn on rrpcT\i*\»f tlir suti(« iw IHtS. In trnjer «tdl 
doiu, the Unrsstootl, 

" 1'lie spoiler oame ; and all thy prnmlae fair 
llaa souyhl the (T'.re, to sleep (or e-er Ihera." 

I OoM*. • ' co.tider "thV and folur»<ljv as tlie flnt of ihM* titrm U 
point ol power and fennis — J4J. noti ty ^. ii^ Hynm, t8IC. ' 

{ Ami hi>i LI Shtt, Ac.— Tlw ensulni; iwrniv->«^ lines vera liiiinl>l k 
th' ««oi d •'•llUoti 

• wir. Shes .iiuhiir ul " Hhvme* on Art," and " Klemru(s of \T ." 



464 



Bl RON'S WORKS 



But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright !* 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards '.f who snatch'd to light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose mingling tastes combined to cull the wreath 
WTiere Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe. 
And all their renovated fragrance flung. 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue : 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these or such as these, with just applause, 
Restore the muse s violated laws : 
But not iai flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, . 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme. 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear. 
The t ye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.J 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. 
The meanest object of the lowly group. 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void. 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd :^ 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach ; 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott !|| resign to minstrels rude 

The wilder Slogan of a border feud ; 

Let others spin the meagre lines for hire ; 

Enough for genius if itself inspire ! 

Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse. 

Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 

ULet simple Wordsworth chime his childish verse, 

And brother Coleridge lull the babes at nurse ; 

Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most. 

To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost : [Moore, 

♦*Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from 

And swear that Caraoens sang such notes of yore ; 

liH Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 

A^d godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 



• Mr. Weight, late consul-general for the Seven Islands, b author of a 
ftry bea.itifi. poem Just published: it is entitled "Horee lonicse," and !■ 
detcriptive of the islet and the adjacent coast of Greece. 

I The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Mcrivale, have since 
f -bliahed separate poems, which evince genius that only requires opportunity 
to attain eminence. 

J The neglect of the " Botanic Garden " is some proof of returning taste ; 
4ie scenery is iu "'>le recommendation. 

f Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co. 

I By the by, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero or heroine will 
ge leas addicted to " Gramarye," and more to grammar, than the Lady a' 
tot I^y anti her bravo, William of Deloraine. 

^ Against inis passage on Wordsworth, and the following line on Cole- 
ftip, IajhI Byron has written, " unjust." 

■ * LmI Moore ttiU ligK.—i^itVn edluon. The original readhig vu, " Let 
iAaeiRi t» lavd.' 



I Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line , 
Let Stott, Carlisle,* Matilda and the rest 
Of Grubb-street and of Grosvenor-place the best, 
Scrawl on, 'till death release us from the strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise. 
Should leave to humbler bards ignoble lays , 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field. 
Than the vile foray of a plundering clan, 
WTiose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man i 
Or Marmion's acts of dxrkness, fitter foo.d 
fFor Sherwood's outlays tales of Robin Hood? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, • 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her future fame recall. 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

JYet what avails the sanguine poet's hope. 

To conquer ages and with time to cope ? 

New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 

And other victorsij fill the applauding skies ; 

A few brief generations fleet along. 

Whose sons forget the poet and his song ; 

E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce ma; 

claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blasts 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
And glory like the phoenix midst her fires, ll 
Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 



* It may be asked why 1 have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardiu 
and relative, to whtm 1 dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few yean 
ago ? — The guardianship was nominal, at least as far as 1 have been ah.e to 
discover; the relationship 1 cannot help, and am very sorry for it; but as hit 
lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential occasion to me, ! shall no 
burden my memory with the recollection. 1 do not think that peisofMkt 
diflereiices sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but 1 ace 
10 reason why they should act as a preventive when the author, noble ax 
gnoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a " discerning publk: " (us ths 
advertisements have it) with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial 
nonsense. Besides, 1 do not step aside to vituperate the earl : no — his worin 
come fiirly in review with those of other patrician literati. If, before I escaped 
from my teens, 1 said any thing in favor of his lordship's paper books, it wsii 
in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others than ray 
own judgment, and 1 seize the first opportunity of pro[io\uiciiig my shiceK 
recanttition. 1 have heard that some persons conceive me to be unde* 
obligations to Lord Carlisle : if so, 1 shall be most particularly happy to leani 
what they are, and when conferred, that thev may be duly appreciated anj 
publicly acknowledged. What 1 have humbly advanced aa an opinion oa 
his printed things, I am prejiared to suppon, if necessary, by quotations 
from elegies, odes eulogies, episodes, and certain facetious and dainty tragic 
dies bearing his name and mark : 

" What can ennoble knaves, or fool* or cowards I 
Alas I not all the blood of all the Howards." 

I says Pope. Amen I 

Much too savage, whatever tlie foundation might be. — MS. nots Ay Lara 
Byron. 1816. 

This note tint appeared in the second edition. 

t In the first edition, " Outlaw'd Sherwood's," 

J Yet lehat aixiilt, 4c.— The following twelve 'iiies were iatrodueed ip 
the second edition. 

$ •' ToUere bumo, victotque Tir<*T Toiitare per era." 

rtrga. 

I Ltiuihs phMfda midst h4rjtn».~n»e devil take ttMt p^Miix I &■ 
OMM^tlMTe? MS. not l>y Uri B^rvm. Miai 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



46/^ 



Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies, 
•Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Hoyle:f 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.J 
Ye . who in Granta's honors would surpass. 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A. foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than lier Cam. 

{ There Clarke, still striving piteously " to plcise," 

Forgetting doggrcl leads not to degrees, 

A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 

A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon, 

Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mear., 

And furbish falsehoods for a magazine. 

Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 

Himself a living libel on mankind. || 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race !1T 

At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; 

•*So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson'sff verse 

Can make thee better, or poor Hewson'sJJ worse. 

But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 

The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 

On her green banks a greener wreath she§^ wove. 

To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 

Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 

And modem Britons glory in their sires. |||| 



• Evtn frtm Vu tempting ore of Seaton'e prize. — Thua corrected, in 
■810, by Xmh, Byron. In former editioni : 

" And even gpurng the great Seatonian prize." 

t lliaa in Ae original manoacript t 

With ode» by Smyth, and epic songs by Hoyle ; 
Uoyle whose learn 'd p;ige if still upheld by whist, 
l^uired no sacred theme to bid us list. 

i The '" Gt^men of Hoyle," well known to the Totaries of whist, eneas, ftc. 
ai« not to U »iipci»eded by thp vagaries ot his poeticiil namesake, whose 
poem eonipfivd, ak expressly suted m the advertiaement, all the " plagues 
of Egypt." 

( There Carkt, etill etriving, &c.— Theae eight lines were added in (he 
<teond editii >n 

Right >'noiigh ; thJH waa well deaerved, and well laid on.-^MS. note 6y 
lard Byron. 1816. 

11 Tliis ptjfBon, who has lately betrayed the moat rabid symptoma of con- 
tomed t.uthorship, in writer of u poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," 
■a " luctn a lion lucendo," containing little nleasaiitry and leaa poetry. He 
also uctB :ia monthly 8iip<-n(liary and collector of calumnies for the "Satiriat." 
If Uiis unfortunate young man would exchange the magazines for the 
mathe inn tics, and enileiivor to take a decent degree in his uatfveniityy it might 
oventJally prove more serviceable than his present salary. 

fl " Into Cambridgeshire the Empf-ror Probiis Imiiaportcd a eonaiderable 
body of Vandals."— Giblwn's Decline and Fall, p. 83, vol. li. There is no 
reason to doubt the truth of this assertion ; the breed is still In high perieo 
tloo.* 

These four Unea were substituted for (Ub following In the original man. 
oacripl: 

Yet hold— oa wh^n by Heaven 'a aupreme t«heat, 
If found, ten righteous hud pn^served the reat, 
In Sodom's fated town, for Uranta's nntne 
Let Hodgson's genius plea<l, and save her fame, 

** <Sb !o«i to Phahue, that, &c.— This couplet, thus altered In tlie flflh 
•diUoD, waa originally printed, 

" So sunk in dullness, and so lost in shame, 
That Smyth and Ho<lgiion scarce retleem thy fiuna." 

ft This gvntleman's name requires no pmiae; (he man who Id trsnala. 
Hon displays unquesiioniihle genius may well t« exported to excel In orig- 
fcial eompnaitiou, of which It Is to be hoped we ahall soon ae« a apleitdld 
■pcclmen. 

t{ H<-wsi-n Clarkr, Fiq., as It Is written. 

K " ■■" In the first edition. 

I A Ttie " AU<rigiirit Drituna," an excellent po«m, by RIchaida. 



• The breed ie tHH <n Mgh ;>rr/«.C<on.— In the flrat eilhlon, "Thura U no 
Ba*in m donli the tnuh of this luaonlon, aa a large stock of tha suma biwd 
•« hr R.und Ovn- ai (liii day." 

/>9 



For me, who, thus unask'd,* have dared to tell 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
fZeal for her honor bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
No just applause her honor'd name shaL lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power. 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'Tis thine at once, fair Albion I to have been 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen . 
Btt Rome decay'd, and Athens stiew'd the jlain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main ; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd. 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate. 
With warning ever scofTd at, till too late ; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And uige thy bares to gain a name like thine.J 

Then, hapless Bn*ain ! be thy rulers blest, 

The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 

Still hear thy motley orators dispense 

The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 

While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. 

And old dame Portlandv^ fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric'sll coast and Calpe'sH adverse height. 
And Stamboul's** minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clirae,-H 
Where Ka-ffXt -s clad in rocks, and crown'd with 

snows sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press}{ 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess • 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own ^vreath of ridicule from Carr ; 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin |||| still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of vertu ; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks. 
Misshapen monuments and mrira'd antiques ; 



* Vwuk'd ; in the first edition unknotem. 

t Zeal for her honor, Sic. — In the first e<liiion, tK's couplet ran, 
" Zeid fur her honor, no maligimiu rage, 
Him txide ine spurn the follies ol lier age." 

I And urge thy barde to gain a name like (Un*.— With this verau tke aaan 
ended in the origiivd edition. 

^ A friend ol mine Ix'ing .uke<l why his grace ol Portland waa likened la 
an old woman i nrplii-d, " he supposed it was hrcHUse h; was ;iaat bearing." 
His grace is now g-.Ulit'n-d to his grandinotlierH, where Ite sleops as sound M 
ever ; but even his slin-p wai heller than his colleiigiws' wakiig. 1811. 

II Afric's coast. Saw it, Augnsl, 1309.— Af.*?. nol« bv iMni Byron. I81C. 
Tf Uihrdtiir. Saw it, AiigiiHl, \809.—MS. note by LorrI /h-vn. ItilS. 

• • SUuiiboul. Was tJien? li* summer ol 18IU.-Af6". nolf ^y Lord i^rM*. 
1818. 

tt Georgia. 

XI Mount Caucasus. Saw the distant riitge ot, 1810, 18J1. -MS. note i| 
Lord Byron. 1818. 
§§ But eknuld I back return, no templing prmm 

Sh.M drag, kc. 
These four tinra were ullenHl in the flfth edition. Tiiey ^riglnaUj stood, 
" But should 1 luieli return, .m> lttl<r'<l sage 

Shall dmir my coumum-plico Uvik mi ttte a(ag«i 
]<rt vain Valencia * rival luckless Carr, 
And equal liiin wliuse work Im' auugttt to mar." 
g I Lonl Elgin woulil lain prrsuad" us that ill ttte figMres, with and wWm 
nusea, In liia slono-altup, are the work iif Phidias I " Cre<la( Juilaua I " 



1 



* I.<int Val«iida (whose trenieinloua trnvi'ls are fonhcnniing «Mi <lH 
dooirnuoiis, gTm|>hlral. lupiigr.t(itnciil, lyimirr'tphlcal) ile|<i«r>il, uii Sla )etm 
Cnrr's unlucky suit, tlvst Dulaan's satire |i|vvriliiMl hi* {xireiiaa* af ttM 
'■ Strniiurr hi Ireland."— Oh, ft»", niv lorl f has i-our (onlslilp no ntm 
beUttg fiir a feUow-iourlM ' (<ui " two ul t irut"." ihav sbv *e 



«66 



BYRON'S y^-ORKS. 



And make their grand saloons a general mart 

For dll the mutilated blocks of art : 

Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 

I leave topography to rapid* Gellf 

And, quite < t)ntent, no more shall interpose 

To stun th . public ear — at least with prose. 

Thus fa" 7 re held my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared io{ rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear : 
This thing ){ rhyme I ne'er disdained to own — 
Though no { obtrusive, vet not quite unknown : 
My voice vras heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house,* 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse. 



• Rapid, llius altered in the fifth edition. In all previous editions 
"elattic." 

t " Rapid," indeed ! He topographized and typogmphized Kin^ Priam's 
dominions in three days ! — 1 called liim " classic " before I saw the Troad, 
but since have learned bftter than to tack his name with what dou't belong to 
iL—Note to I/ie fifth edition. 

Mr. Gall's Topog^raphy of Troy • and Ithaca f cannot fail to ensnre the 
approbation of every man possessed of classical taste, as well for the informa- 
tion Mr. Gell conveys to the mind of the reailer, as fir the ability and research 
Ihe respective works display. — Note to all the early editions.. 

Silica seoiiig the plain of Troy, my opinions are somewhat changed as to 
ttie aliove note. Gell's survey was hasty and superficial. — MS. note by Lord 
Byron. 1816. 

J Din of Melbourne house. — Singular enough, and din enough, 

9od knows. — MS. note by Lord Byron. 1816. 



• TVoy. Visited both in IBIO and 1811.— M^S". ncte by Lord Byron, 1816. 
\ Uuca, Passed first in 1809.— Af^". note by Lord Byron. 1816. J 



By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage 

Edina's bravmy sons and brimstone page. 

Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 

And feel they too are " penetrable stuff; " 

And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 

Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 

The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fill 

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall, 

Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 

The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes ; 

But now so callous grown, so changed since youti, 

I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth: 

Learc'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 

And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 

To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 

Nor care if courts and crowd's applaud or hiss ; 

Nay more, though all my rival rhymsters frown. 

I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 

And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 

To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 

Thus much I've dared ; if my incondite lay* 

Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say; 

This, let the world, which knows not how to spare. 

Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. f 



■ • TTiua much Pve dared ; if my incondite lay. 

The reading of the fifth edition : originally printed, 

" Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay." 
t The greater part of this sa^re I most sincerely wbb had c«ver 1 
written — not only on account of the injustice of mucli of the critiea], 
some of the personal i,art of it — but the tone and teirpar are tucii u I 
not approve.— BjTon. July 14, 1811. 
Diodata, Geneva. 



THE FOLliOWTNG ARGUMENT INTENDED FOR THE SATIRE WAS IN THE 
ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, BUT NOT PUBLISHED. 



fbl pwt conridereth times past and tneir poesy — makeCi a sudden transition to times present — is incensed against book-maVers— rerileth W. Scott 
tet cupidi;/ an: ballid-mongering, with no'.able renia.-ks on Master Southey— complainetli that Master Southey hath inflicted three poems epic &3« 
ttNtrwise on the public — inveigheth against Wm. Wordsworth ; but lau ieth Mr. Coleridge and his eiegy on a yoang ass — is disposed to viwperaH 
Mf. Lewis — an., greatly rebuketh Thomas Little (the late), and the I^rd Strangford — recommendeth Mr. Haley to tnrn his attention to pros^- 

aBi4 exhortetb th<j Moravians to glorify Mr. Grahame — sympathizeth vrlth the Rev. Bowles — and deploreth the melancholy fate of Montgopiery 

— hrenketh out into invective against the Edinburgh Reviewers — calleth them hard names, harpies, and the like — apostrophisrth JelTrey ar-i ;<»• 
phesieth — Episode of Jeflrey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance ; portents on the morn of combat ; the Tweed, Tolbooth, frith oi 1 oftil 
•evArally shocked ; descent of a goddess to save Jeflrey ; incorporation of the bullels with his sinciput and occiput — Edinburgh Reviewers «n matm 
— Loid Aberdeen, Hertiert, Sco'.t, Hallam, Pillaiis, Lanibe, Sydney Smith, Brougham, &c. — The Lord Holland applauded for dinners and U^Mia 
(tons. — The Drama; Skeffingtou, Hook, Reynolds, Kenney, Cherry, &c. — Sheridan, Colman, and Cumberland called upon to write — rtrtvm « 
•goesy — ■cribtilers of all sorts — Lords sometimes rhyme; much better not — Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z. — Rogeti, CamploU, Giffori, ftt. 
rati poeta— tr»nslat2r» of the Greek Antliology— CraNie — Oarvin't styio— Camhrldge— Seatonian Prire— Smyth— Hodgson — Oxfjrd-KKhinl* Pw* 



POSTSCRIPT. 



1 HAtTE beer informed, since the presnet edition 
Wim to press, that my trusty and well-beloved 
cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a 
most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, un- 
resisting Muse, whom they have already so be- 
devilled with theii- ungodly ribaliry : 

" Tantttne animis caclestibus irse t " 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir -i-nurew Ague- 
cheek saith, " an' I had known he was so cunning 
of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had Ijught 
him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the 
Bogphorus Uefore the next number has passed the 
Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in 
Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, 
of personality towards their great literary anthro- 
pophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was to bedone%vith 
him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and 
slandering," and slake their thirst by " evil speak- 
ing ? " I have adduced facts alrea"dy well known, 
and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, 
nor has he thence sustained any injury ; — what 
scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with 
mud ? It may be saia that I quit England because 
I have censured theie "persons of honor and wit 
abo-at town," bit I am coming bacK again, and 
their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those 
who know me can testify that my motives for 
leaving England are very different from fears, 
literary or personal : those who do not, may one 
day be convinced. Since the publication of this 
thiI,^ my name has not been conc^raled ; I have 
l>3eil mostly in London, ready to answer for my 
traasgiessions, and in daily expectation of sundry 



cartels; but, alas, "the age of chivalry it OTW," 
or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit anw-^' 
days. 

There is a youth ycleped Hewson Clarke (Subaudl 
esquii-e), a sizer of Emmanuel College, and, I believe, 
a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have 
introduced in these pages to much better company 
than he has been accustomed to meet ; he is, not- 
withs-.tanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason 
that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with 
a bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellow 
ship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contem 
poraries prevented from success, has been abusing 
me, and what is worse, the defenceless innocent 
above mentioned, in "The Satirist" for one year 
and some months. I am utterly unconscious ot 
having given him any provocation ; indeed, I am 
guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with 
"The Satirist." He has therefore no reason to 
complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful PI9 
giary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I hav*' 
now mentioned all who have done me the honor to 
notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book 
except the editor of " The Satirist," who, it seeniR 
is a gentleman — God wot ! I wish he could impart a 
little of his gentility to his subordinate soribblera. 
I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the 
cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle : I hope 
not : he was one of the few, who, in the very shtirt 
intercourse I had with him, treated me with kind 
ness when a boy, and whatever hr ir.ay say or do 
"pour on, I will endure." I havr rothirg 'ur'hct 
to add, save a general note of th^ nl .ig'riKg tc 
readers, purcnasers, and publisuer ., -mii, in the 
words of 8r-tt, T wish 



HINTS FROM HORACE: 

SBINO AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISH VERSE TO THE EPISTLE *' AD PI80NB8, DB A&TB FOBTIOA " AK& 
INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIBWEBS." 



•• — Ergo fungar vice cot* acotum 

Reddere qua femuna valet, cxaon ipsa aecandi." 

HOR. Dt Arte Poet 
I HbTmei are difficult thing*— tl>ejr are atubborn thiiigi rir." 
FIELDING'S AnutUa. 



AtfaM», Ctrachiii Convent, March 12, 1811. 

Who would ^ci laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvass with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, 
Saw cita grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low* Dugost (as once the world has seen) 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. 
Believe me, Moschus, like that picture seems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figiires incomplete. 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 

Poets and painters, as all artists know. 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
A.nd grant in rum the pardon which we ask ; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams- 
Birds bref d not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

Humaro capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas, 
Undique callatis membris, ut turpiter atrum 
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne ; 
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici ? 
Credite, Pisones, iste tabulae fore librum 
Persimilem, CTXjus, velut aigri somnia, vanae 
Fingentur species, ut nee pes, nee caput uni 
Reddatur formae. Pictoribus atque poetis 
«iuidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas 
ficimus, et banc veniam petimusque damusque 

vicissim : 
Sed non ut placidis co^ant immitia ; non ut 
Serpentes Rvibus geminentur, tigribus agni. 



• lo ju Enjtl:«h ewBpxiier, which flnda Ita way Rbrourt whererer there 
ac Rn(5'!«h;iien, I reail an .iccuiiiii ut tliiii ■lirty ilatiher'i CJiricature of Mr. 

H , &nd the ccnwy.jent iictioit, &c. 'i°he (ub)e« is piuttibljr too well 

WnwN u> rwiir* f'iruiei 



A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes fbnds 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends : 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down, 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain 
The groves of Granta, and her gothic halls. 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, anO 

old walls : 
Or in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow or the river Thames.* 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide down Grub-street — fasting and forgot * 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint review, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till true. 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire. 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

Incceptis gravibus plerumque et magna profess' 

Purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et alter 
Assuitur pannus ; cum iucus et ara Dianse, 
Et properantis aquae pei .\mcenos ambitus agroB, 
Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcuA 
Sed nunc non erat his locus : et fortasse cupressuio 
Scis simulare : quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspea 
Navibus, aere dato qui pingitur ? amphora csepit 
Institui : currente rota cur urceus exit ? 
Denique sit quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unum 
Maxima pars vatum, pater, et juvenes patre dignl, 
Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
Obscurus fio : sectantem levia, nervi 
Dericiunt animique: professus grandia, turget: 
Serpit humi tutus nimium timidusque procellr 
Qui variare cupit rem proJigialiter unam, 
Delphinum sylvis appingit, tiuctibus aprum. 

• <• Wbeie DUie deseriDUon held the p>ave of sense. ''—/>l«pa. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



469 



JThe greater portion of the rhyming tribe 

(Give tar, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 

Are led astray by some pec iliar lure. 

I labor to be brief — ^become obscure ; 

One falls while following elegance too fast; 

Another soars, infli.ted with bombaet ; 

Too low a third crawls on, afraid to 1", 

He- spins his subject to satiety; 

Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 

Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the iraves ' 

Unless your care's exact, your judgment nicfl 

The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 

None are complete, all wanting in some part, 

Like certain tailors, limited in art. 

For galligaskins Slowshears is your man, 

Bat coats must claim another artizan.* 

Now this to me, I own, seems much the satt'i^ 

As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 

Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 

Bla 'k eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose . 

-Deal authris ! suit your topics to your strength. 
And ponder we 1 your subject, and its ]ongth ; 
Nor lift your loj. ' be/'^re you're quite aware 
What weight yoviv S;\oulderR will, or will uol, bs?.r. 
But lucid Order, an '. vV'it'o dien voice, 
Await the port skilfui in his choice ; 
With native e'oquen'ie he soars along. 
Grace in his thca>r •., '" !* music in hir song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted I'ne ; 
This shall the author choose, or that reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select. 
Nor slight api)lause will candid pens ai^ord 
To^him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not if 'tis needful to produce 
Some tcnn unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As Pittf has furnish'd us a word or two, 
Which ler'oographcrs declined to do ;) 
8o you inc. :d, with care, — (but be content 
T t take tl 's licence rarely) — may invent. 

In vltiv.n ducit culpsc fuga, si caret arte, 
^mili ;m circa indum fal)cr imus et ungues 
Exprimet, et molles imitabitur a;re capillos ; 
Inft-liy ou^ris summa, quia poucre totum 
Ncs '.I >c ' a . i.c ego me, si (juid componere curem, 
Nou r:iap,l3 c«se v^lini, quani pravo vivcre naso, 
Spectaiidair Tigris oculis nigroque capillo. 

Sumite n.ac?.ricm vestris, (|ui sciihitis, lequam 
V'iiibus; ct Aersale din quid ferre recusent, • 

Quill ^ulca t 'vMueri. Cui Iccta potcnter erit res, 
Nee fttcu: dia d viret hunc, nee lucidus ordo. 

Ordinis lia;c vntus erit et ventis, aut ego fallor, 
tJt jam nunc dicat. jam nunc debeiitia dici 
Plrira'^^ne dili'erat. t! pra-sons in tenipus omittat; 
Hoc amc't, lioc speri.At promissi carminis auctor. 

In vc'ibis ctiam tenuis caustusqurs serendis ; 
Dixcri§ c'gregie, notuiu si callida vorbum 
Ucddidoritjunrtura novum. Si forte necesse est 
Indiciis monstrare reccnlihus al)dita rcrum, 
Fingcre rinctutis n')n exaudita C('llicj.i8 
Contingct; dabit\ir(iue licentia stuuptA pudcntcr, 
Et nova actaque nuper habobunt verba hdeiu, si 

* Mere ccmnion mortiili were cominuiily coiiUmk wiili on* tnilor anil with 
Mie lii'l, tiu< *lir more p:ir(iciiliir (^ihIomimi IuiiikI it iiii|viuiblr (o cuitnile 
Ixifr Uwor ^Mrnieiiu lu liiu iiiiiki ra of lli'lr Uiily cliyliit*. I apu'iili .^1 (Ik< 
rvtciniiiiif; of IH09; wlmt nTunn iiuiy hiivc lince liikiMi pliico I nrlth«>r know 
aor Ui'hIiq lo knuw. 

Mr. Plu wiu lllxind In lilt ndclltloin lo oiir piirllnriiciitiirjr tong\in,aa n»jr 
•* mtt ir rtaj putolluUoim, iN^rUculiu-ly Uio h;<luiburi{l\ ilcviow. 



New words find credit in these latter days. 

If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 

WTiat Chaucer, Spencer did, we scarce refase 

To Dryden's o.' to Pope's maturer muse. 

If you can add a little, say ^hy not. 

As -^Pi . as William Pitt and Walter Scott ? 

Since they, by fuice of rhyme and force of longs 

Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongups ; 

'Tin then — and shall be — lawful to nrjsent 

Reform in writing, as in parb'anient. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fadf. expressions which in season pleaje. 
And w? and ours, aias ! are due to fate, 
And wrrks and woras but dwindle to a date. 
! Though as a monarch nods, and cor.raerce -alls, 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
Tho^agh swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd 

sxistain 
Tho hcj.vy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 
Arc ii-'.ing ports alor.g the busy shore • 
Prctet I the vessel from old occaa's loar, 
All. lii mvst p .rish; but, surviving last, 
The love of letters lalf preserves the past. 
True, some decay, vet not a few revive; * 
Though those shall sir.k . w.'ii«:b now appear to thrir*. 
As custom arbitrates, wl(..«i» '■itifting sway 
Our life and language must alike obey 

The immortal wars wh ch godft and angel; wage 
Are they not shown ir Milton's sacred p<ige ? 
His strain will teach vh.\t; numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza •^-iil correctly paint 
The lover's anguish or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel, rhyme or b'mk ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ! 
oct squabbling critics by : •'omsclves dispute 
This point, as puzaling as a Chancery suit. 

t^at^ric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Urvden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.1 

Gra'co fonte cadant, parce detort.. Qiiid autPin 
C:rcilio Plauto()ue daliit Romanus ndcmptum 
V^irgilio Vari<Miue ? ego cur, aoqnirerc pauca 
?: jiossuin, invidror, cum lingiia Catanis ft Ennf 
i-iCvmoiuMn ])atriuui ditaverit, ct nova rornm 
Nomina i)rotulcrit ? Licuit, si'mpcn|Ut' licebit, 
Signatuni ju-u-sonto notu ])roduc»Mc noiiicn. 

TJt silva' *^.l. IS pronos inutantnr in annos ; 
f'rima cadunt : ita veiborum vetus inlcrit a*ta8, 
Zt;] :vcr.um ritu Horcnt niodo nata, vigcnt(juo 
Debcrnur morti nos tiostraqiie: sivo recciUus 
Terra Nc])tunu • olasses aquilonibus artet. 
Regis npus ; stoalisvc din paliis, aptaquc remit, 
Vic.nas urbos alit, et grave scntit aralrum : 
Sou cursiMii Miuiavit ini(|uuni fnigibus an.nis, 
lloctus iter melius ; niortalia facta jxTibunt ; • 
Ncdiim serniiHium stet l.v)nos, et iiratia vivax. 
Mnlta rcnascentur, (juu- jam cecitlere ; oiRlenttjne 
Qua- nunc -^unt in honorc vt>cabula. si void ii.><u*, 
Qucin ptMics arbitriiiiu e*;' ol jus ct uiu-iua loqucndi 

Res go.sta' reguiuquc ducumtiue et tristia bclla, 



I* Olil UllmU, old finy, liml old womnn'i »lorW, nr^ nt pn-^iU In m n. lek 
n<qiir«t rj old whip or ik-w ■)ii<«^Iu«. In hict lliia U Iho inUlcnlum iW biack 
Ipttrr : iliniik* u. niir JlBlum, Wrl«T», and Sfotu I 
t M.»- KI-tkiH--, ih.< Dimclrt I, imd nil S»lH'i l«.iiptio«li.f knj««»* 
Whiil. V, r ih.ir <nli.T> woiki nmy ly, Oww oniriii.»l<<<l in f r«Mml (mlnfl, 
Imiil i.MiMV n-ii.rt on iiiwortliy ri»«l» ; iuhI oiiiili llw rtlJIIu <»l Dim* MlliM 
jwi-y^iK. 111.' i««liud, U»ir (luixii.iiicv idlraOU Iroiii lb« pitr»oo.d nl)UI««* • 
' tba writrrt. 



470 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Biai k verse is now, with one consent, allied 

To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 

Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Dryden's days 

No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 

Wliile modest Comedy her verse foregoes 

For jest and jnm* in very middling prose. 

Not that oiir Bens or Beauraonts show the worse. 

Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse, 

But so Thalia pleases to appear, 

Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year . 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight : 

id apt your language to your hero's state. 

At times Melpomene forgets to groan. 

An i brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 

Nor unregarded will the act pass by 

Where angry Townly lifts his voice on high 

Again our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 

When commo t prose will serve for common things ; 

And lively Hal resigns h'eroic ire, 

To " hollowing Hotspur " f and the sceptred sire. 

'Tis not en ugh, ye bards, with all your art. 
To polish poems ; they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song. 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
Comriand your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'er may please you — any thing but sleep. 
■ The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd R )meo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 

Luird by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 

Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, , 

And men lo A angry in the proper place. 

At doiible meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 

And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 

For nature form'd at first the inward man, 

And actors copy nature — when they can. 

Quo scribi possent numero monstravit Homerus. 

Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum ; 
Post etianj inclusa est voti sententia compos. 
Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctov, 
Graramatici ccrtant. et adhuc sub judice lis est. 

Archilochum proprio rabies armavit iambo ; 
Hunc socci cepere pedera. grandesque cothurni, 
Alternis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum, 
Et pugilem victorem, et equum certamine primum, 
Et juvenum curas, et libera vina referre. 

Descriptas servare vices operumque colores. 
Cur ego, si noqueo ignoroque, poeta salutor ? 
Cur nescire, ] xdens prave, quam discere malo ? 

Versibus ex,yoni tragicis res comica non vult, 
Indignatur item privatis, ac prope socco 
Dignis carmiiiibus narrari coena Thyestae. 
Singula quseque locum teneant sortita decenter 
Interdum tamen et vocem comccdia tollit, 
Iratr.sque CI remes tumido delitigat ore: 
Et tragicus plerumque dolet seri>ione pedestii. 
Telephus et Pcleus, cum pauper et exsul, uterque 
Projicit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba. 
Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela, [sunto, 

Non satis est pulchra esse poemata; dulcia 
Et, quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 
Ut ridentibus arrident, ita flentibus adfient 



* With all the vulgar applauae and criticai abhorrcice of punt, they bare 
I riKoUe on Uieir side, who permits them to oiaiora, and gives them coiMe- 
• Mii«« by a grave diiquUitiou. 

« • AvliBbUcarl'UboUov Moitiner I "— 1 ilmry /F. 



She bids the beating heart with rapture bouiid, 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 'tis said, or sung, 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispetse 
(At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit. 
And raise a laugh with any thing but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much importi 

Whence spring their scenes, from ctmnion ]ik> a 

court ; 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a "Lying Valet," or a "Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster -wild from school 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ; 
All persons please, when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot : 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir you aspii-e to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your hand ; 
For tears and treachery, for good or evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil 
But if a new design you dare essay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a t^vice-told tale ; 
And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 
A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err ; 

Humani vultus : si vis me flere, dolendum est 
Primum ipsi tibi; tone tua me infortunia laedeni 
Telephe, vel Peleu,male si mandata loqueris, 
Aut dormitabo, aut ridebo : tristia mcestum 
Vultum verba decent ; iratum, plena lainarum, 
Ludentem, lasciva ; severum, seria dictu. 
Format enim natura prius nos intus ad omnem 
Fortunaa-ura habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad iram 
Aut ad humum mccrore gravi deducit, et angit; 
Post eff"ert animi motus interprete lingua. 
Si dicentis erunt' fortunis absona dicta, 
Romani tollent equites peditesque cachinnum. 

Intererit multum, Davusne loquatur an heroe ; 
Maturusne senex, ad anhuc florente jm ent^a 
Fervidus : an matrona potens, and sedula uutrii ; 
Mercatorne vagus, cultorne virentis agelli ; 
Colchus an Assyrius ; Thebis nutritus, an Aig:«. 

Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientiafing* 
Scriptor honoratum si forte reponis Achillem*; 
Impiger, iracundus, inexorabillis, acer, 
Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non arroget armis. 
Sit Medea ferox invictaoue, flclilis Ino : 
Perfidus Ixion ; lovaga; tristis Orestes : 
Si quid inexpertum scenae committis, et audes 
Personam formare novam ; servetur ad imum 
Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 

Difficile est proprie communia dicere : tuquo 
Rectius Iliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
Quam si proferres ignota indictaqne primus 
Publica materies privati juris erit, si 
Nee circa vilera patulumque moraberis orbeis 
Nee verbum verbo curabis reddere fidus 
Interpres, nee des'lies imitator in arctum 



HINTS FROM HOKAUB. 



471 



Tet copy not tco closely, but record, 
Moi e justly thought for thought than word for woxd : 
Nor trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
But nly follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 

To tremble on the nod of all who read. 

Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 

Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowies '* 

" Awake a louder and a loftier strain,' 

And pray, what follows from his boiling brain ? — 

He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 

Whose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 

Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 

The temper'd warblings of his master lyre: 

Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 

'' Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 

He speaks, but as his subject swells along. 

Earth, heaven, and Hades echo with the song. 

Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 

As if we witness'd all already done ; 

Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 

To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 

Gives, as each page improves apon the sight, [light ; 

Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — 

And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 

We know not where to fix their several bounds. 

If you would please the public, deign to hear 

What soothes the many-headed monster's ear; 

If your heart triumph when the hands of all 

Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 

Deserve those plaudits — study nature's page, 

And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 

While v^ying man and varying years unfold 

Life's little tale so oft, so vainly told. 

Unde pedem proferre pudor vetet, aut operis lex. 

Nee sic incipies, ut scriptor Cyclicus olim : 
♦' Fortuuam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellam." 
Quid dignum tauto feret hie promissor hiatu 
Parturiunt montes : nascetur ridiculus mus. 
Quuuto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte ! 
•♦Die mihi, Musa, virum captae j.cr:t tcmpora 

Trojae 
Qui mores liominum multorum vidit, et urbes." 
Non funmni ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehincmuaculapromat. 



• About two ycaw ago a young man, named Town»eiid, was anouunced 
ty Mr. Cumberlaiul (in a review since deceased) as being ongugod in an 
fjiic poem lo be entitled " Arniagediton." Tlie plan and specimen promise 
mu h; bi.'t I liope ncilluT to ollend Mr. Townsend nor iiis friends, by 
(H«inj»Midino- to his attention the lines of Horace to which these rhymes 
Uluile. If Mr. I'owiiiiund succeeds in his undertidting, as there is reuron to 
hope, hjw nmch will the world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bri- giiig 
bin. before the public I But 'all that eventful day arrives, it may be dcjbuul 
whrf^i-jr thi' prema'.ure.linplay of his plan (sublime tu tlie ideas confessedly 
ue] l.as not, by niising expcctalion too high, or diminishing curiosity, by 
d<f sloping hi* arguni';nt, rather Incurred tlie hazard of injuring Mr Town- 
wild's futuri prci»pecu. Mr. Ouinbcrland (whose talents I shall not depre- 
Ikte by the huinble tribute of my praise) and Mr. Townsend nuut not 
i\ll>i/J««l me ttC.. lated by unworthy motives in this suggesdon. I wish tlie 
•/.Cor .ill the » access he can wish hims<:lf, ami shall be truly happy to s«« 
il*t pce'iy welched up from the Uittibs when; It lies sunken with Southey, 
;oUJe, Cowli:y <Mr». or Abnham), Ogiivy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the " dull 
i( past and pros'Tt days." Kvdii If he is not a Milton, he may be better 
khai. Ulackmort ; If not an Homer, an AiiUmaBhai. I should doom mywll 
|)l»)«»mi?tU()iis, IS a young mini. In oll'eriiig advice, wepo it not addnssiKl lo 
oiie k.'ill yuMiigcr. Mr. 'rownst'iid has the greatest difficulties to encounter \ 
out In conquering them he will find employmoiit j hi having conqueretl them 
Ois reward. I know too well "the scribbler's scolf, the critic's contumely,' 
Slid 1 am afraid lime will u-uch Mr. 'rownseiid to know Ihoiii lietier. 'V\\im 
who suaood and those who ilo net muni U>ar tills alike, and it is luinl U> »iy 
»hlch 1>»TC mos'. of it I trust Ih >t Mr. Towiiseiid's shart: will be froir sfivy ; 

-be will suou ki.ow mankind well enough not tu allribute tills expraaiuii lu 
OMlice. 
Tbe abovp uoto wu wri.ss bcforo Ibo utibor was apprised of Mr. Cuio- 



Observe his simple childhood's dawning days. 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans, 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er *Virgil's devilish verses and Lis own. 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He flies from Tav ell's frown to "Foidham'sMews;* 
(Unlucky Tavell ! doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils and by bears. f) 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, 
Before hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash. 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought — save hazard and a whore. 
Yet cursing both — for both have madf him sore \ 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away 
And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as hells and clubsX proclaim. 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 



Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank. 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 
Sits in the senate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer 
His son's so sharp — ^he'll see the dog a peer 

Manhood declines — age palsies every limb , 

He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him , 

Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Chanrb- 
Nec reditum Diomedis ab interitu Meleagri, fdlis 
Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
Semper ad eventum festinat ; et in medias res 
Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit, et quae 
Despcrat tractata nitescere posse, relinquit : 
Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscct, 
Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imuni, 

Tu, qui! CO et populus mecum dcsideret, audi 
Si plausoris eges auhca manentis, et usque 
Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudite, di^-at 
ulitatis cuj usque notandi sunt tibi moros, 
Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annia. 
Red'lere qui voces jam scit puer, et pi^de certo 
Signat humum ; gestit paril)us colludore, et ir&m 
CoUigit ac ponit teniere, et mutatur in horaa. 

Imberbis iuvenis, tandem custode romoto, 
Gaudct etiuis canibusquc, et aprioi gramine campi ; 
Cercus in vitium tiecti, monitoribus asper, 
Utiliuni tardus provisor, prodigus a^is, 
Sublimis. cupidusque, et amata relintiuere pemik 

Convcrsis studiis, ictas animusque virilis 
Quairit opes et amicitias, inscrvit honori ; 
Commisisse cavet quod mox mutarc laboret 



* Harvey, the circulator of the circulation uf Uie bloo%l, ukO to itt>s 
away Virgil in his ecstiicy of iidininition, and say, " the l;<>ok had a drTa." 
Now, such a chanicter lu 1 am copying would prolMUy lliiig it nwxy ako, 
but nither wish that tlio devil had tlie book ; not fmiii any disliko to tin- poiA, 
liut a woll-fouiideil horror »f lioxameti-ni. Indi-o.! the public «;IukjI |ViiaiiM » 
" long and sliort " is enough to Ik-gT't an nntipulliy lo |io<Mry lor lite mUist 
ol a man's lifo, and, jwrhaps, so far may be an mlvttiiLig«. 

t " liifandiini, rogiiia, Jnlios r'liorarp dolomin." I dnr- riy Mr. TartU 
(to whom I iiu'aii no ntrroiil) will uiiderst.tnd mo ; and it U no m.ttu'r vhMhiM 
any one else iloes or no. — To Uie alwre events, " mi»«i>h' \cmf n-Mrrmua irtd 
et i|uonini pan magna ful," all tinut ami Irrm* Irar i< .uiniHiy. 

I " HiU," a fuuiinj-lwiiar so called, wli. re you nsk IiuIp. and u» UwulW' 
a goiHl doul. "Club," a pleiuaui purgatory, wbani you luav uwMk MMi •« 
not suppoMd to be ohMted at aU. 



472 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Scrapes wealth, o'er eacli departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts ; 
Weighs well and •wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — but to die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these ; 
Grazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — ^is buried — let him rot ! 

But from the drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
Though women weep, and hardest hearts are stirr'd. 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all besides, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 'tis sirrely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial blood we teach to flow 
In tra2:ic scene disgusts, though but in show: 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sic\. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience with a monarch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours, or ncJr.-re bear ? 
A *halter'd heroine Johnson sought -■■.o slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
And (Heaven be praised I) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomines, 
And Lewis' self, wth all his sprites, would quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief: 
And yet, God knows ! what may not authors do, 
' W hose postscripts prate of dying " heroines blue ?"t 

Al ove all things, Tkin Poet, if you can, 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did; 
\^"here good and evil persons, right or v»Tong, 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 

Miiita senem conveniunt incommoda; vel quod 
Qiuerit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti ; 
"Vel quod res omnes tiuiide gelidcque ministrat, 
Dilator, spe longus, iners, avidusque futuri; 
Difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti 
Re piiero, castigator censorque miuorum. 
Malta ferunranni venientes commoda secum, 
Miilta recedentes adimuHt. Ne forte seniles 
Mundentur juveni p;utes, pueroque viriles. 
Semper in adjunctis, a?voque morabimur apus. 

A 'it Hgitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 
Segiiius irritant animos demissa per aurem 



Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics eam'd, and now may beg, their breea 
In all, iniquity is grown so nice. 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which ho pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore. 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ; " 
Squeezed in " Fops Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembHng for his toes ; 
Scarce ^vrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
WTiy this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess ?•— 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools I 
Ere scenes wera play'd by many a reverend clerk,* 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark ?) 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleas'd with morrice-mumm'ry and coarsM 

jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known. 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'Tis strange Benvolio suffers such a show;f 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place. 
Oaths, boxing, begging, all, save rout and race. 
Farce follo\<-'d Comedy, and reach'd her prime, 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time ; 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the betl 
And turn'd some very serious things to jesf. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers, 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyei-s, volunteers* 
'• Alas, poor Yorick ! " now for ever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens. 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschiis ! with whom once more I hope to sit 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I'll quit my cynic cell, 
And bear S-nift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle ! " 
Which charm' d our days in each ^F.gean clime. 
As oft at home, with revehy and rhyme. 

Quam quce sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et qn» 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
Digna geri promes in scenam; raultaque toUes 
Ex. oculis, qua; mox narret facundia pra;8enr 
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet ; 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus j 
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem 
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus ooi. 
Neve minor, neu sit q\iinto productior acta 
Fabula, quce posci vult et spectata reponi. 
Nee Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice ncdus 
Inciderit. «♦**♦• 



" The firet iheatrical r?prPS^>tauous, entitle"! ' Myst>rie» ard Mor atitifl . 
" Irene hail to »pe-ak iuro liiK-s with the bowstriiig- round her ueek; but were geoenUly eiiiicled at ChristriMs, by monks, (is th? only penon* wb 
te aadienoe cne;! out ' Munler ! ' and ihe wm oUigtJ to be curiea off the could reafl,) -xnd lioeriy by the clergy ami stu Jenis o* the xinhreruti^ IT* 
B«g«."— Bo»««U'» Lift nf Johruon. j dnnialis per«>n!s were usually A<lain, I'at-r C<rl'>3ti3, Fiih, VUe,'* te. 

t In the {VMUcrii* to l.'w •' Csu > Spectiv" Mr. Uevis telb na, that though 1 kc—Vide Warion'* Hulory of English Poetry. 
«acki were iinKn-Wo in England ai une p»riuil of liis ictioii, vet he has inude ] t ft"nT..lk> dot* not l«-t ; txit every man who muintain» n»-i.trwea ii 
be AOtciiTunisni -jo «rt <>it the •cci.e : aiid if Ik- coulvl have prwiiicetl d«e [ pr iroter of a!I the concomitant eviis v( the t'lrf. Avniilinor to br^ it a liiA 
Oct " oy a \k:tig hia hew-e Woe"— I quote biui — "Uue-be would bare , ph.iriKuc.il. Is it an exculpation? 1 think not. \ never yet beaid a •ni^ 
.Mite hart' timiKd lor chaMitTheeauK (Ac A«rae</ did Dutconimitfecnicaliaa. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



47J 



Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
'ipctlve tly life's scene's nor leave thee in the la#t; 
Bxil find in thine, like pagan* Plato's bed, 
Sonie merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 

Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 

norruptiou foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 

Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 

ITet fChesterfield, whose polish'd pen inveighs 

Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays ; 

Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains. 

And damning dullness of lord chamberlains. 

Repeal that act ! again let Humor roam 

Wild O'er the stage — we've time for tears at home; 

Let '"Archer" plant the horns on " Sullen's" brows, 

And " Estifania " gull her " Copper "+ spouse ; 

The moral's scant — but that may be excused, 

Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 

He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 

Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill; 

Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no more ! 

[t form'd no thieves — the thief was form'd "before, 

And spit3 of puritans and Collier's curse, { 

Plays make mankind no better, and no worse. 

Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men ! 

Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again. 

Cat why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal ! 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal ? 

For times of fire and fagot let them hope : 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calviu saw Servetus blaze, 

80 would new sects on newer victims gaze, 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologist of sin ! 

While the Lord's servant chastens whom he loves. 

And Simeon kicks, where IjBaxter only " shoves." 

Whom nature guides, so writes, that every dunce 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails. 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope? 
Yet his and Phillips" faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too rehned. 

Ex noto fictum carmen sequar. Tit sibi quivis 
Speret idem : sudet multum frustraque laboret 
.\usus idem : tantum series jnncturaque poUet; 
Tantam de medio sumtis acccdit honoris. 

Silvis deducti caveant, mc judice, Fauni, 
Ne, velut innati triviis ac pene forcnses,* 
Aut nimium tencris jnvoncntur versibus unquam, 
Ant immunda cropent, ignominiosaquc dicta, [res : 
Offenduntur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et 
Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis enitor, 



* Ux .^v i^inlo'i jiilliiw a voltinM ol' Ihc Mltnt$ of Sophmn witii found lfa<? 
»a,y be tiled. — VvU Darlhtltini, Dt Piuia, or IXogiMi Laarhus, il u|fTi-«- 
tbl«. De Piiuw mA* it a Jfst Uxik. — CuiiilxTlaiiil, in tiia UUicrver, (eniia It 
ODonii, hlce tUe ciyiiig* of " PuMiiiii Cynw." 

t Ilio iio^icf) CM ihe 'c<»ii«iMg .ict it one iiC hit mnM eloquent etTorta. 

I MichA.*. Ferei, L^i ' Copper Captiiii," In " RuU a Wife ati«J ha*« t 
Wife." 

i Jerry C^IWt co-\(.-o»eriy with Coiijrr»«Te, ftc. on the Mbjed of the 
traiiM, I* too well known ;o fj^nirp furtiuT coniment. 

n "Baxfr'i ihovi- to h<Mvy-.i— <l Chriiiiana." The verftable litla of a 
■jook once In good n-piite, .mil lik'-Iy riiinigh to lie w apiin. — Mr. Simeon la 
ho ▼•■ry nnlly o( Ulirf*, nml O'lUig.iiur of " giM»l wnrka." Me la ably nip- 
ported by John Htirklia, 11 lnhorer in lh<- anme vin>-yiinl ;— lail I any no inorr, 
?r luxon'itif 10 <->hnny in IV..*I congnsirallon, " No kojm /br A«m M 

62i 



Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
'Twixt too mu6h polish and too coarse a \<it 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
The dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest ; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults . his wit hath made 'f^eot 

pass 
Unmatched by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet, 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
This measvire moves a favorite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in /ain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain. 
Yet Scott has shown oiu: wondering isle of late, 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weif^lit 
And, varied skillfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and war, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
Are curb'd too much by long-recuning rhymp 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 'tis hard, 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts coDfinet 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of " correctt 
Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye who seek finish'd models, never cease, 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 

^quis accipiunt animis, donantve ci rona. 

Syllaba longa brevi subjecta vocatur iambus, 
Pes citus : unde etiam trlmetris accrescere juasit 
Nomrn iambeis, cum senos reddcret U'tus, 
Primus ad e.xtrenuim similis sibi : non ita priden 
Tardior ut paulo graviorque vcnirct ad aures, 
Spondcos stabiles in jura paterna rect-pit 
Connnodus et paticns ; non ut de scde socunda 
Coderot aut quarta socialiter. Hie el in \cc\ 
NoDilibus trimetris apparot rarus, ot Kniii. 
In scciiam missos magno cum pondcre versus, 
i\ ut opera; celcris nimium curatjue carontis, 
Aut ignorata* premit artis oriniine turpi. 

Xtin quivis vidct immodulata pt)eniata judex , 
Ev data Rouianis venia est indigna pi>i>tis. 
Idy^rLone viiger, scribamtjue liconter, ut omnet 
Viau-os pcccata putcm mca, tutus, et intra 
Spcm veniir cautus ? vitavi donitiuc culp;im. 
Noil larclem niorui. Vos cxomplaria (iraic-a 
Nocturna versute manu, versate diurna. 
At vfstri proavi Plautinos et n<imero8 ot 
Laudavere pules; nimium patit^nter utrumqa*. 
Nf dicam Htulte, mirati ; st modo e^o et vof« 
Scimus inurbanu.m lepido seDonert dicto. 



474 

Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separatR the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers in default of ears. 



In sooth I do not know or greatly care 

Ic learn, who our first English strollers were ; 

Oi if, till roofs recived the vagrant art. 

Our muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart. 

But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 

Thert's pomp enough, if little else, in plays; 

Noi will Melpomene ascend her throne 

Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws : 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er theii- follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse. 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame. 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop, like Pope, to polish by the way ? 

Lords of the quill, whose critical assaults 
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble Mith too nice a nail ! 
Dcmocrit'is himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make us mad ! 

But, truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet. 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure. 

Ignotum tragicae genus invenisse Camenae 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Quae canerent agerentque peruncti fa-cibus ora,. 
Post hunc personam pullseque repertor honestae 
^schylus, et modicis instravit pulpita tignis, 
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno. 

Successit vetus his comcedia, non sine multa 
Laude ; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
Diguam lege regi ; lex est accepta ; chorusque 
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure noecndi. 

Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetse ; 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Graeca 
Ausi deserve, et celebrare domestica facta, 
Vel qui practextas, vel qui docuere togatas. 
Nee virtute foret clarisve potentius armis, 
Quam lingua, Latinm, si non offenderet unum- 
quemque poetarum limae labor et mora. Vos, A 
Pompilius sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod non 
Multa dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Preaesectum decies non castigavit ad unguem, 

Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
Democritus ; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
Non barbam ; secreta petit loca, balnea vitat. 
Nanciscetur enim pretium nomenque poetoe. 
Si tribus Anticyri.*' caput insanabile nunquam 
Tonsori Licina commiserit. ego laevus, 



BYKON'S WORKS 



With little rhyme, less reason, if y eu plcaae 

The name of poet may be got with ease. 

So that not tuns of helleboric juice 

Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 

Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a lakf , 

And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake:* 

Then print your book, once more return to town^ 

And boys shall hunt your hardship up and dowix 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight. 

To purge in spring (like BayesJ before I write ? 

If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 

I know no scribbler, with a madder style ; 

But since (perhaps my feelings are too nioe), 

I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 

I'll labor gratis as a grinder's wheel. 

And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steely 

Nor write at all, unless to teach the art. 

To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 

From Horace show the pleasing paths of song 

And from my own example, what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes difi^ers quite, 
'Tis just as well to think before you write ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learnt the duty which he owes 
To friend and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sii-e, or stranger guefit ; 
Who takes our xaws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids nqt his tongue, but heart, philosophize ; 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse. 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit and tale well told. 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will }l">ld 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece ! thy sons of ancient days. 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise. 

Qui purgor bilem sub verni temporis horam ! 
Non alius faceret meliora poemata : verura 
Nil tanti est : ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi : 
Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
Unde parentur opes ; quid alat forme tque poetam 
Quid deceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat erroj 

Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fon4 
Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chartae : 
VerbaquG provisam rem ncn invita sequcntur. 
Quid didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis ; 
■Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et 

hospes ; 
Quod sit conscripti, quod judicis officium ; qi» 
Partes in bellum missi ducis ; ille profecto 
Reddere personam scit convenientia cuique. 
Respicere exemplar vitae moruinque jubebo 
Doctum imitatorem, et vivas hinc ducere voces. 

Interdum speciosa locis morataque recte 
Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et ai-te, 
Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratiif, 
Quam, versus inopes rerum, nuga-que canorae. 

Graiis ingenium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
Musa loqui, practer laudem nullius avaris. 



* Ai famous a tonsor aa Licinus hjiriielf, and better paid, and may, Wg 
him, be one day a senator, having a better qualificatica than one hal'' jf liiC 
beaiU he cropi, viz. — ludependeuce. 



HINTS FROM HOKACE. 



471 



»VTic3e. genercr.s children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our b«y;< (save those whom public schools compel 
I'u " long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
FroiD. frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
*'A penny sa^ed, my lad's, a penny got." 
Babe of a c^tsf birth ! from sixpence take 
Two thirda how much will the remainder make ? 
"A groat.' —" Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whos'» young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke ivill tell y( u, that the father's right 
Who hides all verses ft im his children's sight ; 
For poets (says this sage, and many more,)* 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old. 
Discovers little silver and less gold, * 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irus,f or an Irish mine.J 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
Ff-r our remembrance your didactic line ; 
K^^dundance places memory on the rack. 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Fxpectno credit for too wond'rous tales, 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense, . 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruction with his wit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass, 
( Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass ;) 

flomani pueri longis rationibus assem 
Discunt in partes centum diducere : dicat 
Filius Albiui, Si de quincunce remota est 
Uncia, quid superat ? poterat dixisse — Triens, 

Eu! 
Kem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia : quid fit ? 
S?mis. An ha'c animos ajrugo tt cura peeuli 
C'i;::i semel imbucrit, speramus carmina hngi 
Posij lincnda cedro, et levi servanda cupre.sso ? 

Aut prodosse voluut, aut delectare poetit ; 
Aut simul et jucunda ct idonea dicere vitai. 
U.uidquid pra;cipies, esto brevis: ut cito dicta 
pQ,rcipiant animi dociles, teneaiitque fidelos. 
Omne supervacuum plono de pcctore manat. 

Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxiuia veris : 
f'en, quodcunque volot, poscat sibi fahiila credi : 
Neu pranse Lamiie vivum pucruin cxtrahat alvo. 

Centurui seniorum agitant oxpi'rtia frugia : 
Celsi praitereunt austeru pocmata Rhamncs. 
Omne tulit punctura, qui miscuit utile duloi, 



* 1 ha'e not (Ik? urigliiul hy me, but the luliiiii trunitlutluii niiK oa rolluwi i 
■ ' ■ K urn. coia tt rniii cnMlrre mollo alruvii^raiite, clu- un pii(lr>ttciiiU>ri, s 
pcriDottii, clu; iiKi fljrliiiulu coiliri n pi.Tfo/Joni qunto tul'iito." A litllo funlu'r 
mi: "Si u-.^v;iiio <ll raUo nil Hitrii.iHO If ininicrr d'oru <• d' argnnto," — ibVu- 
KUUiria tUi FhnauUi tW. S'fn-jr Ljckt VcrMtiaii tiUtion. 

t " Iro piiuj>jrii)r : " this ia li.e •ntne t)Pgg.<r wtio IkjxkI with V\yme» fiT 

poi ml ol kii.'i try, which he lout, niiJ hull a down toelli buaiUei,— tiaa 
Odyicty, p. 18. 

X "Ito l.-uhffi'U nilnoof Wlckov, which yM>U ]uM on eiuniffa lo rmmM 



Through three long weeks the taste : f London lead 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed- 

But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
With all his best endeavors, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their cover, flints withhold their sjiark , 
And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their maxK. 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's \ ie w 
We must.not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, 

Despises all advice too much to mend. 

But ever twangs the same discordant string, 

Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 

Let Havard'sf fate o'ertake him, who for once 

Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 

At first none deem'd it his, but when his name 

Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fain<« 

Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 

In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some staled 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand 5 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the ligLt 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view. 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 

Hath led to listen to the muse's voice, 

Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 

Few reach the summit rrhich before you lies. 

Our church and state, our courts and camps, 0(m< 

cede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
In these plain common sense will travel far ; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar • 

Lectorem delectando pariterque monendo. 
Hie meret a;ra liber Sosiis ; hie ct mare transit, 
Et lougum noto scrijjtori prorogat a^vum. 

Sunt delicta tanien, quibus ignovissc vclimui ; 
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quern vult 

manus et mens, 
Poscentique gravem persjrpe rcmittit acutum ; 
Ncc semper feriet quodcunque minabilur arcu». 
Vcrum ubi pluia nitcnt in carmine, nou ego pauci» 
Olfondar maculis, tjuas aut incuria I'lulit, 
Aut huuiana paruin cavit natiira. Quid ergo Mt ? 
Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarins usqut^, 
Quamvis est monitus, vonia caret ; ot citharoedu» 
Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat cadem : 
Sic mihi, qui uuiltum cessat, fit Chduilus illc, 
Quern bis teicpie bouuin cum risu lutror ; et idm 
ludignor, ()u;iiuloque bonus dorniitat llomcrus. 
Veruni ojx'ri loiigo fas est ot)repero souiiuuu. 

Ut pictura, poesis : erit (luic, si i)r(q)ius stos, 
Te capiot magis ; ct qmcdaru, si longius uhstea; 
lla'c amat obscurum ; volet Ikvc sub luce videri, 
Judicis argutum quic non formidat acumen : 



A( Mr Pope icwk iJip litxTty ol ilnnininif llonior, to whom he wm unda 
gmit olili^nitloiii — 'Mrw/ llont^r {<iamn him !) ciUli"—\t mnr I* pmauniH 
that luiy lutly or iinjr tliuiK may be (l:imn<'it in vono by ixrlicnl hc<>ii« ' aai^ 
m cjiw ol uccidi'nt, I l«jr Ifuvr lo plrtul •« illii«tr1oiii a prscnl«nL 

t I'ur Uip flory ot Hilly 11 wiirl'i ln>)r<dy, wv - O.ivin't Ii(p at Ou 
riik." I Irllovp It u " K/jfiilii.," or " Cliari.-i tlii" nnrt." The nvMiieiit * 
I known Ui Ir lu> Dtn UMMlrr lhiii.Mid, MuU llie Uxttwin f nriUM 1 W gM 
cuiuunary Mun tor tte u>fjtig,iiL 



476 



BYRON'S WORKS 



But poesy between the best and worst 

No medium knows ; you must be last or first ; 

For middling poets' miserable volumes, 

Axe damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 

How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 

Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel, 

When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 

Or mild Eclectics,* when some, worse than Turks, 

Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good works." 

Btch are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 

My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 

Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase ! 

For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 

Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 

Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 

Till ihee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 

Alas ! I cannot " strike at wretched kernes." 

Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 

A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 

Dear, d — d contemner of my schoolboy songs, 

Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs? 

If unprovoked thou once couldst bid me bleed, 

Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 

What ! not a word — and am I then so low ? 

Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 

Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give if Tent ? 

No -vvits for nobles, dunces by descent i 

No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name, 

Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ? 

Is it for this on Ilion I have stood. 

And thought of Homer'less than Holyrood ? 

On shore of Euxine or -^gean sea. 

My hate, untravell'd, fondly turned to thee. 

Ah ! let me cease ! in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unkind Alexixf turns : 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

Hsec placuit semel ; haec decies repetita placebit, 

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis, hoc tibi dictum 
Tolle memor : certis medium et tolerabile rebus 
Recte concedi: consultus juris, et actor 
Causarum mediocris, abest virtute diserti 
Messalae, nee scit quantum Cascellius Aulus: 
Sed taraen in pretio est : mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columnae. 



• To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return thanks for the 
ftrror of that charity which in 1809 induced them to express a hope, that a 
Ihing then puhhslied by me might lead to certain cons quences, which, all 
t.rug-h natural enough, surely came hut rashly from reverend lips. I refer 
l"iSl" lo their own pages, where they congratulated themselves on the pros- 
pei'. of atUt between Mr. JelVrey and myself, from which some grc-at good was 
to «ceiue, provided one or both were knocked on the head. Having survived 
'vn jesp' and a half those " Elegies" which they were kindly preparing to 
tywvf, I have no peculiar gusto to give them "so joyful a tiouble," except, 
aSaed, "upoi con)pnliion, Hal;" but if, as David says in the " Rivals," it 
bcild come lo "bloody sword and gim fig-luing," we " won't' run, will we, 
Wf Luciu* <" 1 do not know what I had done to those Eclectic gentlemen : 
Uf works are their lawful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces like Agii-g, if it 
•houW »eem meet unto them ; but why they should be in such a hurry to kill 
off their author, I am ignorant. " The race is not always to the swift nof the 
bottlo to the strong; " and now, as these Christians have "smote me on one 
Iheek," 1 hold them up the other; and in return for their goo<l wishes, give 
lieiT an opportunity of repeating them. Had any other set of men expressed 
meh Kiitimenu, I should have smiled, and left them to the "recording 
Wi^l," t/Jl from the pharisees of Christianity decency might be expected. 
1 CM fJtn'K these brethren, that, publiciin and sinner as I am, 1 would not 
Bav3 'jti cd " mine enemy's dog thus." 'I'o show them the superiority of 
Bj bryjicii;- bve, if ever the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should 
ve anyayed in such a conflict as that in which they requested me to fall, I hope 
hty may escape with being " winged " only, and that Heaviwde may be at 
MsuyA tn extract the ball 

t lowoie* alium, si te hie fitfldit, Alexin. 



What then ? — Edina starves some lanker son. 

To write an article thou canst not shun : 
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter meti decry. 
And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime, 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun ; 
Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson ere they dare to box. 
V.liate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expevtness without years of toil; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets when "they please. 
Why not P^shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose fathers -with the quorum sate. 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs. 
To all their income, and to twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault. 
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt ? 

Thus think "the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 

Besides all this, must have some genius too. 

Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 

And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 

Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 

I trust will spare us for at least nine years. 

And hark'ye, Southey !* pray — but don't be vext- 

Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 

Ut gratas inter mensas symphonia discors, 

Et crassum unguentum, et Sardo cum melle 

papaver 
OfFendunt, poterat duci quia ccena sine istis ; 
Sic animis natum inventumque poema juvandis. 
Si paulum a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armisi 
Indoctusque pihxj, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
Ne spissae risum tollant impune coronie : 
Qui nescit. versus tamen audet fingere ! — Quidni I 
Liber et ingenuus praesertim census equestrera 
Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni. 
Tu nihil invita dices faciesve Minerva : 
Id tibi judicium est, ea mens ; si quid tamen olini 
Scripseris, in Metii descendat judicis aures, 
Et patris, et nostras, nonumque prematur in 

annum 
Membranis intus positis. Delere licebit 
Quod non edideris ; nescit vox raissa reverti, 

Sylvestres homines sacer interpresque deonUh 



* Mt. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail in the "Cane • 
Kehair.a," maugre the neglect of Madoc, ftc, and has in one in<«j»e« bod 
a wonderful eftect. A literary friend of miue, walking out one .ovely •tea- 
ing last sunmier, on the eleTenth bridge of the FaudiikSton canal, wa« 
aJarmed by the cry of "one in jeopanly :" he rushed along, collected • 
body of Irish haymakera (supping on buttermilk in an adjacent paddock,) pro- 
cured three raUe«, one eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horreaoo 
referens) pulled out— his own publisher. The unfortunate man wa» gone fof 
ever, and so wa« a large quarto wherewith he had taken the Igap, which 
proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last work. Itn " alacrity a 
iinkiug" wa« so great that it has never since been heard of, though loinl 
maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pasti; 
premise*, Comhill. Be Uiis aa it may, the coroner's inquest.brouyht In » Ter 
dirt of " Felo de bibJiopola" agatnrt a " quarto unknown ;" aad eircuriiUa 



HINTS FKOM HORACE. 



477 



flat why this vain advice ? cnce published, books 
Ca.n never be recall'd— from pastry cooks ! 
Though ** Madoc," with "Pucelle,"* instead of 

punk, 
May travel back to Quito — on a trunk ! f 

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour. 
We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower : 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
fiad built St. Paul's without the aid of V/ren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Pid more than constable's to keep the peace ; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd county meetings, ?nd enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, 
A.nd served the church without demanding tithes ; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
Whose old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Inclixded kingdom • in the cure of souls. 

Next rose the martial Homer, epic's prince, 
And fighting's been in fashion ever since ; 
And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartan's warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,) 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 

In song alone Apollo's will was told. 

Then if your verse is what all verse should be. 

And gods were not ashamed on't, why should we ? 



rial eTJrleiice being since *ttqf\g against the " Curse of Keluima," of which the 
kbuve wonU are an exact description,) it will te tried by its peers next session, 
in Grub-street.— Anhvr, Alfred, Davideia, RichartI Cdur de Lion, Exodus, 
bodia, Epigoniad, Calvary, Pall of Cambria, Seige of Acre, Don Rod- 
erick, and 'roni Thumb the Great, arc the names of tlie twolvp jurors. The 
judges are Pye, Bowles, and the B"llnian of St. Sepulchre's. The 
same advocates, pro and con, will be emp!oye<l as are now engnged in Sir P. 
Burden's celebraUid cause in the Scotch courts. The public anxiously await 
the result, and all live publishers will be subpanaed as witnesses. 

But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse of Kehania:" an inviting title 
»qi'»jblers. By the liy, it is a good deal beneath Scott and Campbell, and 
not umch above Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle them, in 
tb" t>llnburgli Aiuiual Register (of which, by the by, S<Mithey is e<litor) 
"the gruid poetical triumvirate of the day." But, on second thoughts, it 
•«n be no great degree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders o( the blind, though 
mey might «» well keep to themselves "Scott's thirty thousand copies sold," 
which must sadly discomfit poor Soilthey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, !( 
should s*!eni, is the " Lepidus" of this poetical triumvirate. 1 am only sur- 
prised to aee him in such gno<l company. 

" Such things we know are neither rich nor rare, 
But woniler how the devil he came there." 

The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid : " Because, In 
Ib0 Itlr-.jles DBC, ACB, DB is equal to AC, and BC, common to tioth ; the 
ti»o iiiesiJB, BC.are equal to the two AC, CB, etich to each, and the angle 
l>flij ii equal to the angle ACB ; therefon;, the buse DC Is equal to the base 
AB, Mid the triangle DBC (Mr. Southey) is equal to the triangle ACB, the 
iMt to the greater, which is altturH," *c.— The e.litor of the Edinburgh Reg. 
toU>T«lJl find the rest of the theorem hani by his stabling: he has only 10 
en)«se:)e river ; 'tis the first tunipike 'tother side " Pons Asinorum."* 

• > ktaire'i " Pucelle" is not quite so Imnmculnte as Mr. Soiithey's "Joan 
•f Arc ' and yet I am •frald the Prenchman has both more truth and poetry uw 
Ml hU aide— (they ranly go togi-thiT)— than our patriotic niinslrel, whow flni 
Msay wiu In pralas of a fanatical Pronch strumpet, whose title of witch would 
be cnrpxt with the change of the first letter. 

t Like Sir B. Burgess's Richard, the tenth bonk of which I ifuui at Malta, 
Ml » trunk of Eyr«s, 19 Jockipur street. If this be deuUed, 1 shall buy a 
foitmanteau to quote from. 

* Thii Lallii has aoreljr puttied the University of Edinbnrgti. Ballantyne 
•aid it meant the '< Bridge of Berwick," but Southey claimed it w half Eng- 
Ish; Scou swore It was the "Brig o'StiriIng;" be had Just pasM^I two 
Ring Jamea's and a doien Da^glitsaes over H. At last h was decldetl by 
jetfrey that It meant nothing ■• )i« iior lea than " the oountar of Archy 
Hasisin Ic'ltboQ." 



The muse, like mortal females, may be w o'd; 
In turns she'll seem a Paphian or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affri{{ht. 
Mild as the same upon the second night; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer. 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone. 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind nature always will perform her part. 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain ; 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the pt'ne. 
Unless they act like us and our alllt-q. 

The youth who trains to ride or run a race 
Must bear privation with unruffled face. 
Be call'd to labor when he thinks to dine. 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, 
Have foUow'd music through. her farthest flight j 
but rhymers teU you neither more nor less, 
" I've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
And that's enough ; then write and print so fast ,- 
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last ? 
They storm the types, they publish; one and all. 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 
Provincial maidens, men of high command. 
Yea, baronet's have inked the bloody hand ! 
Cash cannot quell them ; PoUio play'd this prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank ! ) 
Not all the living only, but the dead, 
Fool on, as fluent as an OrpheiLs' head ;♦ 

Caedibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus : 
Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones: 
Dictus et Amphion, Thebanai conditor aicis, 
Saxa movere sono testudinis. et prece blaiida 
Ducere quo vellet : fuit haec sapientia quondam, 
Publica privatis secernere : sacra profauis ; 
Concubito prohibere vago ; dare jura maritis , 
Oppida moliri ; leges incidere ligno. 
Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis liomeruA 
Tyrtujusque mares animos in Martia bella 
Versibus exacuit ; dictue per carmiua sortea, 
Et vitae monstrata via est : et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentatta modis : ludusque repertus, 
Et longorum operum finis : ne forte pudori 
Sit tibi Musa lyrie solers, et cantor Ai)t>llo. 

Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Qusesitum est: ego nee studiuj-» sine divite venAi 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingoniuiu ; alteriiu A 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 
Qui studet optatam cursu contingcre inetam, 
Multa tulit t'ecitque puor ; sudavit et alsit ; 
Abstinuit Vcnere et vino : qui Pythia cantat 
Tibicen, didicit prius, extinmitque niagistrum. 
Nunc satis est dixisse ; Ego mii-a poemata 

pango ; 
Occupet extremum scabies; mihi turpe relinqal 
Et quod non didici, sane ncscire fateri. 



-Si carmina condes, 



Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latcnte*. 
Quintilio si quid rccitarcs, Corrigo, sodos 
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse negares. 



' Turn quoque marmoraa caput a eerrtee revuleuin, 
Ourgiie cum ine«llo ponans Ojagrtiia Hetirus, 
Volvrrrt Kiirydlo-n vos Ipaa, et lriffl<U lingua ; 
Ah, mlspnun Kurydlorn I aolma fVigtrnte vocata(| 



178 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Damu'd all their days, they posthumously thrive — 

Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 

Reviews record this epidemic crime, 

Those " Books of Martyrs" to the rage for rhyme. 

A-las ! wo worth the scribbler I often seen 

[n Morning Post or Monthly Magazine. 

There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-prest, 

BeV.old a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 

Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords, 

To muse-mad baronets or madder lords, 

0) country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 

Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 

Hark to those notes, narcotically soft ! 

The cobbler laureats sing* to Capel LofFt If 

Till, lo . that modern Midas, as he hears. 

Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 



There lives one druid who prepares in time 
'Gainst future feuds' his poor revenge of rhyme ; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship's nothing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught, to him ? 
He vents his spleen or gratifies his whim. 

Bis terque expertum frustra, delcre jubebat, 
Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 
Si defendere delictum quam vertere malles, 
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat 
inanem. 



• I keg Naihaniel's pardon ; he is not a cobbler ; it is a tailor, but begged 

Cape! Lofft to sink the profession in his preface to two piiir of panta pslia I 

of cantos, wbich he wished the public to try on; but the sieve of a patron let it 
»ut, and so far saved the expense of an advertisement to his country custo- 
mers. — Merry's " Moorfield's whine " was nothing to all this. The " Delia 
Cruscans " were people of some education, and no profession : but these Ar- 
cadians (" Arcades anibo " — bumpkins both) send out their native nonsense 
without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes and smallclothes in the 
parish unrepaired, to patch up Elegies on Enclosures and Pfeans to Gun- 
powder. Sitting on a shopboard, they describe fields of battle, when the only 
blood ilipy ever saw was shed from the finger ; and an " Essay on War " is 
produced by the ninth part of a " poet." 

" And own that nine such poets made a Tate." 

Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, why not take ft a* 
his motto ? 

I This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent shoemakem, 
«iid been accessory to the poetical untloing of many of the industrious poor. 
Nathaniel Bloomficld and his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire sing- 
ing; nor has the malady confined itself to one county. Pratt too, (who 
once was wiser,) has caught the contagion of patronage, and decoyed a poor 
fellow named Blackett into poetry ; but he died during the operation, leaving 
©lie child and two volumes ol " Remains " utterly destitute. The girl, if she 
dn't fake a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, may do 
well ; hut the " tragedies " are as rickety as if they had been the offspring of 
%n Earl or a Seatoniaii pri7« poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certiinly 
answerable for his end, and it ought to be an indictable offence. But this is 
the least they have done, for, by a refinement of barbarity, they have made 
the (late) man posthumously ridiculous, by printing what he would have 
had sense enough never to print himself. Certes these rakers of " Remains " 
■o;t? under the suitute against " resurrection men." What does it signify 
w}tr. let B. poor, dear, dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or in Stutionen' 
Bali i Is it so bad to unearth his bones as his blunders ? Is i( not better to 
([ILhct his body on a heath, than his soul in an ootovo f " We know what we 
•re, ^ut we know not what we may be ; " and it is to be hoped we never shall 
know , if a man who has passed through lile with a sort of eclat is to find 
hlmttlf a mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like poor Joe 
Blackea, the laughing-stock of purgatory. The plea of publication is to pro- 
»We fcT the child ; now, might not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepidam's " 
Wendb and seducers have done a decent action without inveigling Pratt Into 
aiography i And then hii inscription split into so many modicums I — " To 
tbe Duchcia of SomHch, the R>ght Hun. 8o-and-So, and Mrs. and Mia 
Somebody, these volumes are, Sic, &c."— why, this Is doling out the " soft 
giilk of dedication " in gills, — tliere it but a.quart, and he divides tt among a 
4ooen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a puff .eft f Dost thou think six families of 
SMnOiyn can share this in quie^f— There is a child, a book, and a dedicatwn ; 
md llip girl to her givce, tbe T( ume tc the grocer, and the dedication to the 



Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate. 
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town : 
If so, alas, 'tis nature in the man — 
May heaven forgive you, for he never can! 
Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and 8tii:k 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
But springing upwards from the sluggish rao"Ld, 
Be (what they never were before) — ^be sold ! 
Should some rich bard, (but such a monster now, 
In modern physics, we can scarce allow,) 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court. 
Some rhyming peer — there's plenty of the sort—* 
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !) 
Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
How would the preacher turn eacn rueful leaf, 
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief ! 
Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death, 
He'll risk no living for a little breath. 

Quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 

Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertet 
Culpabit duros ; incomptis allinet atrum 
Transverse calamo signum ; ambitiosa recidet 
Ornamenta ; parum claris lucem dare coget ; 



• Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to hit notice tla 
sole survivor, the " ultimus Romanorum," the last of the " Cruscana I "— - 
" Edwin," the " profound," by our Lady of Punishment I here he is M 
lively as in the davs of " well said Baviad the Correct." I thought PitzgenM 
had been the tail of poesy, but, alas I he is only the penultimate. 

A PAMIUAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OP TB£ MORXIMO 
CHRONICLE. 

" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think I 
Anrl so perhaps you'll say of me. 
In which your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell yorf why; 
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny, 
But may instruct or entertain. 
Without the risk of giving pain. 
And should you doubt what 1 assert, 
The name of Camden I insert, 
Who novels read, and oft maintain'd 
He here and there some knowledge gain'd I 
Then why not I inilulge my pen. 
Though I no fame or profit gain. 
Yet may amuse your idle men ; 
Of whom, though some may be severe. 
Others may read without a sneer ? 
Thus much premised, I next proceed 
To give you what 1 feel my creed, 
And in what follows to display 
Some humors of tae passing lajr. 



OM SOME MODERN aUACRS ANI) REPORMlSrm 



In tracing of the human mind 
Through all its various counet, 

Though strange, 'tis true, we often tai 
It knows not its resoiuces i 

And men through life amime a pait 
For which no talenu they poMe«, 

Yet wonder that, with all their art, 
They meet no belter with suocata. 

Tis thus we see, through life's career, 
So few excel in their profession ; 

Whereas, would each man but appear 
lo what's within his o 



'HINTS FROM HORACE. 



479 



TbfXD spouts and foams, and cries at every line,, 

[The Lord forgive him .) " Bravo ! grand ! divine !' 

HcATse wilh those praises, (which, by flatt'ry fed, 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread,) 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot, 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 

But all dissemblers overact their part. 



Ye who aspire to build the lofty rhyme. 
Believe not all who laud your false " sublime," 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he ^swers ** Burn !" 
That instant throw your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or in^Uow his desire ; 
But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend. 
And will not alter what you can't defend. 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains, — ♦ 
We'll have no words — I've only lost my pains. 



Vet, if you only prize your favorite thought 

As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 

If your cool friend annoy you now and then. 

And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 

No matter, throw your ornaments aside — 

Better let him than all the world deride. 

Give light to passages too much in shade, 

Nor let a doubt obs ure one verse you've made ; 

Your friend's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 

However trifling, which may seem absurd; 

Such erring trifles lead to serious ills, 

/.ad furnish food for critics,t or their quills. 



Arguet ambigue dietum : mutanda notabit ; 
Vict Aristarchus: nee dicet. Cur ego amicum 
Oftendam in nugis ? ha; nugoe seria ducent 
In mala derisum semcl exceptuinque sinistra. 
Ut mala quern scabies aut morbus regius urguet, 



Wr- ghoulfl not »ee such daily quacki 

(i\)r qiKicku then nn- In every art) 
Atti'irijitinij, Uy tlioir gtrange iittaclu, 

To inclionilc the mind and lieart. 

Nor ni«Rii I iiere the itaire uioiie, 
Whrre »onie deserre ih' applause they meet ; 

For r]v adii thfre are, and they well known, 
In either houx;, who hold a leat. 

Reform's the onler of the day, 1 hew, 

To whirh I cordially ewent ; 
fiat then let thin reform appear, 

And every cia*» of men cvinoct. 

Tor if you but reform a few, 

Anil c)th<T» Ir-ave to their fiM bral, 
1 fiMir you will hut little do, 

Ami find your time and paiiu mJMpenC 

Let each man to hlii poet asalgn'd 

By Natnrc, talie hii part to art, 
And then frw cuuwii ihnll we And 

To call each man we meet — a quack.* 

* Battatd itf your 6rain«.— Minerrn being the tint by JupHer't YttuA- 
^doe, and • riiriety of luch unaccountable p.krturltioiu upon earth, ittoh aa 
Madoc, *c., ftc.,'ftc. 

t " A cnirt for the erWce."— fl^ye. In tfn fUhMrtal. 



* For aueh ererr man ta vno clihei appoan to be what he le not, cr atilTM 

>l« V\tiJ '^tttj'.. I. 



As the Scotch fiddle, wfth its toucbing^ lune. 

Or the>sad influence of the angry moon, 

All men avoid bad writers' ready toneues. 

As yawnirg waiters fly* Fitzscribble's lungs ; 

Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 

As prelate's homily or placeman's speech ; 

Long as the last years of a lingering lease. 

When riot pauses until rents increase. 

While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 

O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways^ 

If by some chance he walks into a well, 

And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 

" A rope! help, Christians, as ye hope forgrau?*'*' 

Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace; 

For there his carcass he might freely fling. 

From frenzy, or the humor of the thing. 

Though this has happen'd to more bards 'luui 

one, 
I'll tell you Budgell's story and have done. 



Budgell a rogue and rhymester for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood,) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
" To die like Cato,"t leapt into the ThaiUoS ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang or drown. 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes the life ha 

leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 



Nor is it certain that some sortf cf verse 
Prick not the poets conscience .is a curse ; 
tPosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found. 
Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 



Aut fanaticus eiTor et iracunda Diana, 

\ esanuni tetigisse timent fugiuntque sequuntvjr. 

Hie dum sul}liii\es versus ructatur, et errat, 

Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auoeps 

In puteum, foveamve ; licet, Sucourrite, longum 

Clainet, lo civei ! non sit qui tollere curet. 

Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittcre funcm. 

Qui scis an prudens hue se dejicerit, attjue 

Servari nolit ? Dicam : SIculique poeta? 

Narrabo intoritum. Dous immortalis haberi 

Dum cupit Kmpcdocles, ardentem frigidus ^tn(U\ 

Insiluit; sit jus, liceatque perire poetis : 

Invitum qui servut, idom lacit occidt-nti. 

Nee seme! hoc fecit ; nee, si retructus erit, jam 

Fiet homo, et ponct faniosiv mortis amorem 

Nee satis apparet cur versus fuctitet: utrum 

Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidontal 

Moverit incestus": certe furit, ac velut ursus. 



• And the " wnlton " are the only fortunate people who can " fly " frvt 
them; all the real, vli., the md iulnM-riU'ri to the " IJleiar)- Fund," Ma^ 
compelle<l, by couneay, to alt out the n*clt.'iliun, without a Ii0,ie cf eaclali» 
Ing : " 81c " (tliat la, by cbnklnf Fitx. with Imd wine or woru pocttj) " tm 
aerravit Apollo I " 

t On hli table were found Iheee woixU : MluU Onto dtit anrf Adihtom ap. 
prot>*<t oarinol h» vrong." But Addition did not " approve ; " and If ha 
had, It would not have inende<l the matter. He had invlu-d bia daiifhtor OB 
the tame " ater party, tait Mia Biidfjell, by lome accident, r>«.BiK\i thia Ji4 
imtfrnai attention. Thua fell the lycophanl of " Auicua," and tiia aiientjr d 
Po,*. 

I If "doaed with," ftc., he ernMiiwI aa low, I ftejf leave to refer to tt* 
or'oinal for anmotliiuft ilUI lower; aiid It any n-ader will tmiw'ale •' Mlna 
r I piurliwciiiire*," (U., Iuu> a decaui couplet, I will tiixn wkl eutfta 
In lieu oi Uh) uTNiaiBl, 



#80 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Aj)d hence is haunted with a rhyming rage— 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage 
If free, all fly his versifying fit, 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit : 

Objectos cavese valuit si frangere clathros, 
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus. 



•' DJidle eit proprie communia dicere." — Mde. Dacier, Mde. de Serigne, 
•oileau, niid others, have left their dispute on the meauiiig of this passage in 
a iract considerably long-er than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the 
elc«e of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigiio's letters, edited by 
Otcuvelle, Paris, 1806. Fresunring- thai all who con constnie may venture an 
Bpinion on such sulyects, partictilarly :i8 so many who can not have taken the 
*inrie liberty, I should have held my " fanhing candle " as awkwardly as 
tnother, had rot ray respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan 
decle induced ine to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 1st, Boileau : " II 
ect difficile de Ira.ter des sujeta qui soiu .i la portee de tout le nionde d'une 
mauiere qui tous les rende propes, ce qui s'apelle s'approprier uii sujet par le 
tour qu' on y donne." 2dly, Batteux : " Mais il est bier, difficile de doimer 
Aestraitj p'ropreset individuels aux eties purement possibles." 3dly, Dacier: 
" 11 est difficile de traiter convenablemenl ces caracteres que tout le nioiide 
•Mt tD^ea^r." Mde. de Sevigne's opinion and translation, conaisiuig of 



But him, unhappy ! wiom he seizes, — Mm 

He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 

Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach* 

And gorges like a lawyer or a leech. 

Quern vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legendo, 
Non missura cutem, nisi plena eruoris, hirudo. 



gome thirty pages, I omit, particularly as M. Grouvelle observe*, " La cboat 
est bien remarquable, aucu-3" de ces diverses interpretations ne parait elre la 
veritable." But, byway of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards, "Lt 
luminenx Dumarsnis " made his appearance to set Horace on his legs ag»in, 
" dissaper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentimens ; " and, oiiw 
fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will doubtlees s*.an uj air 
demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty aflair, as if he we»« nc 
better than Ptolemy or Tycho, or comments of no more consequence tliu 
astronomical calculations on the present comet. I ara happy to say, " la 
longueur de la dissertation " of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any trr/K 
on the matter. A better poet than Boileau, and at least as good a rix>.ai u 
Sevigne, has said, 

" A little learning is a dangerous thing," 
and by this comparison of comments it may be perceired how a good dia 
may be rendered as perilous to Ihe proprietors. 



THE CURSE OE MINERVA, 



^— - " Pallas te hoe vulnere, Pallas 
Immolat, et poenam aeelerato e:t sanguine simiit." 
.£NEID, m. 



Athens, Capuchjn Convent, March 17, 1811. 

•Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 

Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light; 

O'er the hush'd deej) the yellow beam he throws, 

Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 

On old Jigina's rock and Hydra's isle 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 

Though, there his altars are no more divine. 

Descending fast, the monntain-shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse. 

More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance. 

And tonderest tints, along their summits di'iven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 

Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 

When, Athens ! here thy wisest looked his last. 



TTie lines with which this satire opens, to " As thus, within the walls of 
?s^ias' fai.e,'' are repeated, wit> «nme allorations, at the co.'nitaeaeemeDt of 
he third cunto of (he C«i>wtr. 



How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murder'd sage's* latest day . 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes 
Gloom o'er the lovely laud he s^em'd to pour, 
The land where Phojbus never frown'd before; 
But ere he sunk below Cithseron's head, 
The cup of wo was quaff' d — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorned to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; f 
No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 



• Socrates dmnk the hemlock a short time before sunset, (the hour ef i 
eution.^ notwithsund'ng the entreaties of his disciples to wail nil the sun i 



t 1^ twilight ID Greece is much shorter than in our own 
days in wintsr are longer, but In siunmer of lea duiution 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



481 



dnd bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkled o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd '^ark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds Yiis scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The glimmering turret of the gay kiosk,* 
And sad and sombre mid the holy calm. 
Near Theseus' fane, von solitary palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'd Ihem heeliess by. 

A.ffain the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
LnVs his chafed breast from elemental war; 
Agam his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
Chat frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

A.8 thus within the walls of Pallas' faixC, 
[ mark'd the beauties of the land and moxi, 
A.lone, and friendless, on the magic snore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore : 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
A.nd Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the rain shrine of many a vanish'd god : 
But chiefly, Pallas ! - thine ; when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
I'hrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
WTien, lo ! a giant form before me strode. 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode* 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms sne ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command. 
Her form appeared from Phidias' plastic hand; 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow. 
Her idle *gis bore no Gorgon now ; 
Her hf'lm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp ; 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
liound the rent casque her owlet circled slpw. 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of wo ! 

** Mortal ! " — 'twas thus she spake — " that blush of 

shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honor'd less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall PuUas still be found. 
Pt<.k'8t thou the cause of loathing ? — look around. 
L . here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I 6ftw successive tyrannies expire. 



* %'h« I'.'.oik ia a TurkUh ■umln»^hou■o ; the pnlin la without the prnrn. 
•> 1. ol Alhriw, lint fur Iruin tite Ituiiplo uf Thf-MMii, U-twceii which iiml (tip 
ti«k (ba wii I iiUerv«ii<'i. C'ephiiui' itreiuii ia liHleeil acanly, ami liliaaua hu 
■u ilieBin III itll. 

61 



'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than botn. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,* 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'"! 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
KnoAv, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came 
The insulted wall sustains his halted name : 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ; 
Be eiier hail'd with equal honor here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are crosa'dj 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
r<chold where Dian's beams disdain 'd to shine * 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim. 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame "♦ 



She ceased awhile and thus I dared reply, 

To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 

" Daughter of Jove ! in Britian's injured name, 

A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 

Frown not on England ; England owns him not ; 

Athena ! no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 

Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phylfi 

towers 
Survey Boeotia ; Caledonia's ouis. 
And well I know within that bastard land J 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command t 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth j 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
Ti'l, burst at length each wat'ry head o'erflowH 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
'Ihen thousand sciiemcia !>*■ p^+ulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far ^nd wide ; 
Some east, some west, some every where but norl« 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year ! 
ShB sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Bopotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her few, the iettcr'd and the bra re. 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grure, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land. 
And shine like children of a happier strand . 



* Thia li apokxii o( the city In fnneral, and uot of the Arrrpolb in pMtl» 
ulixr : the tenipir of iiipitrr Olyiiipiia, by wiiiie iup)xiaiHl the Pnntheoo, w« 
Anlahrii by llnilriiin ; alxtren Ciiluiiiiia niv atnniliuf, of tlie miial be*utif« 
Minrlili' oiiil nrohilecliiro. 

♦ llii liiril«l»lp'» iinii.i*, nnJ that of one who no lonipT hr«r» it, ar» cmrrwt 
oonap.w -niilv on the P mli.non ; lUwve, in a purl not lur iliauni, nrr iha Ion 
reninnnta ui (lit- Imiao rclic*ua deitruyiil In n v lin nlfnipt lu n-iiiuTr Uimt 

t " Iriah hnatanla," accorJ'nf lo Sir Cnlliftinn U'Br Jlactiau 



482 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, 

T en names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

" Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore, [more 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengestnce ye^t is mine, 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine 
[lear then in silence Pallas' stem behest ; 
HeaT and believe, for time will tell the rest. 

• ' First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, on him and all his seed : 
Without one spark of intellectuc^l fire, 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
if one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
Believe him a bastard of a brighter race: 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
Wliose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
To sell, and make — may Shame record the day ! 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
And own himself an infant of fourscore.* 
Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles', 
That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
\V~hile bra^vny brutes in stupid wonder stare, * 

And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop ' f there. 
Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs 

creep, 
To 1 mnge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, w^ith longing sigh. 
On giant statues casts the curious eye : 
The room ■with transient glance appears to skim. 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mourns o'er the difference of now and then : 
Exclaims, • These Greeks indeed were proper men ! 
Draws sly comparisons of these and t/iose, * 
And envies LaTs all her Attic beaux. 
WTien shall a modern maid have swains like these ! 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view. 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief. 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust. 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome. 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb. 
And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
la many a branding page and burning line ; 
AUke reserved for aye to stand accurst, • 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

*•' So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Flx'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
, Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To to do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look tc the Baltic — blazing from afar. 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. 



• Mr. Wp«t, on leeinf the " El^n Collection," fl giipp<«e we thall hear 
«r Ibe "AbcnJMiw " and " Jadi Shephard'i " Collection,) declared himaelf 
" B mere tyio " In art. 

t Poor Crib WM tadly puxzled when exhibited at £ H<>um; he 

tijked if h WM no< " a etone ahop f "— Hr> w«« right , UUaabop. 



Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 

Or break the compact which herself hath made , 
Far from such counsels, from the faithless field.. 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield: 
A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empu-e to its base ; 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head. 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

"Look on your Spain! — she clasps. the hand shf 

hates. 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and felL 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look there 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or ^ess bereft ; 
No misers tremble whe:: ihere's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit,'* who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods aj^d men alike disdain'd tc hear; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state. 
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas ! too late : 
Then raves for ** ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.' 
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

*' Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 

Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 

Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 

Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dTe:iiD 

Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 

And pirates barter all that's left behind. f 

No more the hirelings, purchased near and *"■«, 

Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 

The idle merchant on the useless quay. 

Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ? . 

Or, back returning, sees rejected stores. 

Rot piecemeal on his own encumber' d shores : 

The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom 

And desperate mans him 'gainst the common ijom 

Then in the senate of your sinking state, 

•Show me the man whose counsels may have weight 



* «' Blest paper credit I last a!id U-st stipply, 

That lends Comiplion lighter win^.-, in fly 1 
t The Dval and Dover irufficlien in swrie. 



THE WALTZ. 



48; 



Vain is each voice where tones could once conunand ; 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land ; 
Yet jamng sects convulse a sister isle, 
A nd light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 



'' 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain, 

The furies seize her abdicated reign : 

Wid ? o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands, 

And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 

But one convulsive struggle still remains, 

And ''.Taul shall weep ere Albion wears her chains. 

The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 

O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles ; 

The bif zen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 

That b:d the foe defiance ere they come ; 

The hero bounding at his country's call. 

The glorious death that decorates his fall, 

Bwell the young heart with visionary charms, 

And bids it antedate the joys of arms. 



But know a lesson you may yet be taught, 
"With death alone aie laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but beg lo 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ra^'ish'd dame, 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant do^vn 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thkitj 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine. 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life. 
And she who raised, in vain regrets the ttrifn " 



THE WALTZ: 

AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN. 



" Q,nalii In Eurotc ripU aut per ]u^ Cynthi, 
Ezercet Diana choro»." VIROIL. 

'« Such on EurotaV baiika, or Cyntlii;i'» Ueight, 
Diana Beeina : and so she chnnns the aig'ht, 
When in tlie dance the graceful gixUlesa leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 
Bm, 

I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. 
I might have been a parliament-man for a certain 
borough, having had the offer of as many votes as 
General T, at the general election in 1812.* But I 
was all for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen ycaj-s 
Bgo, on a visit to London, I married a middle-agod 
maid of honor. We lived happily at llorncm Hall 
till last Reason, when my wife and I were invited by 
the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my 
spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no 
harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable 
(or as they call it, marketable) age, and having be- 
tides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the 
family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which 
by the by, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than 
a week, tliat I was obliged to buy a second-hand 
barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. 
■ays, if I could drive, but never see the inside — that 
place being reserved for the Honorable Augustus 
Viptop, her partner-general and opera-knight. Ilear- 



itato of lUr p<iU. (Iiu.1 diiy.) 5. 



ing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing, (she wa« fa 
mous for birtlmight minuets in the latter end of the 
last century,) 1 unbooted and went to a ball at the 
countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or at 
most, cotillions, reels, and all the old paces to Vhc 
newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on lu-riving . 
to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms liak • 
round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman 
I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, 
rather more than half round her waist, turning 

round, and round, and round, to a d d see-saw 

up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the 
" Black joke," only more " aj^'efitoso," till it made 
me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. 
By and by they stopp'd a bit, and I thought they 
would sit or fall down :— but, no ; with Mrs. H. I 
hand on his shotildcr, " quatn fnmiliariter"'* f ai 
Tcrrence said, when 1 was at school,) Ihoy wiU': .d 



* My Luilin !■ all furKoltmi, if • ninn can l« mlil U> havx larptUMi wImi 
he m'V'T r»-mriiil«>rrd ; tiiU I nuiijiht uiy titl<^|«)r' n-iHto ol a (.'i.lhuUc prtaal 
h<t * ihrn- siiininir liitnk token, ullvr inucli hi>Kirl>nf 'or Uitf mcmn ■Ixpano*. 
1 irni.iipHi l)ir iMon. y to a p^i|>iM, hilrij all f.ir Ihi' inoniocy »>f P»r«»»»j uid 
"No popiTy," mi.1 ijiijti' n'fKMlin^ tiK' dowiit^l ol Uie ^yr, b«nu« w» 
can'l burn blin any niurt . 



184 



BYRON S TORKS. 



about a minv-.e, and then at it again, like two cock- 
chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what 
all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no 
older than our Wilhelmina, (anarae I never heard but 
m the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother 
would call her after the Princess of Swappeubach,) 
said, "Lord! Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are 
valtzing ! " or waltzing, (I forget which ;) and then 
up she got, and her mother and 'sister, and away they 
went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now 
that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and 
po does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, 
tnd four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in 
practising the preliminary steps in a morning.) In- 
deed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for 
rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and 
songs in honor of all the victories, (but till lately I 
have had little practice in that way,) I sat down, and 
with the aid of W. F. Esq. and a few hints from Dr. 
B. (whose recitations I attend, and am monstrous 
fond of Master B.'s manner of delivering his father's 
late successful " D. L. Address,") I composed the 
following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments 
known to the public, whom, nevertheless, I heartily 
i(?spise as well as the critics. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c. 

HORACE HORNEM. 



M.U8E of the many-twinkling feet !* whose charms 

Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 

Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 

Reproachful term — bestowed but to upbraid — 

Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 

Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued* 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — ^requires no shield ; 

Dance forth— satis armour thou shalt take the field. 

And own — impregnable to most assaults 

Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz." 



• " Glance their many-twinkling feet." — Gray. 

I To rival Lord W.'s, or his nephew's, as t)ie reader pleases: — the one 
gEJned a pretty wonan, whom he deserved, by fighting for; and the other 
bat been fighting in the Peninsula many along day, " by Shrewsbury clock," 
«rhhout gaining any thing in that country but the title of " the Great Lord," 
»nd "the Lord," which savors of profanation, having been hitherto applied 
•nly to that Being to whom " Te Deuma " for carnage are the rankest 
•iMriwicy.— It is presumed the general will one day return to his Sabine 
Cum; 'here 

" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almoit *» quickly as he conquer'd Spain 1 " 

Tlie 1 ord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer we do more- 
IB contrive bo:h to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If tlie •' great 
L#w'i"CindnnoIttin progress in agriculture be no speedier than the proper- 
Orma] average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the farmer's 
^vert, be " ploughing with dogs." 

By the by— one of this illustrioiw person's new title* is forgotten— h b, 
however, wortli remembering — "Salvador del mundot" crediu, poslerit 
If this be the appeiiation annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to the 
■ame of a man who has not yet siived them— query— are they worth saving, 
even in this world f for, acconling to (he mildest modifications of any Chris- 
tian creed, those threo wonis make the odds much ag-ainat them in the next. — 
" Saviour of the world," quotha ! — it were to be wished that he, or »ny one 
•l«;, could save a jonier of it— liis country. Yet this stupi''. misnomer, 
although it shows th» near connexion between superstition and impiety, so 
»ai has Its use, that it proves there cau be little to dread from those Catholics 
fir> |Ui»ii<ir!:i'. Ciitiolic* loo) who cm c/infer such an appellation on a Pro- 
'■slant. I 4iippo«; lu-xt yeur he will be eiilitle<l the " Virgin Mary : " if so, 
fjort G'-orge (iordon hiinaelf would have nothing to object to wicti liheraj 
}a)( •n<.< nf nur '^dv of fiubylvn. 



Hail, nimble nymph 1 to whom the ycunghnssai 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes ; 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ^ — beneath whose bax: xia 
A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's* fame 
Cock'd — f red and miss'd his man — but gain'd hit 

aim; 
Hail moving muse ! to whom the fair one's biea«t 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To " energize the object I pursue," 
And give both Belial and his dance their due ! 

Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine, 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
Long be thine import from all dut)' free, 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee ; 
In sojne few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart ; 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swimS) 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh Germany ! how much to thee we owe, 

As heaven-bom Pitt can testify below, 

Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 

And only left us thy d — d debts and dances ! 

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 

We bless thee still — for George the Third is left ! 

Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth. 

For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 

To Germany, and highnesses serene, 

Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 

To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 

So oft bestowing Brunswickcrs and brides; 

Who paid for vulgar, vidth her royal blood, 

Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 

Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults— 

A dozen dukes — some kings — a queen-~and Walta. 



But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's 



fiat! 



Back to my theme — Muse of motion ! say, 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 

Borne on the breath of Hyperborean gales, 
From Hamburg's port, (Avhile Hamburg yet '. 

mails,) 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburgh — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or starting from her slumbers, deign' 1 arise, 
Heligoland ! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unbumt Moscow* yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 



• The patriotic arson of oor amiable allies cannot be rifficienlly c 
—nor subscribed for. Among other details omitted :u the viuic is dexpateliOi 
of our eloquent ambassador, he did not state, (be ur uo much octupietl whfc 

the exploitt of Col. C , in swimming riveis fr..ien, and jallcplnj oref 

roads impiissable,) that one entire province penshed by fiunine in Ui<! moit 
melancholy manner, a* follows: — In General Rusuipchin's consuiiunate coa* 
flagration, the consumption of UiUow and trtin oil was so ^reat, that tl» 
market was inadequate to the demand ; and thta one hundred and thirty 
three thou«iiid persons were starved to death, by leing rci'-uccl to whol» 
some diet I The lamplighters of London have since sufBirit* J a pjnt (of oCJ 
a piece, and the tallow -ch;uidleTs have unanimously votetla ^uar'Jty of h<f» 
moulds ((bur to the pound) to the relief of the surviving Scyth-t ii»- ♦>j 
Karcity will soon, ty such eiertioiu, and a proper attention to U.* ^yA'^^^ 



THE WALTZ. 



4t>S 



She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 

Of true despatches, and as true gazettes; 

Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 

VVTiich Moniteur nor Morning Post can match : 

And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news— 

T'^n plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 

One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 

And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 

Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 

Like Lapland vitches to ensure a wind ; 

Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 

Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 

Deligthful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 

The welcome vessel reaoh'd the genial strand. 

And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 

Not decent David, when, before the ark, 

His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 

Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 

The knight's fandango, friskier than it ought ; 

Not soft Herodias, when v/ith winning tread 

Her nimble feet danced ol another's head ; 

Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 

Display'd so much of leff, or more of 7ieck, 

Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 

Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 

Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 

To you of nine years less, who only bear 

The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 

With added ornaments around them roll'd 

Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 

To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 

To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match : 

To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 

Always the ladies, and sometimes theif lords ; 

To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 

Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 

As Love v>r Hymen your endeavors guide. 

To gain your own, or snatch another's bride;— 

To one and all the lovely stranger came, 

And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Wultz ! — to thy more melting tune 

Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadox)n. 

Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 

Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 

Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands. 

Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 

Hands which may freely range in public sight 

Where ne'er before- but — pray "put out the light." 

Methinks the glare 'o; yonder chandelier 

Bhinci much too far — or I am much too near : 

And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this 

remark, 
»♦ My slippery steps are safest in the dark ! " 
But here the nmse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time ! 
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime ! 
say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing group — 
Columbia's capcrcrs to the warlike whoop — 



Mlier than Iho qimiiiiiy ot proTiiimi, bn lolully uIIrvIuumI. U I 
^ini, U:i<t the untoucluHl (Jkniiiif liiit milacrltjed lixiy ttiouiiiiid 
'ny'» ineul to our «uller!iig iiiikiiul'.ictiitvra. 

IVudiiK gl U— who (Jo tot huv wliut Wulu iloih irrnti*. 



i, in n 
at for 



Can aught from cold Kamscatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after waltz be borne ? 
Ah no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for " W tltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
With George the Third's — and ended long before !- 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive . 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host ; 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake ; 
No stifl-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage,* women in their shape ;) 
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore i 
Werter — to decent vice though much inclined. 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind- 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practice what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of " WalU .•' 
Blest was the time Waltz chosp for her d''but 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new;f 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards , 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bioai 
New coins (most new *) to follow those that fled 
New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success ; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well. 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 



* Itcaiinoilie complained now, iis in tlie l.mJy Biuissiere's time,* iM 
" Sieur de U\ Croix," ihiil tliert- be " no wtiitken ; " but hc-w far theae vrs 
iiKliciiiionn of vnlor in tlie field, or elsewhore, m^y ttiil be qiwitioLiiile. 
Mu(h may be and tiiitfi been iivpuched on Lv.h wdvs. In (be o Jo« di-K 
phiiusiiphcni had whi»l(en, and snldU-n nunc — Scipio hiiuBt-lf wu *\u.\ to 
HaimiUd ihouglit liis one eye handsnino enough wllhouta l<ear(l ; bin Adrinn, 
the emperor, wore a Ix-anl (having waru on bis chin, wliich iK'itlu'r tlva 
t^Mipn-HS Sablna nor even llie cuiirtiarii could abi le) — 'I'urenne hiid whiiAu™, 
MarllioroMgli none — BuonapAne ib iniwliiil<ert-d, Iho Hef^MU wlilsktied r 
" argal " grralnen> urmuul and wliial«-r« may or may not gr oget icr : but 
cerbunly the diilen-iil occnrrence*, since iTie growth of the last ncntione.1, gm 
further In belialf of whiskiini than tlio anatliema of Anaebn dkl afomal kmf 
hair in the reisfn of Henry 1. 

F'orrnerly red waa a tavorit* color. See Lodowick Bnrrvy't comedy of Ran 
Alley, 1661, Act I. Sc-ne I. 

" TaJftUi. Now, (or a wager — Wiiat colored lK>ard cornea uexl by the 
window ? 

" Adrinno. A blacV man'i, I think. 

<■ 'l>ifftta. I think not to ; I think a r«rf, for that la inoM in faihkii " 

Tin re 4» " nntlung new under the tun j " but rvd, Uien a/iMrarl<,hM 
now ■iiIhIiIihI into a /aporiu'* color. 

t An anaclimniiMi— Walu and the Uitlle of Au»terliU ure befoiv uld to 
have 0|iened the bttll together : the Uinl ni«nna, (if lie nirnni any thhig, 
Walu wiu not lo iiiucli in vognr (ill the ItegiMit utlainid tlie acme nf hia |iop 
uliirity. V^'altt, the comet, Whiiken, and tlie new guveniii.ent, Ul<imiiiul«d 
heaven and e:vnh, in all thrlr glory, much alwiit the •nine limr : u( Ibeae Ihf 
couiPl only haj diw)ipe(umi ; the other tliree continue (o :tau>nlali u« MlU.— 
PrtnVtr't Ihvii. 

I Amung oil em n new ninrpence— • eredltablo coiu no<r fbrtlicvtjU»c 
worth a uouiul, iu |i.(|iri, al the failtwt CalcuiiMiou 



486 



BORON'S WORKS. 



New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis tnie, 
Though they be old, the thiiiy is something new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks,*) 
Now white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all 

new sticks ! 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue. 
New tioopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 

So saith the muse — my ,t Avhat say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 

Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 

Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 

Hoops are no more, and petticoats tiot much ; 

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 

And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 

The ball begins — the honors of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse. 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — [mien. 

With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloucester's 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free. 

That spot where hearts^ w^ere once supposed to be ; 

Round all the confines of the yielded waist. 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they tiip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip : 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand. 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank, 

The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir Such-a-cne — with those of fashion's host. 

For whose biest surnames — vide " Morning Post; " 

(Or if for that impaHial print too late, [date,) 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my 

Thus all and each, in movement soft or slow, 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 



" Oh that right should thus overcome might ! " Who does not remem- 
oer the "daliciUe iiiTestigution " in the " Merry Wives of Windsor? " 

"Ford. Pniy you, conip near: if 1 suspect without cause, why tlien 
DUibc sport at me ; tlien let me be your jesl ; I deserve it. How now ? 
srLjJier be:ir you tliis ? 

" Mrs. Ford. What h.xve yeu to do whilher they bear it 1— you were 
best me.ldle witli bucit-washiiig." 

t The gvntle, ■ r f-rocious reader, rf.ay fill up the bliink as he please»— 
tliere are sevt r»l dissyllabic names at his service, (Ijeing aln-ady In the Re- 
gent's:) it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial a°^ainst the alphabet, 
t^ evjry month will add to the list now entered for the sweepstakes : — a dis- 
tinj^iished constmanl is saiil to be the favorite, much against the wishes of 
Jhe Kruyaing ones. 

X " We have chauged all that," says the Mock Doctor— 'tis all gone — 
Awiidoeus knows wberfc. After all, it is of no great importance liow women's 
K^irts are disposed of; they have nature's privJleL'^e to distribute them as ab- 
jL-.-iily as possible. But there are also •some men with hearts so thoroughly 
tofi, a* to renun>'. ub of those phenomena often mentioned in natural history; 
(it a rati* of solid stone— only to b» opened by for ■- — anti when divided, you 
li»^7e: a toad ia tlte t«i tre, lively, and witli tlie reputation of beiug veu- 
amona. 



Till some might marvel with the modest T'xrk, 
If " nothing follows all this palming work ? "♦ 
True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rhym^ 
Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 

Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 

And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign taste tOM 

will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
Pronounce — ^if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ; 
To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
Flush in the cheek and languish in the eyes. 
Rush to the heart and lighten through the frame, 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame ; 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast— 
WTio, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be or ought ; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied. 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine i 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch — to tainl : 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more. 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Vpluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blasphemt- i 

Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 

Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball 

My wife 7ioio waltzes — and my daughters shall; 

My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 

These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 

Some ages hence'our genealogic tree 

Will wear as green a bBugh for him as me) — 

Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 

Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 



* In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and tuperfluou* qiicstiao 
literally put, as in the text, cy a Pewian to Morier ou ae^vaa; a wa'-.; .n Pe» 
—VicU Morier't Traatlt. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE; 

OB, 

OARMEN SECULARS ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILI8 



** Impu QmgTMtfds Achflll." 



I. 

Ihb " good old times " — all times when old an 

good — 
Aj-e gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 
A wider space, a greener field, is given 
To those who play their *' tricks before high heayen.' 
I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 

II. 

All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
His very rival almost deem'd him such. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face— 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
As the deep billows of the iEgean roar 
Betwixt thellellenic and the Phrygian shore; 
But where are they — the rivals ? — a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
Which overswceps the world. The theme is old 
Of " Dust to dust ; " but half its tale untold: 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form, 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
Though Cleopatra's munfmy cross the sea 
D'er which from empire she lured Antony; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown, 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
(£now8 not his name, or but his death, aad birth, 



And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation save its peace. 
He " wept for worlds to conquer ! " he who ne er 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 

III. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kmgs. 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings. 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ? 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 

thrones ? 
Whose table earth — ^whose dice were human bones I 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smi1« 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the quoUer of the nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings i 
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's statement, and an earl's harangues 
A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the tamer of the great. 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The palty jailer and the prying spy, 
The staling stranger with his note-book nigh ? 
Plunged in a dungeon, he hud still been grent 
How low, how little was this middle state, 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for what he had to bear ' 



488 



BTf RON'S WORKS. 



Vain his complaint,— my lord presents his bill, 
His food and wine were doled out duly still : 
Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 
Bo free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause. 
Hath lost his place, and.gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art : 
Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sii-e shall ne'er embrace, 
None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 
SmiJe — for the fetter'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And Higher worlds than this are his again. 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 

A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 

How must he smile, on looking down, to see 

The little that he was and sought to be ! 

What though his name a wider emp se found 

Than his ambition, though Avith scarce a bound ; 

Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 

He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 

Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 

From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape : 

How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 

The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 

What though his jailer, duteous to the last. 

Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 

Refusing one poor line along the lid, 

To date the birth and death of all it^id; 

That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 

A talisman to all save him who bore ; 

The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 

Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 

When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise. 

Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 

The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 

Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 

And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 

Do more than niggard envy still denies. 

But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 

Toucli the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 

Small cave hath he of what his tomb consists ; 

Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 

Alike the l;etter-seeing Shade will smile 

On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 

As if his ashes found their latest home 

In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 

He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 

Of this last consolation, though so scant; 

Her lionor, fame, and faith demand his bones, 

To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 

3r carried onward in the battle's van. 

To form, like Guesclin's * dust, her talisman. 

Bui be it as it is — the time may come 

His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum. 



Oh heaven ! of which he was in power a feature; 
Oh earth ! of whicli he was a noble creature ; 
Thou isle \ to be remcmber'd long and well, 
That saw'st the unfledg'd eaglet chip his shell ! 



• Gui.sclin died duriinf the »lege of a city ; it surrendered, and tne lcey» 
Frre broii^lit and laid upoD his bier, ao tliat Uie place might appear rendered 



Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flightb 

Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 

Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Csesar's deeds outdcue 

Alas ! why past he too the Rubicon — 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites :■ 

Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 

And shook within their pyramids to hear 

A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 

Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Behold the desert peopled, as from hell. 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sa»vd 

To re-manure the uncultivated land ! 

Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Behold his banner touting thy Madrid ! 

Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en canital 

Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic ! Frederic but in name 

And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt 

Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel past, 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim. 

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name, 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear. 

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear- 

Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs, and of their czar. 

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets ! 

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen teal 

To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match. 

To this the peasant: gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store. 

The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 

Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tam^ , 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 

For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height ; 

Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, in which all empires shall expire ' 

Thou other element ! as strong and stern. 

To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn 

Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 

Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 

How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 

Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ; 

In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 

For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ' 

In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 

Her youth — their blood flows faster than eel 

wines ; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mummies on tiic Polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
Her offspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken 
Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car; 
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in '&.>u. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



489 



LutKen, whore fell the Swede of victory, 

BehoMs him conquer, but, alas ! not die ; 

Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 

Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before ; 

But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 

And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 

The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 

To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's, guide ; 

And backward to the den of his despair 

The forest monaroh shrinks, but finds no lair ! 

Oh ye ! and each, ind all ! Oh France ! who found 

Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground, 

Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 

His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 

Look'd down o'er trambled Paris ! anl thou Isle, 

Which seest litruria from thy ramparts smile, 

Thou momentary shelter of his pride. 

Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride ! 

Oh France ! retaken by a single march. 

Whose path was through one long tiiumphal arch ! 

Oh bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 

Which proves how fv^ols may have their fortune too. 

Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 

Oh dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailer nigh — 

Hear ! hear Prometheus* from his r; ck appeal 

To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 

His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 

A name eternal as the rolling year ; 

He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 

So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 

A single step into the right had made 

This man the Washington of worlds betray'd : 

A single step into the wrong has given 

His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 

The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 

Of fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 

His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 

Without their deer it dignity of fall. 

Yet Vanity hersch had better taught 

A surer path even to the fame he sought, 

By pointing out on history's fruitless page 

Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 

While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 

Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven. 

Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 

Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; 

While Washington's a watchword such as ne'er 

Shall sink while there's an echo left to air : 

While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 

Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 

Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 

Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 

The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 

Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 

The very fetters which his arm broke through, 

Ajid crush'd the rights of Europe and his own, 

lo flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 'twill not be — the spark's awaken'd — lo ! 
The swarthy Sjjaniard feels his former glow ; 
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
Through eiglit long ages of alternate gore 
Kevivcs — and where ? in that avenging clime 
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime, 



I refnr tt^ mader to thn flnt ndilrfH ul Pniiii«thfu« In ^^nctiyliii, whrn 
te ta loA aloiM ^f hii MtUMidaiiti, and LcKtu lh< urriiruj uf Ibo Ctiurua ul Uca 

62 



Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flev, 

The infant woild redeems her name of " New* 

'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh. 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 

Where Greece wai; — No ! she still is Greece no morn 

One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 

Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 

On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd, 

The self-same standard streams o'er either world; 

The Athenian weais again Harmodius' sword; 

The Chili chief abjiu'es his foreign lord ; 

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique i 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore. 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 

Sweep lightly by the half-tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would faiq 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye. 

Break o'er th' -^gean, mindful of the day 

Uf Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise. 

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 

By Cl^ristians, unto whom they gave their creed. 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 

The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can 

show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe, 
But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece 
Not the Barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set the nations free ? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
'Than sv/ell the Cossack's prowling caravan ; 
Better still toil for master's, than await, 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,— 
Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
liOtted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the first courtier in the czar's regard ; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 
Better succumb even to their own despair. 
And drive the camel than purvey the be;ir. 

VII. 

but not alone within the hoariest clime 

Where Freedom dates her birth with that of T!m5 

And not alone, where, plunged in night, a ciowd 

Of Incas darken to a dubioiis chnid, 

The dawn revives : renown'd, romantic Spain 

Holds back the invader from her soil again. 

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 

Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 

Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears, 

The warlike fathers of a tlumsHnd years. 

'J'hiit seed is sown and reap'd. as oft the Mooi 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the jjoasant's song or pod's page ' 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage; 

The Zegri, and the captive fictors, Hung ft]irun^ 

Back to the barbarous realm from wheuce they 



490 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But tLese are gone — their faith, their swords, their 

sway, 
Yet left more antichristian foes than they ; 
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
The inquisition, with her burning feast, 
The faith's red " autos" fed with human fuel. 
While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
Enjoying, with inexorable eye. 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or bo L 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth ; 
The lo)ig degenerate noble ; the debased 
£Iidalgo. and the peasant less disgraced, 
Bat moT'? degraded ; the unpeopled realm; 
The once proud navy which forgot the helm; 
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 
Save hers who earned it with the natives' gore ; 
The very language which might vie with Rome's, 
And once was known to nations like their home's. 
Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 
But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not m vain 
Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain! " * 
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. 
And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
The exterminating war, the desert plain, 
The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 
For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
Waving ber more than Amazonian blade, 
The knife of Arragon,t Toledo's steel ; 
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 
Buch have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 
And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France ! 

VIII. 

But lo ! a Congress ! What ! that hallow'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise. 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
The prophets : f young Freedom, summon'd far 
From climes '' Washington and Bolivar; 
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the 1 hilip of the s.,as ; 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade. 
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake. 
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
But M?Ao compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assign'd 
To councils held to benefit mankind ! 



• "St. lago I and elo«e Spain I " the old Spttnish watery, 
t Tl» Anraf iniaii* are peculiarly dexleroua in the uk of tbia weapoD,i 
U^ayed < i^niculat"'/ )u fcrmei French vraw. 



Who now assemble at the holy call ' 

The blest Alliance, which says three are all 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one-^ 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 

Cared little, so that they were dxdy fed ; 

But these, more hungry, mus* have something luoit 

The power to bark and bite, \'j tost and goie. 

Ah ! how much happier were good -Esop's &ogs 

Than we ! for ours are animated logs. 

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 

And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 

All duly anxious to leave little work 

Unto the revolutionary stork. 

lA. 

Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 

Honor'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ; " 

Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great, 

"Can Grande," (which I venture to translate,) 

To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 

Arid Dante's exile sheltcr'd by thy gate ; 

Thy go^d ol 1 man,* whose W'irld was all within 

Thy wall, i-or knew the country held him in : 

Would that the royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 

To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 

The comedy is not upon the stage ; 

The show is rich in ribandry and stars. 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon baiB! 

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

F T thus much still thy fettered hands are free ' 

X. 

Res; lencent sight ! Behold the coxcomb czar, 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 

And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit. 

And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit ; 

Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw , 

With no objection to true liberty, 

Except tliat it would make the nations free 

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, 

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free 

Greece ! 
How nobly gave he back the Polos theur Diet 
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
How kindly would he send the mild' Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain I 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the South long hid! 
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows. 
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's sonl 
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on : 



The %inoua old man of Verona. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



4i) 



Ajid that which Scythia was to him of yo:c 
Und with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youtL, 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 
Many an old woma-j . ou-^. no Catherine.* 
Spain too hath rcckt, and rivers, and defiles — 
The bear may rush int the lion's toils. 
j^'atal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
fhink'st thou to th.e Napoleon's victor yields ? 
iir iter reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
T^ ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir 

hordes, 
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
Than follow headlong in the fatal route. 
To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 
"With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey > 
Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 
Si 111 will he hold his lantern up to scan 
The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 

XI. 
And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
Fefore he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
lit^ars " the lie " echo for his answer round ! 
0':r British commons sometimes deign to '* hear! " 
A (Jallic senate hath more tongue than ear; 
Fi .'en Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Mast fight next day his speech to vin-dicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
Vhat is the simple standing of a shot, 
1 listening long, and interrupting not ? 
Tho\>gh this was not the method of old Rome, 
Whei^. Tully fulniin.:d o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction 'd the transaction, 
In saying eloquence meant •'Action, action ! " 

XII. • 

But Where's the monarch ? hath he dinfd ? ix yet 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
Have revolutionary pates risen. 
And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 
His discontented movements stirr'd the troops; 
Or have no movements foUow'd traitorous soups ? 
Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonudoed 
Each course enough ? or doAors dire diefuadcd 
Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 
I read all France's treason in her cooks ! 
Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say. 
Desirable to be the " Desir^ ? " 
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green 

abode, 
A.pician table, and Horatian ode. 



* Ttia dniteritv of Catherliie •iiiriCHteil Petrr (called the QroRt hy rjuneijr) 
irhM turn jnoMt krf tha McMuunuu on tLe Ijuilu of the ri*«r Pruth. 



To rule a people who ."^ill nv^t be ruled. 

And lova much rather to be scourged thtn s-hc-ol'd? 

Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 

For thrones ; the table sees thee better plated; 

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best. 

To be a kind host and as good a guest, « 

To talk of letters, and to know by heart 

One halfihe poet's, all the gourmand's art 

A scholar always, now and then a wit, 

And gentle when digestion may permit ;— 

But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 

The gout was mai-tyrdom enough for thee 

XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass mthout a phrase 

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 

"Arts — arms — and George — and glory — and tlw 

isles — 
And happy Britain — wealth-^and freedom's smiles — 
"White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with Eagle beak so curl'd. 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world! 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day— 
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm '— 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform."! 
These are the themes th\is sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near. 
There's no occasion you should find them he:?. 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyina 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit. 
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a -wit. 
And never, even in that dull house could'st tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flar-ie; 
Our last, our best, our only orator. 
Even I can praise thee — tories do no m.ore ; 
Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, ni?.i, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awe.,. 
The hounds will gather to the huu-sman's hollo, 
And where he leads the duteous pi».k will follow j 
But not for love mistake their yeiling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the foiu footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secui-e, 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumblf, kick, and now and then stick fast 
With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 

XIV. 
Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
Bewail her now 7«u'ountry gentlemen ? 
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
The first to make a malady of peace. 
For what were all these ooui.try patiiots bom I 
To hunt, and vote, and nioe the price of ooru t 
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, 
Kings, conquerors, ami u.arkets most of all 



TbB Bmiwu kppllet It to om whr uhvIt waa UnimkMM li kw 



492 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 

Why would you trouble Bonaparte's reign ? 

He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices [prices ; 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your 

He amplified to every lord's content 

The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent. 

Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 

And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 

Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 

The man was worth much more upon his throne. 

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt ; 

But what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 

And acres told upon the appointed day. 

But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 

The purseproud tenant, never known to fail ? 

The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 

The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? 

The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 

The doubling rental ? What an evil's peace ! 

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 

Jn vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 

The landed interest — (you may understand 

The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 

The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 

For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 

Up; up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 

Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 

Antl patriotism, so delicately nice. 

Her loaves will lower to the market price; 

b'or ah! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 

Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 

And nought remains of all the millions spent, 

Excepting to grow moderate and content. 

They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 

About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 

Now let their virtue be its own reward, 

And share the blessing which themselves prepared. 

Bee these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. 

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 

Tl:^ir fields manured by gore of other lands ; 

Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 

Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent! 

Year after year they voted cent, per cent., 

Blood sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for 

rent ! 
They roar'd, they dined, they di-ank, they swore 

they meant 
To die for England — why then live ? for rent ! 
The peace has made one general malecontent 
Of thf se high-market patriots ; war was rent . 
riieir love of country, millions all misspent, 
Ho%v reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, hea.th, wealth, joy, or discontent. 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent ! 
Ihou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess ; 
Thou should'st have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Buch, landlords ! was your appetite for war. 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
What ! would they spread their ear;hquake even 

o'er cash ? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm pa ;. er crash? 
?ic rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? 



Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, • 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gona, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
o'vorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
/."'Other Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
1. nd why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 
i^nu prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;' 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson oi their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
Adrnire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : — pray who made it high ? 

XV. 

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 

The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper or imagined gold. 

That magic palace of Alcina shows 

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose. 

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore. 

And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 

Ihere Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake. 

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 

How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, 

Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines : 

i7o land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 

But let us not to own the truth refuse. 

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

A:' ' now, ye kings 1 they kindly draw your own ; 

_L states, all things, all sovereigns they control, 

• .r i waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 

Tl^e banker — broker — baron — ^brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor these alone : Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success ; ' 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain, 

Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march; 

'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arelk. 

T vo Jews, a chosen people, can command 

i.;. c-rcry reairii their scrip<-"i-e-promised land : — 

Two Jews keep down the Rv^mans, and uphold 

The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old • 

Two 7ews — but not Samaritan's — direct 

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 

What is the happiness of earth to them ? 

A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 

Where baronies and orders both invite — 

Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 

Thy f dIi Dwers mingling with these royal swine, , 

Whc spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 

But honor them as portion of the show — 

(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 

Could it not favor Judah with some kicks ? 

Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?' 

On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh. 

To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of fiesiu 

XVI. 

Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 
All that's incongi-uous, all that's opposite. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



iU 



£peak rv: ' o: the sovereigns — tney're alike, 
A commcL coin as ever mint could strike : 
But those who sway the puppet^-, pull the strings, 
If are more of motley t' an tks'.r heavy kings. 
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 
While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
Ther) Metternich, powei's foremost parasite, 
Cajobs ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 
Theie Chateaubriand forms new books of martyr's ; 
And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters. 
Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 
To furnish articles for ** the Debats ; " 
Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure i 
As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 
A' -.s ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 
C i.i peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again 
"Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain." 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
Th3 imperial victim — sacrifice to pride, 
Th? mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
The young Astyanax of modern Troy; 
T' e Gtill pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
1 •- at earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 
fcle flits amid the phantoms of the hour, 
1' e tLeme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
Oh, cruel mockery ! Cov.ld not Austria spare 
A daughter ? W^at did France's widow tnere ? 
Her fitter piace was by Si. Helen's wave, 
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 



• Moniieur Chateaubriand, who ha« not forgotten the author in the minis- 
ler, Tcceiyei) a handaome compliment at Verona from a literary sorerei jn : 

■* Ah I M snsieuT J , are you related to that Chateaubriand who— 

k1if>— bttf writtan »omething f " (6erit quelqut ehoae I J It is aaiU that >>>a 
MCbfv of itaia rapcioed hiiu bt % moraam of hii teghinaey. 



The martial Argus, whose r»3t hundre I eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry j-ageantriei. 

What though she share no more, and shared in vain 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas ; 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 

Where Parma views the traveller resort 

To note the trappings of her mimic court. 

But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 

Of all her beams — while nations gaze and moam 

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 

To chill in their inhospitable cfKme ; 

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; 

But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould;; 

She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 

Nor Homer's) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans I 

Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 

Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through. 

Is offer'd and accepted 1 Could a slave 

Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new giave ! 

Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 

And he ex-empress grows as ex a wife ! 

So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 

Why spare men's feelings, when their own are Jesui 

XVIII. 

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home. 

And sketch the group — the picture's yet to com« 

My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt, 

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 

While throng'd the chiefs of every highland clan 

To hail their brother, A^'ich Ian Alderman ! 

Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar. 

While all the Common Council cry "Claymore !" 

To see proud Albyn's tartan's as a belt 

Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 

She burst into a laughter so extreme, 

That I awoke — and lo ! 'twas no dream ! 

Here, reader, will we pause ; — if there's no harm bi 
1^18 first — you'll have perhaps, a second "Carmen." 



THE yiSlON OF JUDGMENT 



BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS, 



SrOOFSTED BY THE COMPOSITION 80 ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OP "WAT TTLBR/ 



' A Daniel come to Judgment ! yea, a Daniel I 
1 thank thee, Jew, for teachiog me that wofd." 



PREFACE. 

It hath heen ^visely said, that " One fool makes 
uai^y ; " and it hath been poetically observed, 

'• Thai fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had 
r - b'. dness, and where he never was before, and 
r • ver will be again, the following poem would not 
! ;.ve been written. It is not impossible that it may 
t - :.s good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any 
s; frcies of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. 
T • gross flattei-;, the dull impudence, the renegado 
ir. tolerance, and impious cant of the poem by the 
aathor of Wat Tyler, are something so stupendous 
as to form the sublime of himself — containing the 
quintessence of his o-vvn attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In 
this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate 
t'^ draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic School," 
'J - which he doth recommend to the notice of the 
1: _. !.:lature ; thereby adding to his other laurels the 
u-r.bition of those of an informer. If there exists any 
where, excepting in his imagination, such a school, 
is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own 
intense vanity ? The truth is, that there are certain 
writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have 
* tfilked of him ; for they laughed consumedl^'." 

I thnik I know enough of most of the wiiters to 
whom ho is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, 
in their individual capacities, have done more good 
in the charities of life io their fellow-creatures in 
any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to 
himself b^ his absurdities in his whole life ; and 
this is saying a great deal. JBut I have a few ques- 
tions to ask. 

letly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler ? 

2dly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
tighcst judge of his beloved England, because it 
vits a blasphe:iiouB and seditious publication ? 



3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in 
full parliament, '* a rancorous renegado ? " 

4thly. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines 
on Martin the regicide staring him m the face ? 

And othly. Putting the four preceding items to** 
gether, with what conscience dare he call the atten 
tion of the laws to the publication of jthers, be 
they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceed- 
ing ; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to 
touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor 
less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in 
some recent publications, as he was of yore in the 
*' Anti-jacobin " by his present patrons. Hence all 
this '• skimble-scamble stuff" about " Satanic," and 
so forth. However, it is worthy of him — " QualU 
ab incepto." 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political 
opinions of a portion of the public in the following 
poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might 
have written hexameters, as he has written every 
thing else, for aught that the writer cared — had* 
they been upon another subject. But to attempt to 
canonize a monarch, who, whatever were his house- 
hold \'irtues, was neither a successful nor a~ patriot 
king — inasmuch as several years of his reign passed 
in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of 
the aggressions upon France, — like all other exag 
geration, necessarily begets opposition. In what- 
ever manner he may be spoken of in this new 
"Vision," his jntblic career will not be more favor- 
ably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues 
(although a little expensive to the nation) there can 
be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages 
treated of, I can only say, that I know as much 
about them, and (as an honest man) have a better 
right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have 
also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which 
that poor insane creature, the laureate, deals abour 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



495 



his judgment m the next world, is like his own 
judgment in this. If it was not completely ludi- 
crous, it would be something worse I don't think 
that there is much more to say at present. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

;.*. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, 
in these objectionable times, to the freedom with 
which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse 
in this "Vision." But for precedents upon such 
points 1 must refer him to Fielding's "Journey 
from this World to the Next," and to the Visions 
of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or trans- 
lated. The reader is also requested to observe, 
that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or dis- 
cussed ; that the person of the Deity is carefully 
withheld from sight, which is more than can be niid 
for the laureate, who hath thought proper to make 
him talk, not "like a school divine," but like the 
unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action 
passes on the outside of heaven ; and Chaucer's 
Wife of Bath, Puhi's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's 
Tale of a Tub, and the other works above referred 
t'>, are cases in point of the freedom with which 
saints, &c., may be permitted to converse in ^vojks 
not intended to be se. ious. Q. R. 

*^* Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good 
Christian and vindictive, threatens, I understai;d, 
a reply to this our answer. It is to be hoped that 
his vigionary faculties will in the meantime have 
acquired a little more judgment, properly so called: 
otherwise he will get himself into new dilemmas. 
These apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoiuviers. 
Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudcth 
•grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much 
private renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and 
not long ago, the poet laureate dedicated to him, it 
appeareth, one of his fugitive lyrics, upon, the 
strength of a poem called Gebir. Who could sup- 
pose that in this same Gebir the aforesaid Savage 
Landor (for siich is his grim cognomen) putteth into 
the infernal regions no less a person than the hero 
of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — yea, even 
George the Third ! See also how personal Savage 
becometh, when he hath a mind. Ihc following is 
his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : 

,-PTinct Gebir hajnng detcervled into the infernal region*, tf^ t'^Ut 
Qif \iM royal aricestort are, al his requett, called up to las vif^, a>wl 
he txclairnt to his ghosHy guide) — 

" Arotir, whit wrt'ich th «t ni'iirett ii» f what wrettJo 
Ii thiit with cyfibrow* \vhit<^ unci sliiiitiiiop brow .' 
Liati'n I liim yomlfir, who, Itouiid itowii iiipine, 
Bhrinki y.'lliii j fr»m tlmt jworcl thi\re, eng^iii.'-huiiw. 
lie tou Hinoiig my nnr^'xtom I I hate 
The (IcipjOt, hilt thr- iliuAanl I ilr-ap|ie, 
Wa» he our <> • '.ityman f " 

"Aliu, Okln|r| 
Iberia bora ^^ln, but Iho broeil Hcciim 
ii-clpmi'Ml wlrili tili'W lili^hlhig from northcMl.'-' 
"He wnj ti v.- .irlor Ihrn, uorTmird the ptxiif " 
G«bir, J<e r.,Ar'(l the dcnioni, not the godi, 
I'hiv^gh IfiPm hideeJ hit <W\\y face ml.iretl j 
ind WM no wnrrior, yi-t the thuiMnnd lives 
F.Miaiidrr'd, n* vtonoi to ezcrclie n lliiif , 
And the inme cruelty nnil cold cuprico — 
Oh umdiwii ui iimiikiiul I nddruu'd, adoi«d '. °*- <9.iir, {>. C3. 

I omit noticing some Edifying Ithyphalllca cf 
Savagiua, wishing to keep tho proper veil oyer 
them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet wi»rj!.ip- 
per will suffer it ; but c( /t'linly these teachers of 
•♦ great moral lessons " are apt to be found in 
«tT mge company. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate ; 

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
So little trouble had been given of late ; 

Not that the place by any means was full, 
But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight" 

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull 
And " a pull altogether," as they say 
At sea — which drew most souls another way 

II. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or curb a runaway young star or two, 

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 

Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale 

III. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on hign, 
Finding their charges past all care below ; 

Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 
Save the recording angel's black bureau : 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
With such rapidity of vice and wo, 

That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quilltt 

And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

ly. 

His business so augmentea of late years. 
That he was forced, against his will, no doobt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
For some resource to turn himself about, 

And claim the help of his celestial peers. 
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 

By the increased demand lor his remarks : 

Six angels and twelve saints were named his cleiki 



This was a handsome board — at least for heaven, 
And yet they had even then enough to do. 

So many conquerors' cars were daily di'iven. 
So many kingdoms fitted up anew. 

Each day too 'slew its thousands six or seven, 
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 

They threw their pens down in divine disgust— 

The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 

VI. 

This by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 

AVhat angels shrink from : even the very devi.'' 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with the infernal revel; 

Though he himself had sharpen'd every swora^ 
It almost quench'd hia innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion— 

"Tis, that he hath both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 
Let's skip a few short yejurs of hollow peace, 

Wliioh peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 
And heaven none — thoy form'd the tyrant'^ lease. 
With nothing but m^w names snbscrib'd upon't; 
'Twill one day finish: mcantim"; thf»v increase, 
" With seven headii and ten horns," and all ib 
front, 
Like Saint John's foretold beast : but ours are boni 
I Less f^^rm^d!ll^l^• in th<' head than horn. 



496 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn 
Died George the Third ; although no tjTant, one 

Who shielded t}Tants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun: 

A. better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died; — but left his subjects still behind, 

One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 

IX. 

He died I — his death made no great stir on earth, 
His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
Of a'ight but tears — save those shed by collusion, 

For these things may be bought at their true worth ; 
Of elegy ther^ was the due infusion — 

Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and hammers, 

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 



Fonn'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the wo. 

There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced 
the pall ; 
A.nd, when the -,orgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XI. 

So mix his body with tae dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 
He s dead — and upper earth with him has done : 

He's buried ; save the undertaker's I ill, 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, unless he left a German will,; 
But Where's the proctor who will ask his son ? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still. 
Except that household virtue, most uncouinion. 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 

" God save the king ! " It is a large economy 
In God *o save the like ; but if he will 

Be saving all the better ; for not one am I 
Of those who think damnation better still : 

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
In this small ^ope of bettering future ill 

By circumscribing, with some slight restriction. 

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

XIV. 

I kno .? this is unpopular ; I kn w 

'Tis bla^iphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church have 
shamm'd. 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
^d synagogues hare made a damn'd bad purchase. 



XV. 

God help us all ! God help me too ! I nm, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can idth. 

And not a whit more difilcult to damn 

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish 

As one day mil be that immortal fry 

Of almost every body born to die. 

XVI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when lo ! there came 
A wond'rous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and fiame* 
In short, a roar i-f things extremely great, [claim 

Which would have made aught save a saiSit ex 
But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
Said, "There's another star gone out, I think! ** 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp.'d his right mng o'er his eyes— 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose; 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise ! " 

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes . 

To which the saint replied, " Well, what's the 
matter ? 

Is Lucifer come back vAth. all this clatter ? " 

XVIII. 
"No," quoth the cherub; "George the Third is 
d^ad." [apostle : 

" And who is George the Third ? " replied the 
'*\rhat Georiiel lohat Third f" "The king o\ 
England," said 
The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
Because the l^st r/e saw here had a tustle, 
Aud ne'er would have got into heaven's good 
Kad he not flung his head in -all our faces, [graces 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France ; 

Ti.at bead of his, which could not keep a crown 
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 

A claim to tho;:e of martyrs — like my own : 
If 1 had had ray sword, as I had once 

TVIien I cut ears off", I had cut him down ; 
■'ut having but my keys, and not my brand, 
I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 

" And then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him in, 

And there h; sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl; 
That fel'ow Paul — the parTCiiu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which malics his co^l 
In heaven, and upon earth redcom'd his sin, 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Jetter than did this weak and wooJen head. 

XXI. 

«• But had it come up here upon its shouldero, 
There would have been a different tale to teU 

The fnllovr-feeling in the saints* beholders 
Peems to have acted on them like a spell; 

An:l 80 this very foolish head heaven solders 
Bat-k on its trunk : li may be very well. 

And seems the custonr. hf re to overthrow 

WhatcTer has been Tyist-^y uone below " 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



497 



xxn. 

Fhe angel inswer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And nerer knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt, 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do.** 

XXIII. 

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan. 
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 

Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 

Or Thames, or Tweed,) and 'mid them, an old man 
\P'ith an old soul, and both extremely blind. 

Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 

S«ated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV. 

But bringing up the rear of this might host 

A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
ll's wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
And tofiere he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate. 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate. 
And sweated through his apostolic skin, 

Of course hia perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddled altogether. 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
And form'd a circle like Orion's belt [whither 

Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes, (for by many stories, 

And true, we learn the angels all are tones.) 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 

Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges 
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 

Aurora borealis spread its fringes [bound, 

O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice- 
By Captain Parry's crews, in " Melville's Sound." 

XXVIII. 
ind from the gat© thrown open issued beaming 

A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 

Victorious front, some world-o'erthrowing fight: 
My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 

With earthly likenesses, for her the night 
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southev raring. 
63 



XXIX. 

*Twas thp archangel Michael : all men know 
The maxe of angels and archangels, since 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prin3e. 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notionu of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits 

XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom, all glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he stood; 

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoarj, 
(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bowed down before 

That archangelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nurst 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, dozst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky 

XXXII. 
He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 
Such was their power, that neither could forget 

His former friend and future foe ; but still 
There was a high, immortal, proud regret 

In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
Than destiny to make the eternal years 
Their date of war, and their "champ clot** thf 
spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But nere they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, that Satan hath the powei to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 

Must keep him company ; and we might show, 
From the same book, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the Powers 

Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up horn 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract. 
To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic 

If Job be allegory or a fact. 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

'Tis every tittle tAie, beyond suspicion. 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven : like eastern thresholds il 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'<« 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 

And thrrefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil ri«{.t'ct: though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness aud his Brightnasa 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great po'itenaae 



498 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVI. 
The Archangel bow'd, not like a modem beau, 

But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
He tum'd as to an equal, not too low. 
But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXYII, 
He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; .and then raising it, he stood 
In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 

Cause why King George by no means could or 
Make out a case to be exempt from wo [should 

Eternal, more than other kings, endued [tions. 
With better sense and hearts, whom history men- 
Who long have " paved hell with their good inten- 
tions." 

XXXVIII. 

Michael began: "What wouldst thou with this man. 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What ill 

Bath he wrought since his mortal race began, 
That thou can'st claim him ? Speak ! and do thy 

If it be just : if in this earthly span [will. 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil » 

His duties as a king and mortal, say, 

And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 

XXXIX. 

** Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
Before the gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject; and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 
' Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was, 

Once, more thy master's : but I triumph not 
In this poor pknet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 

Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 
With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 

In worship round him, he may have forgot 
Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 
I think few worth damnation save their kings,— 

XLI. 
" And these but as a kind of quitrent, to 

Assert my right is lord ; and even had 
I such an inclination, 'twere (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad. 
That hell has nothing left to do [mad 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more 
And evil by their own internal curse, 
Hea-'^en cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII. 
"Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor 
worm 
Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign. 

The world and he both wore a different form, 
And much of earth and all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 
Uis isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
for the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 



XLIII. 
" He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old 

Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
And left it ; and his annals too behold, 

How to a minion first he gave the helm : 
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 

The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glan«5e 
Thine eye along America and France. 

XLIV. 

** 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last, 

(I have the workmen safe ;) Out as a tool 
So let him be consumed. For out the past 

Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 

Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars' school, 
Take the worst pupil ; and produce a roign 
More drench'd with gore, more cumbei'd with th 
slain. 

XLV. 
" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes. 
So that they utter'd the word * Liberty ! ' [WhoM 

Found George the Third their first opponent. 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 

With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 

XLVI. 
•' I know he was a constant consort; own 

He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board, ^ 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 

I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well for him, but not for those 
Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XL VII. 
"The New World shook him off; the Old yel 

Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
Completed : he leaves his heirs on many thrones 

To all his vices, without what begot 
Compassion for him — ^his tame virtues ; drones 

Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake I 

XLVIII. 
"Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, imploied 
A part of that vast all they held of old, — 

Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! CoW 

Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 
The foe to Catholic participation 
In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 
" True ! he allow'd them to pray God ; but as 

A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
Which would have placed them upon the same base 

With those who did not hold the saints in awe.'* 
But here Saint Peter started from nis piace, 

And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw: 
Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
While I am guaid may I be damn'd myself ! 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



491 



L. 



* Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
My office (and his is no sinecure) 

Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! " 

* Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 
The wrongs he made your satellites endure ; 

A.nd if to this exchange you should be given, 
I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven. ' 

LI. 
Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil 

Pray, not &d fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : [sion 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in ses- 
Have you got more to say?" — "No." — "If you 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." [please 

LII. 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand. 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 

LIII. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have th» privilege of their damnation 

Extended far oeyond the mere controls 
Of world's past, present, or to come ; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
Of hell assign'd ; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 

LIV. 
They are proud of this — as very well they may. 

It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
Btuck in their loins ; or like to an " entre " 

Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 
I borrow my comparisons from clay. 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 
When the great signal ran from heaven to hell— 

Ab'.ut ten million times the distance reckon'd 
Fforr. our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, evcft to a second, 
For every ray that travels to dispel [con'd. 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly bea- 
The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year, 
If that the summer is not too severe : — 

LVI. 
I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute : 

I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it; 

But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime; 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To X9%q\ its goal — the devil not lialf a day. 



LVII. 
Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear' d, 
(I've seen a something like it in the skies 
In the jEgean, ere a squall;) it near'd, 
And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an atrial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 
Or was steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza si am 
mer ; — 

LVIII. 

But take your choice ;) and then it grew a cloud, 
And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 

But such a cloud I No land e'er saw a crowd 
Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw tnese ; 

They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loil 
And varied cries were like those of wild gees<?, 

(If nations may be liken'd to a goose,) 

And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose " 

LIX, 
Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 

"Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : [wull ?'* 
There Paddy brogued "By Jasus !" — "What's yout 

The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost 
In certain terms I shan't translate in full, [swore 

As the first coachman will ; and 'mid the war. 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express 
" Our President is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides, there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years, and trade^. 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades • 
All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 
When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale. 

As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight. 
He turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail. 

Or sunset streaming through a gothic skylight 
In some old abbey, or a trout not ^tale. 

Or distant lightning on the honzon by night, 
Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Satan : " Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, thocgk 

Our different parties makes us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for & personal foe; 

Our difference iii 2)olifical, and I 
Trust that, whatever may occur below, 

You know my great respect for you ; and thia 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amise— 

LXIII. 

Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 

My call tor witnesses .' I did not mean 
That you should half of earth and hell produce; 

'Tis even superfluous, since two honest cleah. 
True testimoniiUs are enough : we lose 

Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
The accusation and defence : if we 
Hear both, 'twill stretch our inunoitalitv " 



1 

J 



600 



BYRON'S WORKS- 



LXIV. 
Batan replied, " To me the matter is 

Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 
I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone through 
A-lready ; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
Of him ; I've kings enough below, God knows ! " 

LXV. 
Th'is spoke the Demon, (late call'd "multifaced" 

By multo-scribbling Southey.) *• Then we'll call 
One or tAvo persons of the myriads placed 

Around our congress, and dispense vnth. all 
The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so graced 

As to speak first ? there's choice enough — who shall 
It be ? " Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 
But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite, 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Drest in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong. 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 

Assembled, and exclaim'd, ** My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold among these clouds ; 
So let's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 

'Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ?" 

LXVIII. 
" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake : these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
"Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, '* are cherubs ; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ? " 

LXIX. 
* He is what you behold him, and his doom 

Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said 
' If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 

Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head 
To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 

Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead, 
I or such a liberty — and I, for one. 
Have tcld them what I thought beneath the sun." 

LXX. 

'* Abate the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
To urge against him," said the Archangel. "Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 
With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

Qis couduct was but natural in a prince. 



LXXI. 

" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppresf 
A poor, unlucky devil, without a shilling ; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him punish'd here for their excess, 

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 

And vote his • habeas corpus ' into heaven." 

LXXII. 

" Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all this 
You tum'd to half a courtier ere you died, 

And seem to think it would not be amiss 
To grow a whole one on the other side 

Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 
Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide. 

He won't be sovereign more ; you've lost your labor 

For at the best he will but be yo'ir neighbor. 

LXXIII. 

"However, I knew what to t\ink of it, 
When I beheld you in your jesting way 

Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day. 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 

I'll have him gagged — 'twas one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

" Call Junius ! " From the crowd a shadow stalk'd. 

And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own atrial ease, 
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd, (but to be balk'd 

As we shall see,) and jostled hands and knees. 
Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 
Or like a human colic, which is 'sadder. 

LXXV. 

Xhe shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 

Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor. 
But nought to mark its breeding or its birth | 

Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger. 
With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth, 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed every instant — to what, none could say 

LXXVI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Could they distinguish whose the features were 

The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now there 

And several people swore from out the press, 
They knew him perfectly ; and one could sweai 

He was his father : upon which another 

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 

LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife ; but the wight. 

Mysterious changed his countenance at lea«w 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increas'd ; 
The man was a phantasmagf ria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 



THE VISICN OF JUDGMKNT. 



5aj 



LXXVIII. 

rhe mons.ent that you had pronounced him one, 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was anc .her j 

Awnd when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I don't think his own mother 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other . 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary *.' Iron Mask." 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
" Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop ;) then you might deem 
That he was not even one; now many ~ays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days ; 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX. 

I ve an hypothesis — 'tis quite m^ own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer. 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown. 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was t eally, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too : 

And really till we fix on somebody 
For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth c r author. 

LXXXII. 

** And who and what art thou ? " the Archangel said. 

** For that you may consult my title page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further ? " Junius answcr'd, " You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

LXXXIII. 

♦< My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

* Repent'st thou not," said Michael, '* of some past 
Exaggeration ? something which may doom 

Ihyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast 

Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
Of passion ? " — " Passion ! " cried the phantom dim, 
' I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV. 

• What I have written, 1 have written : let 
The rest be on his head or mine ! " So spoke 

Old " Nominis Umbra ; " and while speaking yet. 

Away he melted in cclcsti'il si.ioke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget [Tooke, 

To call Geirge WashL^ton, and John Ilorno 
^.nd Franklin ; " — but at this time there was lieard 
A cr'' for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 



LXXXV. 

At' length with jostling, elbo^ving, and he aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
] His way, and look'.d as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 

'* What's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 'tis not 
•' I know it," quoth the incubus ; but he [ghost?' 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 

" Confound the renegado ! I have spiain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point : while hovering o'er the Brink 

Of Skiddaw, (where as usual it still rain'd,) 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel— 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

" The former is the de\'irs scripture, and 
The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand . 
I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air -- 

At least a quarter it can hardly be : 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea ' 

LXXXVIII. 
Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 

And have expected him for some time here j 
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 

Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 
We had the poor wi-etch safe (without being boied 
With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he's here, let's see what he has done." 
* Done ! " cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon. 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?' \ 
Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say. 

You know we're bound to that in every way." 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience '^yicb 

By no means often was his case belcw, 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 

His voice into that awful note of wo 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow, 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

XCI. 

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be apurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay 
Both cherubim and scra])him wore heard 

To mnnnur loudly through their long array 
And Mifhael rose ere ho could got a word 

Of all his foundcr'd verses under way, fbett 

And cried, " For God's sake stop, my friend. 
Non Di, turn /tomines—'; }u know the rest." 



502 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



xnii. 

A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seera'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 

The angels had of course enough of song 
When upon service ; and th<> generation 
"Of ghosts had heard too raiich in life, not long 
Before, to profit by a new occasion : [what ! 

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " What ! 

Pye come again ? No more — no more of that ! " 

XCIII. 
The tu»iult grew ; an universal cough 

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
When Castlereagh has been up long enough, 

(Before he was first minister of state, [off! " 

I mean — the slaz^es hear noio ;) some cried, " OflF! 

As at a farce ; till grown quite desperate, 
The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
'Himself an aulhor) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave ; 

A good deal like a Amlture in the face, 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be. 
Quite a poetic felony *^ de se.'* 

XCV. 
Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 

With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 

Which now and then will make a slight inroad 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly over-crow' d ; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCVI. 

He said — (I only give the heads) — ^he said,^ 
He meant no harm in scribbling : 'twas his way 

Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides his bread. 
Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould delay 

Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 
And take up rather more time than a day. 

To name his works — he would but cite a few — 

Wat Tyler — Rhymes on Blenheim — AVaterloo. 

XCVII. 

H.= had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had WTitten praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had \vritten for republics far and wide, 

And then against them bitterer than ever; 
for pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever ■• 
Then grew a hearty antijacobin — 
Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn d his skin. 

XCVIII 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

fleviewing* 'Hhe ungentle craft," and then 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 



Fed, paid, and parnper'd by the very mefB 

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'a 
He had written much blank verse, and blanker protM 
And more of both than any body knows. 

XCIX. 

He had written Wesley's life : — here, turning rounc 
To Satan, *' Sir, I'm ready to verite yours, 

In two octavo volumes, so nicely bound, 
With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers '. 

So let me have the proper documents. 

That I may add you to my other saints.* 

C. 

Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if yon, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more diviae. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 

CI. 

" But talking about trumpets, here's ray Vision 
Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 

Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 

I settle all these things by intuition. 
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all 

Like King Alfonso.* When I thus see double 

I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

CII. 
He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 

Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 

He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 

Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang. 
Like lightning, off from his "melodious twang."t 

cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinion 
j The devils ran howling, deafen'd, do^vn to hell; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their o^Ti dominion, 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his own opinion ;) 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow • 

CIV. 
Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 
And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 

Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 
Into his lake, for there he did not drown, 

A different web being by the Destinies 
Woven for the laureate's final wreath, whene'er 
Reform shall happen either here or there. 



8m " Ufe of U. Kirk« While." 



* King Alfonso, ipeaking of the Ptolomean eyslem, Biid, that "had 1» 
been consulted at the creation of tlie world, he would have spared the Mkiv 
■ome absurdities." 

t See Aubrey's accoun'. of the apparitioc which disappeared " wUh m corf 
out pcrfutne and ■ inelo(ii3us twau^; " or see Um AnH^ptary, toL 1. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



50(J 



CV. 



He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,* 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 

9r wisn that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, - 

In his own den, to scrawl some " Life," or " Vision,' 

A.8 "Welborn says — " the devil turn'd precisian." 



A drovaodtody ijea at the bottom tUl rotten ; it then floi-», aa moat peo- 



CVT. 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion. 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 

All I saw farther, in the last confusion, [one^ 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven fo* 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundjeth psalm. 



MOEGANTE MAGGIOEE. 



DI MESSER lUIGI PUICL 



AUVERTISEMENT. 

The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of 
which this translation is offered, divides with the 
Orlando Innamorato the honor of having formed 
and suggested the style and story of Ariosto. The 
great defects of Boiardo, were his treating too seri- 
ously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style. 
Ariosto, in his continuation, by a judicious mixture 
of the gayety of Pulci, has avoided the one ; and 
Berni, it his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has 
ccriected the other. Pulci may considered as the 
precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has 
partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his 
copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style 
of poetry very lately sprung up in England. I 
allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. The 
serious poems on lloncesvalles in the same lan- 
{fiage, and more particularly the excellent one 
of Mr. Meiivale, are to be traced to the same 
source. 

It has never yet been decided entirely whether 
I^ulci's intention was or was not to deride the 
rfligiot which is one of his favorite topics. It 
appeart to me, that such an intention would have 
been no less hazardous to the poet than to the 
priest, paiticulary in that age and country ; 
and the permission to publish the poem, and its 
reception among the classes of Italy, prove that it 
neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended 
to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his imagi- 
nation to play with the simple dulness of his 
converted giant, seems evident enough ; but ^rely 
Vt were as unjust to accuse him of irreli_^ion 
tm this account, as to denounce Fielding for his 
Partop A.damB, Barnabas, Tbwackum, Supple, and 



the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild — or Scott, for the 
exquisite use of his Covenanters in the ** Tales of 
my Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the 
liberty of the original with the proper names ; 
as Pulci uses Gan. Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, 
Carlomagno, or Carlomano ; Rondel, or Roudello, 
&c., as it suits his convenience ; so has the trans- 
lator. In other respects the version is faithful to 
the best of the translator's ability in combining his 
interpretation of the one language with the not 
very easy task of reducing it to the same versifica 
tion in the other. The reader, on comparing it 
with the original, is requested to remember that 
the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, 
is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, 
from its great mixture of Tuscan proverbs ; and 
he may therefore be more indulgent to the present 
attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, 
and whether or no he shall contimie the work, are 
questions which the public will decide. He was 
induced to make the experiment partly by his love 
for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian lan- 
guage, of which it is so easy to acquire a slight 
knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impos- 
sible for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. 
The Italian language is like a capricious beauty 
who accords her smiles to all, her favors to few, 
and sometimes least to those who have courted her 
longest. The translator wished also to present in 
an English dress a part at least of a poem never yet 
rendered into a northern language; at the same 
time that it has been the original of some of the 
most celebrated productions on this side of the 
Alps, as well of those recent experiments in poetr| 
in England which have been already mentioned. 



504 



BYRON'S WORKb. 



CANTO I. 



I. 



f V the beginning was the Word next God ; 

God was the word, the word no less was he : 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and without him nought could be ; 
therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
Oaie only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through, 

II. 

And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, oride, 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside, 
The day thy Gabriel said " All hail !" to thee, 

Bince to thy servants pity's ne'er denied. 
With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind. 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 

'Twas in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befel, 
And makes the nymphs enamor'd, to the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 
His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow; 

IV. 

VVhen I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should stiil obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined. 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Chaiies badly — and wrote worse. 

V. 

Leonardo Aretino said already. 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 

No hero would in history look brighter, 
He in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the lield a most victorious fighter, 
Who for the church and Christian faith had wrought 
Certes far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore 
The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory. 
Because of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according to the story. 
And felon people whom Charles sent to hell ; 

An'' there are bones so many, and so many. 

Near them Giusafi'a's would seem few. if any. 



VII. 



But the world, blmd and ignorant, don't prizb 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 
Whate'er thou hast acquired from then till novi 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of Fiance. 

VIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of whom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too. 

While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doooi 
Of their sad rout, though he did all knight con dO| 

And Dante in his comedy has given 

To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'Twas Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort 
Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphal sport. 
The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cav80{ 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 

Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 

Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 
Walter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, 

Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
Were there, exciting too much gladness in 

The son of Pepin : — when his knights came hither 

He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 

XI. 
But watchfnl Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 

Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring. 
While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 

Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing ; 
Curst Gan, with envy bursting had such need 

To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the kii:g 
One day he openly began to say, 
" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XII. 

" A thousand times I've been about to say, 
Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 

Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway 
Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 

Each have to honor thee and to obey ; 

But he has too much credit near the throne. 

Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided, 

By" such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 
" And even at Aspraniont thou didst begin 

To let him know he was a gallant knight. 
And by the fount did much the day to win ; 

But I know who that day had won the fight^ 
If it had not for good Gherardo been ; 

The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 
He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 
In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



501 



MV. 

"If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christain cause had suffer'd shamefully, 
Had not his valor driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there's a reason why : 
Know then, oh emperor ! that all complaint : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mountsr 

O'er which I cross 'd with two and sixty counts 

XV. 

'Tis fit ihy grandeur should dispense relief, 

So that each here may have his proper part, 
For the whole court is more or less in grief : 

Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ? 
Orlando one day heard this speech in brief. 

As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 
Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 
But much more still that Charles should give him 
credit. 

XVI. 
And with the sword he would have murder' d Gan, 

But Oliver thrust in between the pair. 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And thus at length they separated were. 
Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief. 
And burst and madden'd with disdain and grief. 

XVII. 
From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 

He took Cortana, and then tpok Rondeli, 
And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 

And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 
Stretch'd forth her ai-ms to clasp her lord again. 

Orlando, in whose brain all was not well, 
As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said, 
Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XVIII. 
Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 

On Gan in that rash act he seem'd to take. 
Which Aldabelle thought extremely strange ; 

But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
And his spouse took his bridle on this change, 

And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 
Of every thing which pass'd without demur, 
Ajid then reposed himself some days with her. 

XIX. 

Then full of wrath departed from the place, 
As far as pagan countries roam'd astray ; 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 

And wandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

"Mid glens obscure, and distant lands he found, 

Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was call'd Ck'rmont, and by blood 
Descended from Anglante ; under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood. 
But certain 8a\age giants look'd him over ; 

One Passamont was foremost of the broo'l, 
And Alabaster and Morgante hover 

Second and third, \vith certain slings, und throw 

Ln daily jet pardy the x)lace below. 
64 



XXI. 



The mo/iks could pass the convent gate no more. 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 

Enter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 

And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is minii 
We give you freely, since that you believe 

With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 
And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 

The reason why our gate was barr'd to you : 

Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 
These mountains, albeit that they are obscure • 

As you perceive, yet without fear or blam*» 
They seem'd to promise an asylum sure . 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 

Against domestic beasts with watch and ward 

XXIV. 

" These make us stand, in faft, upon the watch ; 

For late there have appear'd three g: mts rough ; 
What nation or what kingdom bore th.' batch 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff, 
Wlien force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enougli ; 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters changi 

XXV. 

♦* Our ancient fathers living the desert in, * 

For just and holy works were duly fed ; 

Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 
That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead 

But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in [bread 

Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down foi 

From off yon mountain daily raining faster. 

And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 

XXVI. 

The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 

Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-tries, and oaks, 
And flings them, our community to bury ; 

And all that I can do but more provokes." 
While thus they parley in the cemetery, 

A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 
Which nearly crush'd Rondeli, came tumbling over 
So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXVII. 

* For God sake, cavalier, come in ■with speed ; 
The manna's falling now," the obbot cried. 

• This fellow does not wish my horse should feed. 
Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 

« Of rcstiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim applied 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive : 
They'll one day fling the mountain, I bo'lev*» " 



50C 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVIII 

Orlando bade ^Lem take care of Rondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own ; " 

" Abbot," be said, " I want to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner-stone. 

Baid the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 

I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 

As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

• That Passamont has in his hand three darts- 
Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you 
must; 
You know that giants have much stouter hearts 

Than us, with reason, in proportion just; 
If go } ou will, guard well against their arts, 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 
Orlando answer'd, ''This I'll see, be sure, 
And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
•' Then go you with God's benison and mine : " 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant. 

Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as servant ? " 

XXXI. 

And promised him an oflice of great ease. 

But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 

Vile dog ! 'tis past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
When he received an answer so injtirious. 

XXXII. 

ilPnd being returned to where Orlando stood, [ing 
Who had not mov'd him from the spot, and swing- 

The coid, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude. 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging ; 

Lt roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
And head, and set both head and helmet ringing. 

Bo that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 

But more than dead, he seemed so stupified. 

XXXIII. 
Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 

Said, *' I will go, and while he lies along. 
Disarm me : why such craven did I fight ? " 

But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 
Especially Orlando, such a knight, 

As to desert would almost be a wrong. 
While the giant goes to put off his defences, 
Orlando has recall'd his force and senses : 

XXXIV. 
And load he shouted, ' Giant, where dost go ? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 
To the right about — without wings thou'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeance — currish renegade ! 
Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betray'd, 
A.nd turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey ou, 
Vnd then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 



XXXV. 

Orlando had Cortana bare m hand, 

To split the head in twain was what he schemed 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Yet harsh and hauglity, as he lay he bann'd. 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
Yet while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, 

XXXVI. 

Saying, ** WTiat grace to me thou'st given ' 
And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 

I know my life was saved by thee from heaven 
Since by thy giant I was fairly down'd. 

All things by thee are measured just and even ; 
Our power without thine aid would nought bt 

I pray thee take heed of me, till I can [fouitd. 

At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way; 

And Alabastei he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 

" How think'st thou, glutton, such a stone to 
throw ? " 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice riiTg, 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIII. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large. 
That if it had in fact ftilfill'd its mission, 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe. 
There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to charge, 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell, but, o'erthrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode, 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 
And stretch'd himself at ease on this abode. 

And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knock 'd, and knock'd again, to goad 

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth, 
The door to open, like a crazy thing. 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him. 
And Mahompt he call'd ; but Mahomet 

Is nothirig worth, and not an instant back'd him ; 
But praying blessed Jesu, he w^s set 

At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him; 
And to the gate he came with great regret — [h«. 
Who knocks here ? " grumbling all the whilej said 
That," said Orlando, "you will quickly see. 

XLI. 

I come to preach to you, as o your brothers, 

Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 
For Providence divine, in you and others. 

Condemns the evil done by new acquaintance. 
'Tis verit en high — your wrong must pay another's 

From heaven itself is issued out this sentence. 
Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamont and Alabaster." 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



607 



XLII. 
Morgante said, " Oh, gentle cavalier ! 

Now by thy God say me no villany ; 
The favor of your name I fain would hear 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, *' So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored. ' 

XLIII. 

The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 
" I have had an extraordinary vision ; 

A. savage serpent fell on me alone, 
And Macon would not pity my condition ; 

Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 
Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition ; 

His timely succor set me safe and free, 

And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

XLIV. 

Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious, 
If this good wish your heart can really move 

To the true God, who will not then deny us 
Eternal honor, you will go above, 

And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 
And I will love you with a perfect love. 

Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud ; 

The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLV. 
' The Lord descended to the virgin breast 

Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest, 

"Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 
Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test, 

Your renegade god, and worship mine, — 
Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
To which Morgante answer'd, " I'm content." 

XLVI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew, 

And made much of his convert, as he cried, 

** To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied; 

•*I to the friars have for peace to sue." 
Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 

Baying, *' My brother, so devout and good, 

Ask the Abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 

XLYII. 

" Since God has granted your illumination, 

Accepting you in mercy for his own. 
Humility should be your first oblation." [known — 

Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make 
Since that your God is to be mine--your station. 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 

XLVIII. 

«*Then," quoth the giant, "blessed be Jesu 
A thousand times with gratitude and praise! 

Oft, perfect baron ! have I heard of you 
Through all the different periods of ray days : 

And, as I said, to be your vassal too 
I wish, for your great gallantry always." 

Thus reasoniag, they continued much to say, 

knd onwards to the abbey went their way. 



XLIX. 

And by the way about the giants cc xd 
Orlando with Morgante reason'd: "Be, 

For their decease, I pray you, comforted; 
And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me. 

A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred 
And our true Scripture soundeth openly, 

Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill, 

Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 



" Because his love of justice unto all 
Is such, he wills. his judgment should devotu 

All who have sin, however great or small ; 
But good he well remembers to restore. 

Nor without justice holy could we call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway 

And quickly and spontaneously obey.' 

LI. 

'* And here our doctors are of one accord 
Coming on this point to the same conclusion,— 

That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord 
If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 

For then- unfortunate relations stored 

In hell below, aj»d damn'd in great confusion. 

Their happiness would be reduced to nought. 

And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought 

LII. 
"But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 

Which seems to him, to them too must appear 
Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall : 

He never can in any purpose err. 
If sire or mother suffer endless thrall, 

They don't disturb themselves for him or her ; 
What pleases God to them must joy inspire;— 
Such is the observance of the eterjial choir." 

LIll. 

"A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 
" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 

How mnch I grieve about my brethren dead ; 
And if the will of God seem good to me. 

Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obey'd^ 
Ashes to ashes — merry let us be ! 

I will cut off the hands from both their trunks. 

And carry them unto the holy monks. 

LIV. 

" So that all persons may be sure and certain 
That they are dead, and have no further fear 

To wander solitary this desert in. 

And that they may perceive my spirit clear 

By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtais 
Of darkness, making his bright realm appear.** 

He cut his brethren's hands off at these words, 

And left them to the savage beasts and birds. ' 

LV. 

Then to the abbey they went on together, 
Where waited them the abbot in great doubt 

The monks who knew not yet the fact, ran thither 
To their superior, all in breathless rout, 

Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out ? " 

The abbot, looking through ui)on the giant, 

Too greatly fear'd, at iirst, to be compliant 



50« 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LVI. 
Orlando, seeing l.im thus agitated, 

Said quickly, "Abbot, be thou of good cheer; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 

And hath renounced his Macon false ; " which here 
Morgante witL the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, ♦' Thou hast contented me, oh Lord ! " 

LVII. 

He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated. 
And more than once contemplated his size ; 

And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
Know that no more my wonder will arise, 

How could you tear and fling the trees you late did. 
When I behold your form with my own eyes. 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. 

*' And one of our apostles, Saul once named, 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 

Till one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
* Why dost thou persecute me thus ! ' said Christ ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaim'd, 
And went for ever after preachilig Christ, 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

■ ' So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 

He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist, 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before ! " * 

LX. 

And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd, 
And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose. 

The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed to him. 

LXI. 

There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
** Morgante, I could wish you in this case 

To go for water." " You shall be obey'd. 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
And went out on his way unto a fountain, 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 

LXII. 
Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears. 

Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 
Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 

An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 
4.nd lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 

And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 
^nd to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 
Bo tha the giant's join'd by all the boars. 



LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear 

And pass'd unto the other side quite thorough , 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 

And reaeh'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close. 
He gave him such a punch upon the head * 

As floor'd him so that he no more arose. 
Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows, 
The other pigs along the valley flfed ; 

Morgante on his neck the bucket took 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved net 
shook. 

LXV. 

The ton was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t'other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near. 
Nor spilt one di-op of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 
With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great ; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork ;-~ 

All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood. 

That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 

Of rankness and of rot there is no fear, 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 

And gorged so that, as' if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honor great, 

A few days after this convivial scene. 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
Which he long time had for himself maintained. 

LXVIII. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 
To .gallop, and to put him to the proof, 

Thinking that he a back of iron had. 

Or to skim eggs unbroke wag light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead, 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoo^ 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur ! " 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 



"GU dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is strange thnt Pole 
should have literally auticipated the technical terms of my old friend and mas- 
ter, Jackson, and the art which he has carried to its highest pitch. " Apun€li 
on Ihe head," or " a punch in the head,'' — " un punzone in tu la testa,"- h 
the exact and frequent phrase of oui best pugilists, who little dieaiu thai tfa07 
SM talking^ the purest Tuscan. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORB. 



509 



LXXX. 

But ftnalJy he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, " I am as light as any feather, 

And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count ? " 
Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to me, and with the truck for front: — 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot Morgante stiU." 

To which the giant answer'd^, " So I will. 

LXX. 

•* When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight." 

Orlando said, *' I really think you'll be. 
If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight ; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 

But never mind your horse, though out of sight 

""Twere best to carry him into some wood, 

If but the means or way I understood." 

LXXI. 

rhe giant said, ** Then carry him I will, 

Since that to carry me he was so slack- 
To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 

But lend a hand to place him on my back." 
Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel still 

May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 
As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 
" Take care he dr 1 1 revenge himself, though dead, 

As .Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
I don't know if the fact you've heard or read ; 

But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 
•• But help him on my back," Morgante said, 

•• And you shall see what weight I can endure. 
In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey. 
With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well, 
But, for the bells you've broken them, I wot." 

Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ; " 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ; " — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV 
M organ tA "as like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Beca'ise he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once mor» he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him fui ther the desert in." 
Vorgan^e said, " I'll carry him for certai'*. 

LXXV. 
He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 

And to the abbey then return'd with speed. 
Orlando said, •' Why longer do we stay * 

Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 
rhe abbot by the hand he took one day, 

And said, with great respect, he had agreed 
To leavs his reverence ; but for this decision 
ll« Tiibl. d to have his pardon and permissioa 



I LXXVI. 

The honors they continued to receite 

Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd 
He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 

The lost days of time past, which may be blaraed 
Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 

Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 
And know not how to show my sentiment, 
So much I see you with our stay content 

LXXVIL 
" But in my heart I bear through every clime 

The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 
So much I love you in so short a time ; 

For me, from heaven reward you with all good 
The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 

Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 
Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 
And recommend us to your prayers with pressiiyj/ 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness 

Such favor in his bosom bred each word ; 
And " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I've done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place 

LXXIX. 

** We can indeed but honor you with masses. 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosteWi 

Hot suppers, dinners, (fitting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters ;) 

But such a love for you my heart embraces, 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters* 

That wheresoe'er you go I too shall be. 

And, on the other part, you rest with me 

LXXX. 

" This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste. 
And understand ^y speech with full conviction. 

For your just pioiis deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction. 

By whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXI. 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost : 

But months and years you could not stay in sloth 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth : 

^ LXXXII. 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed* 
With these as much is done as with this cowl : 

In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 
This giai^c up to heaven may boar his soul 

By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll; 

But, if I'm ask'd, this answer shall bo given, 

That here an angel was sent d^wu from Qe»T«ii 



:)io 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIII. 
'♦ If you trant annor or aught else, go in, 

Look o'er the wardrobe, and take what you choose 
And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 

Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie loose 
Pome armor, ere our journey we begin. 

Which might be turn'd to my companion's use, 
The gift would be acceptable to me." 
The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was covered with old armor like a crust. 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
Morgante rummaged piecem-eal from the dust 

The whole, which, sa\'e one cuirass, was too small. 
And that too had the mail inlaid with ru'st. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly, 

^'Vliich ne'er had suited others so compactly. 



LXXXV. 

'Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 
By the great Milo of Agrante fell. 

Before the abbey many years ago. 
The story on" the wall was figured well J 

T.ii the last moment of the abbey's foe, 
Who long had waged a war implacable : 

Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him. 

And there was Milcf as he overthrew him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 
In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things ! how was Milo hither led ? 
Who caused the giant in this place to die ? '* 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry,— 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you the high King of gl6ry ! 



THE- PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



'Tis the sunset of life girea me mystical lore, 
And coming evenu cast Uieir shadows before." 

CAMPBELL, 



DEDICATION. 

Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 
Where was I born, but where I would not die, 
Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhynie, 
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 
Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 
Fall short of his immortal harmony. 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 
Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 
Spak'st ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 
Are one ; but only in the sunny South 
Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display'd. 
So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 
Ravenna^ June 21, 1819. 



PREFACE. ^ 

In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in 
the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author 
that having composed something on the subject of 
Tasso's confinement, he should do the same on 
Dante's exile — the tomb of the poet forming one of 
the principal objects of interest in that city, both to 
(he native and to the stranger. 



*« On this hint I spake," and the result has been 
the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered 
to the reader. If they are understood and approved, 
it is my purpose to continue the poem in various 
other cantos to its natural conclusion in the present 
age. The reader is requested to suppose that Dante 
addresses him in the interval between the contlusion 
of his Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly 
before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of 
Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopting 
this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra of 
Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by HoracCi 
as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. The mea- 
sure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am 
not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language 
except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose transla- 
tion I never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes 
to Caliph Vathek ; so that — if I do not err — this 
poem may be considered as a metrical experiment. 
The cantos are short, and about the same length of 
those of the poet whose name I have borrowed, and 
most probably taken in vain. 

Among the inconveniences of authore in the 
present day, it is difficult for any who have a name, 
good or bad, to escape translation. I have had the 
fortune to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold 
translated into Italian versi sciolti that .is, a poem 
written in Spenserean stanza into blank verse, witt 
out regard to the natural divisions of the stanxa, or 
of the sense. If the present poem, being on a 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



511 



aational topi« shoald chance to undergo the same 
fate, 1 would request the Italian reader to remember 
that when I have failed in the imitation of his great 
"Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that 
which all study and few -understand, since to this 
very day it is not yet settled what was the meaning 
of the allegory in the first canto of the Inferno, 
unless Count Marchetti's ingenious and probable 
conjecture may be considered as having decided 
the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
not quite sure that he would be pleased with my 
success, since the Italians, with a pardonaole 
nationality, are particularly jealous of all that is 
left them as a nation — their literature ; and in the 
present bitterness of the classic and romantic war, 
are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even to 
approve or imitate them without finding fault with 
his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter 
into all this, kno\ving what would be thought in 
England of an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a 
translation of Monti, or Pindemonte, or Arici, 
should be held up to the rising generation as a 
model for their future poetical essays. But I per- 
ceive that I am deviating into an address to the 
Italian reader, when my businesg is ^vith the English 
one, and be they few or many, I must take my leave 
of both. 



CANTO I. 

Once more in man's frail world ! which I had left 
So long that 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Ot souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pm-c from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
Mi 1st whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd • 
My spirit Avith her light ; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 
Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
From star to star to rdach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath prest, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole i)ure seruph of^ my earliest love, 
Love so ineilablc, and so alone. 

That nought on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 

Had wandor'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete." 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Ttou wert my life, the essence of my thought, 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and Ixright 

Btill in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
With tlic world's war, and years, and banishment, 
\nd tours for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is nf t • nature to be bent 



By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd ; 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spert 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
TJnto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stem and high 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set. 
And the night cometh ; I am eld in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his wj«-s. 
The world hath left me, what it found me. puifc. 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim. 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 

And make men's fickle breath the t^ind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be ciass'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

I would have had my Florence great and free;' 
Oh Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, " but thou would'st not ; " as the birt 
Gathers its young, I would have galfher'd thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Against the breast that cherished thee was stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerco 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who^br that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire htj her. 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

The day may come when she vdll cease to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer^ 

Of him whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 
No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
And shall not have, what is n^ hers — my tomb. 

Too long her armed wrath hath Kept aloof 
The breast which would have bled ftn- her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temiitation procf, 

The man who fought, toil'd, travelled, and each pari 
Of a true citi/en fulfill'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelfs ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgctfulness 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the divtreM 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less, 

Thotigh late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine 
My own Beatric*", I would hardly take 

Vcngrance upon the land which once was mine, 
And still is hullow'd by thy dust's return, 
Hhich would protect the muvdrress like ashnne 

And iave ten thouaand foes by thy sole urn. 



512 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Though, like old Marius from Mintumae's marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may bum 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have suffer'd more than mortal wo, 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose. 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to di-eam of blood, and waking glows 

With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change. 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Atp range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God ! 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain. 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field- 
In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence, — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that g'lorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now, 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low, 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black. 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, 
For I have been too long and deeply ■\vreck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate Despair 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare. 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age. 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage. 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
Worthless as they who wrought it : 'tis the doom 
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb. 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
known 
The name of him — who now is but a name, 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone, 

Hpread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing, but to wither thus — to tame 

^'!ty mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and softer pain — 

To feel me in the solitude of kings 
Without the power that makes thembear a crown — 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 

.Vhich waft him where the Apennine looks down 
On Amo, till he perches, it may be, 
Within my all inexorable town, 



Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,* 
Their mother, the cold partner who hath brongliK 
Destruction for a dowry — this to see 

And feel, and kno'v without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 

They made an exile — not a slave of me. 



CANTO II. 

The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 
When words were things that came to pasa, and 

thought 
Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 

Their children's children's doom already brought 
Forth from the abyss of time which is to be. 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 

Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 

What the great Seers of Israel wore within. 
That spirit was on them, and is on me, 

And if Cassandra-.like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hear, or heauing heed 
This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 

Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou stml to bleed 

Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 

We can have but one country, and even yet 
Thou'rt mine — my bones shall be ^vithin thj 

breast. 
My soul within thy language, wh'ch once set 

With our old Roman sway in the wide West , 
But I will make another tongue arise 
As lofty and more sweet, in which exprest 

The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs, 

Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
That every word, as brilliant as thy skies, 

Shall realize a poet's proudest di-eam. 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 
So that all present speech to thine shall seem 

The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 
Confess its barbarism, when compared with thine 
This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 

Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
Wo ! wo ! the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 

Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep theti 
station. 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation. 

But all things are disposing for thy doom > 
The elements await but for the word, " 

"Let there be darkness!" and thot grow'st a 
tomb! 

Yes ! thou so beautiful, shall feel the sword, 
Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored; 

Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffi<w 



THE J»ROPHECY OF DANTE. 



513 



For the world's granary ; tli ou, whose sky heayen 
gilds 
"With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 

Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, 
And form'd the Eternal Ci<-y's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 

Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 
Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 

A.nd finds her prior vision but portray'd 
In feeble colors, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 

Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
Neds to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee. 
And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, 

Thou — Thou must wither to each tyrant's will ; 
The Goth hath been,— the German, Frank and 

Hun 
Are yel to come, — and on the imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
By the old barbarians, there awaits the new. 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter, 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue, 

And deepens into red the saffron water 
Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry ; the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the hximan savages, explore 
All paths of torture, and insatiate yet, 
"With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set;' 
The chieflcss army of the dead, which late 
Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met. 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 

Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 

But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! flo'^ds whelm them, and 
for ever ! 

Why sleeps the idle avalanches so, 
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 

Her sandf ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
RoU'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 

And you, ye men ! R imans, who dare not die. 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
""hose who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 

The dead whose tomb Oblivion never know, 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? * 
Their passes more alluring to the ^iew 
66 



Of an invader ? is it they, or ye. 
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 

Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 

In a soil where tne mothers bring forth men : 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; 

For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, wlien 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts xc 
bring 

Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil. 
While still Division sows the seeds of wo 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil 

Oh ! my own beauteous lanU ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes. 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger slops. 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee^ 
And join their strength to that which with the6 
copes ; 

What is there wanting then to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we. 

Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite. 



CANTO III. 

From out the mass of never-dying ill, 
Th^Pla-Tiift. the Prince, the Stranger, and thl 

^^ ..ord, 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 
That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven. 
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs, 
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore. 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind. 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined 

To sense and suffering, though the vain may sooft^ 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bo# 
Before the storm because its brtrnth is rough. 

To thee, my country ! whom befoie, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyr* 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 

To read the future ; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive I 
I but foretell thy fortunes — tliwi oxpire; 

Thill ic not that I would look on tiicni and IIt« 



614 



BYRON'S WORKS 



A spirit forces me to see and speak, 

And for my guerdon grants rwt to survive ; 

My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 

Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
A softer glimpse; some stars shipp through thy 

night 
And many meteors, and abo"\e thy tomb 

Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot 
blight ; 
And from thine ashes >o 'endless spirits rise 
To give thee honor, and the earth delight ; 

1 hy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise, 
The gay, the leam'd, the generous, and the brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far ware,'' 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name ;8 
For thee alone they have no arm to save, 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 

Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
The being — and even yet he may be born — 
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 

And see thy diadem so changed and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced ; 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced 
And noxious vapors from Avernus risen. 
Such as all they must brearthe who are debased 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 

Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them 
glow. 

And raise their notes as natural and high ; 
Tuneful shall be their numbers ; they shall sing 
Many of love, and some of liberty. 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wang, 
And loo.k in the sun's face \vith eagle's gaze, 
All free and fearless as the feather'd king, 

But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase , 
Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prinee 
In all the prodigality of praise ! 

And language, eloquently false, evince 
The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 

And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
"•He who once enters in a tyrant's hall 
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 

And the first iay which sees the chain enthral 
A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — *^ 
The souVs emasculation saddens all 

His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please,— 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 

Or force, or forge fit argument of song ? 
Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's 

trebles, 
tie toils through all, still trembling to be wrong : 

^ot fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
{Should rise up in high treason to his brain, 
Qe sings, as the Athenian, spoke, with pebbles 



In's mouth, lest truth should stammer hrough his 
strain, 
But out of the long file of sonneteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in vain, 

And he, their prince shall rank among my peers 
And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears. 

And Italy shall hail hira as the Chief 
Of poet-lovers, and his higher song 
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 

But in a farther age shall rise along 

Tlie banks of Po two greater still than he ; 
The world which smiled on him shall di the* 
wi-ong 

Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 
The first will make an epoch with his Ij're 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry ; 

His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 
Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thon(!tit 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire : 

Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, 
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 

By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 

He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high haTT| 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 

Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
Was crimsun'd from his veins who died to save 

Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
Ot years, of favor, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame, 

Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
To be Christ's Laureat — they reward him well ! 
Florence doom^me but death or banishment, 

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 

Had stung the factions which I strove to quell | 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deigj) 
To embalm with his celestial flattery. 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign. 
What will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain, 

Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer, 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a year, 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a t^ac 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 
With the wealth of a genuine poet's sful. 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 
Through her olympiads such names, though onf 
Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrillmg sense, 
Tae electric blood with which their arteries ma 

Their body's self-tuned soul with the intense 



THE PflOPHECY OF DANTE. 



51^ 



Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scattered ? Yes, and it must be ; 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 
Back to their native mansion, 'soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 

A.nd die or are degraded, for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
And vulture passions flying close behind, 

Await the moment to assail and tear ; 
And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-bird's triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear. 
Some whom nc power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest care"! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name among the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
"Were prouder than more daz7:ling fame unblest ; 
The Alp's snojv summit nearer heaven is seen, 

than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 
Whose splendor from the black abyss is flung. 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung, [breast 

Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung. 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO IV. 

Many are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest 

Than those who are degarded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without the name. 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 
And be the new Prometheus of new men. 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late. 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
Who having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 

Mes chaiTi'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'crmastering power 

Which Btill recoils from its incumbering clay, 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow. 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear ; 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow 
Or deify the canvass till it shine 
With beauty so siirpassing all below, 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 
Break no commandment, for high heaTen is there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 



Of poesy, which peoples out the air 
With thought and beings of our thought refleatod 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected. 
Faints o'er the labor unapproved — Alas ! 
Despair and Genius are toa oft connected. 

Within the ages which before me pass. 
Art shall resume and equal even the sway. 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias, 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 

And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrougb^ by Italian hands, 
And temples, loftier tha^ the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome, 12 its image, while the base expands 

Into a fame surpassing all before. 
Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair. 
And lay their sins at this gate of heaven. 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord 
Whether into the^arble chaos driven 

His chisel bid the Hebrew,'^ at whose word 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone. 
Or hues of Hell be by his pencil poui'd 

Over the damn'd before the Judgment. throne,'* 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown. 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring froBB 
me,'* 
The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of ielms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress, 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar, 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and ghM 
On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compcll'd to praise. 
Shall feel the power of that which they destro) , 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants, who but take her for a toy. 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud,'* who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burden, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labors and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 
But free ; who sweats for monarch is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed aaU 
fee'd, » 

Stands slcok and slavish, bowing at his door 
Oh, Power that rulcst and inspirest ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whoso earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine, 
Tread on the universal nooks thut bow, 

And then assure us that their right are thin*} 



J 



516 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ard how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, Ij^ey whom the nations oftest name, 
Must pass their days in penury or pain, 
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, 

A.nd wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? 
Or if their destiny be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

fn their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when thy hursh sentence razed my roof, 

I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 
The hate of injuries which every year 
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, 

Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear. 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 
The most infernal of all evils here, 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
For such sway is not limited to kimgs. 
And demagogues yield to them but in date. 

As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things [other. 
Which make men hate themselves, and one an- 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death the Sin-bom's incest with his mother, 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother. 

And the worst despot's far less l^uman ape : 



Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 

Yeam'd, as the captive toiling at escape, 
To fly back to thee in despite of wrong; 

An exile, saddest of all prisoners, 

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong 
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars 

Which shut him from the sole small spot of eart> 

Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 
His country's, and might lie where he had birth 

Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 

To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 
And seek to honor with an empty urn 

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas ! 

" What have. I done to thee, my people ? "*'' St&s 
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 

The limits of man's common malice, for 

All that a citizen could be I was ; 
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis done 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, / 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hoiir be come [a teai 

When truth shall strike their eyes through man) 
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb 



NOTES TO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



1. 

Midst whom my own sweet Beatrice blessed. 
Page 511, line 39. 
The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pro- 
aonciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 

2. 

My paradise had still been incomplete. 

Page 511, line 55. 
" Che sol per le belle opre 
Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' altre stelle 
Dentro di lui* si crede il Paradiso, 
Cosi se guardi fiso 

Pensar ben dei ch' ogni terren' piacere. 
Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of 
Beatrice, Strophe third. 



/ tpould have had my Florence great and free. 
Page 511, line 87. 

" L'Esilio che m' ^ dato onor mi tegno. 

• »«***« 

Cadcr tra' buoni e pur di lode degno." 

Sontiet of' Dante, 
In which he represents Right, Generosity, and 
Temperance as banished from among men, and 
Reeking refuge from Love, who inhabits h-*s bosom. 



I 4. 

ITie dtist she dooms to scatter. 

Page 511, line 108. 
" Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam 
dicti: communis pervenerit, tallis perveniens igtu 
comburatur, sic quod moriatur." 

Second sentence of Florence against Dante, 
and the fourteen accused with him. — The Latin 
is w orthy of the sentence. 



Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she. 

Page 512, line 69. 
This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from 
one of the most powerful Guelf families, named 
Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary 
of the Ghibellines. She is described as being '^Ad- 
modum morosa, tit de Xantippe Socratis phuosopht 
conjuge scriptum esse legimus," according to Gian- 
nozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scar* 
dalized with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for 
saying that literary men should not marry. *' Qui 
il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli esser 
contrarie agli studj ; e non si ricorda che Socrate 
il piu nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e 
figliuoli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua Citta ; e 
Aristotele che, &c., &c., ebbe due mogli in varj 
tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ri'ichezze assai. — ^E Marco 



NOTES TO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



517 



Tiillic--e Catone--e Varrone — e Seneca — ebbero 
mogiie," &c., &c. It is odd that honest Lionardo's 
examples, with the exception of Seneca, and for 
any thing I know of Aristotle, are not the most 
felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xan- 
tippe, by no means contributed to their husbands 
happiness, whatever 'they might do to their philos- 
ophy — Cato gave away his wife — of Varro'swe know 
nothing — and of Seneca's, only that she was dis- 
posed to die with him, but recovered, and lived 
several years afterwards. But says Lionardo, 
** L' uomo e animald civile^ secondo piace a tutti 1 
filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest 
proof of the animal's civism is "la prima congiun- 
zione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Citta." 

6. 
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set. 
Page 513, line 40. 

See ** Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to 
Guicciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo 
Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si 
trove presente. 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far toave. 
Page 514, line 15. 
Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene 
of Savoy, Montecucco. 

8. 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. 

Pago 514, line 16. 
Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot. 

8. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, S^c. 

Page 514, line 49. 
A verse from the Jreek tragedians, with which 
Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the 
ooat in which he was slain. 

10. 
And the first day which sees the chain enthral, &;c. 
Page 514, line 5^. 
The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

11. 
And he, th^r prince, shall rank among my peers. 
Page 514, line 69. 
Petrarch. 

12. 
A dome, its image. 

Page 515, line 81. 
The cupola of St. Peters 



13. 



His chisel bid the Hebrew. 

Page 615, iinc 9L 
The statue of Moses on the monument o 
Julius II. 

SONETTO 

Di Giovanni Battista Zappi. 

Chi e costui, che in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede gigante ; e le piu illustre, e conte 
Prove deir arte avvanza, e ha vive, e pront* 
Le labbia si, che le parole ascolto ? 

Quest' e Mose ; ben me '1 diceva il folto 

On or del mento ; e '1 doppio raggio in froDte> 
Quest' e Mose, quando scendea del monte 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto. 

Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d' intomo, e tale 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba altroi 

E voi sue turbe un rio vitello alzate r 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale * 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui 

14. 
Over the damn'd before the Judgment throne. 
Page 515, line ^ 
The Last Judgment, in the Sistine chapel. 

15. 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring , from me 
Page 515, line 97. 
I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I can 
not recollect where) that Dante was so great a 
favorite of Michael Angelo's, that he had designed 
the whole of the Uivina Commedia ; but that the 
volume containing these studies was lost by sea. 

16. 
Hei- charms to pontiff's proud, who but employ, 3fC. 
Page 515, line 117. 
See the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius 
II., and his neglect by Leo X. 

17. 
** WTiat have I done to thee, my people t" 

Page 516, line 41. 
* E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolaB 
cittydini del reggimento. ma ancora al popolo, 4 
intra I'altre una Epistola assai lunga che cominciar 
Papule mi, quid feci tibi f ' " 

yita di Dante, tcritta da Lionardo Arotino. 



HEBREW MEL0DIE8. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

T^ aubsequent poems were written at the request 
i>f my friend, the Hon. D. Kinnaird, for a selection of 
Hebrew Melodies, and have been published, with the 
ttusic; arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair' d the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent '. 



I'HE HARP THE MONARCH MINSlEiiL 
SWEPT. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 
The King of men, the loved of Heafen, 

Which music hallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given- 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords aid rifeu . 

It soften'd men of iron mould, 
It gave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
That felt not, fired net to th& tone, 
""ill Darld'a l/rv giew mightier than hir tbjOK^e ? 



It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion, and her daughter, Love, 
StiU bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above. 

In dreams that day's broad light can nottefekOY 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love en'',ear8; 
If there the cherish'd h^'-art be fond. 

The eye the same, Pxcept iu tezjs— 
How welcome those ur.crodaen spherete ' 

How sweet this, vp/y hour to die ! 
To soar from eartl. and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 

Tha.t we so tremble on the brink ; 
Apd sti'ivjixg to o'erleap the gulf, 

Yot clln^ to Being'cs severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that share», 
With them the immortal waters drink, 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ' 



THE WILD GAZELLE 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound. 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by ; 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
Hath Judah witness'd there ; 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



51& 



A-nd o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone. 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth. 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheririgly, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh weep for those that wept by Babel's stream. 
Who 36 shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
Morjn — where their God hath dwelt the Godless 
dwell ! 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 

L>> Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 

Dr. Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

f et there— even there — Oh God ! thy thunders sleep : 

There — where thy finger scorched the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone . 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire! 

Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ! 
Bwccp from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear : 
[low long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our Country, our God — Oh, my Sire! 
Ocmand that thy Daughter expire ; 
cJince thy triumph was bought by thy vow— 
Stdke the bosom that's bared for thee now; 



And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow . 

And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure^ 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
And the last thought that soothes me below 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unoent i 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my Father and Country are free I 

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream, 
Shall Sorrow lean her diooping head. 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd thf liee^d 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to coAplain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes aie wet. 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heai't a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it foith again : 
If in these eyes there lurk a tour, 

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain 

But bid the strain be wild and d«>ep 

Nor let thy notes of joy be tirst 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst , 
For it hath been by sorrow uurst, 

And ached in sleepless silrncc lonji 
And now 'tis doom'd ti) know the worst. 

And bteak at once— or yield to souiz 



520 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 



I PAW thee weep— the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles upon the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
Disdain'd to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

Thy name, our charging hosts along. 

Shall be the b»ttle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glory wrong ; 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 

Wabriors and Chiefs! should the shaft or the 

sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path: 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! 
Bright is Ihe diadem, boundless the sway. 
Or kinglj the death, wb:ch awaits us to-day I 



SAUL. 



Thoit whose spell can raise the isatt 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer ! " 
Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not, and unbreathing hkrat 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, king ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me ; 
Ere the coming day is done. 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day ; 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul 1 '* 



♦♦ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THJi 
PREACHER." 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine 
And health and youth possess'd me , 

My goblets blush'd from every vine. 
And lovely forms caress'd me ; 

I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 
And felt my soul grow tender : 

All earth can give, or mortal prize. 
Was mine of regal splendor. 

I strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover. 
Which all of life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 

There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my p.iwer 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 
And spells, is won from harming ; 

But that which coils around the heart, 
Oh ! who hath j- ower of charming ? 



It will not list to wisdom's lore, 
Nor music's voice can \\ire it ; 

But there it stings for evermore 
The soul that must endure it. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 521 | 


W-HEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 


Chaldea's seers are good, 


ING CLAY. 


But here they have no skill ; 




And the unknown letters stood 


When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 


Untold and awful still. 


Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 


And Babel's meji of age 


't cannot die, it cannot stey, 


Are wise and deep in lore 


But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 


But now they were not sage, 


Then, unembodied, doth it trace 


They saw — but knew no more 


J{y steps each planet's heavenly way ? 




Oi fir at once the realms of space, 


A captive in the land, 


A th'ng of eyes, that all survey ? 


A stranger and a youth. 




He heard the king's command. 


Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 


He saw that writing's truth. 


h. thought unseen, but seeing all. 


The lamps around were bright. 


All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 


The prophecy in view ; 


Shall it survey, shall it recall : 


He read it on that night, — 


Each fainter trace that memory holds 


The morrow proved it true. 


So darkly of departed years, 




In one broad glance the soul beholds, 


" Belshazzar's grave is made, 


A nd all, that was, at once appears. 


His kingdom pass'd away. 




He, in the balance weigh'd. 


Before Creation peopled earth. 


Is light and worthless clay. 


Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 


The shroud, his robe of state. 


And where the furthest heaven had birth, 


His canopy the stone ; 


The spirit trace its rising track. 


The Mede is at his gate ! 


And where the future mars or makes, 


The Persian on his throne " 


Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 


* 


While sun is quench'd or system breaks. 




Fis 'd in its own eternity. 






SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 


Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 




It lives all passionless and pure : 


Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 


An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 


AVhose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 


Its years as moments shall endure. 


That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispeL, 


Away, away, without a wing. 


How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 


O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly; 


So gleams the past, the light of other days. 


A n:in.sless and eternal thing, 


Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays; 


Forgetting what it was to die. 


A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 




Distinct, but distant — clear— but, oh how cold ! 


VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 


The king was on his throne. 


WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS TH0X3 


The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 


DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 


A thousand bright lamps shone 
O'er that high festival. 

A thousand cups of gold, 
In Judah deem'd divine — 


Weke my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 


I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 
It was but abjuring my creed to eff"ace 


Jehovah's vessels hold 


The curse which, thousav'st, is the crime of my race. 


The godless Heathen's wine . 


If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 


In that same hour and hall. 


If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ' 


The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall. 


If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 


Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 


And wrote as if on sand: 




The fingers of a man ; — 


I have lost for that faith more than thou canst betow, 


A solitary hand 


As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 


Along the letters ran, 


In his hand is my heart and my hope— and in thini 


And traced them like a wand. 


The land and the life which for him I resign. 


The monarch saw, and shook, 




And bade no more rejoice; 




All b'oodlcss wax'd his look, 


HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNB. 


And tremulous his voice. 




•< Let the men of lore appear, 


Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 


The wisest of the earth, 


The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; 


And expound the words of fear» 


Revenge is lost in agony, 


Which mar our royal mirth." ' 


And wild remorse to rage succeedinic 



522 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading ; 
Ail, couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now. 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my fienzy's jealous raving ? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair ; 

The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.— 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars »lone above. 

And leaves my seal unworthy saving. 

She's gone, who shared my diaderc ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming, 
And mine's the guiit and mine the hell, 
. This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, 
I beheld thee, Oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 
Twas the last sun went down, and the flapaes of 

thy fall 
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast-fetter' d hands that made vengeance in 
vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline, 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy 
shrine. 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day. 
But I mark'd net the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh ! would thai the lightning had glared in its 

stead. 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign : 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEPT. 

We sat down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
Made Salem's high places his prey ; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 



While sadly we gazed on the nver 
Which roll'd on in freedom below, 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know I 

May this right hand be wither'd for ever 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe 

Or the willow that harp is suspended. 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THli DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyi'ian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 

blown, 
That host on> the morrow lay wither'd and strown. ' 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blaat, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever gtew 

still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But thi-ough it there roU'd not the breath of hifl 

pnde : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating suif. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mall 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblo\vn. 

And the Tvidows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord • 



FROM JOB. ^ 

A SFiaiT pass'd before me : I beheld 

The face of Immortality unveil'd — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye rave mine— 

And there it stood, — all formless — bnt divine : 

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 

And as my damp hair stiflen'd, thus it spake: 

** Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insec ire ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night. 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light 1 



THE LAMENT OE TASSO. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

At FcTTara, in the Library, are preserved the 
Original MSS of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of 
Quarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one 
from Titian to Ariosto ; and the inkstand and chair, 
the tomb and the house of the latter. But as mis- 
fortune has a greater interest for posterity, and lit- 
tle or none for the contemporary, the cell where 
Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna 
attracts a more fixed attention than the residence or 
the monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect 
on me. There are two inscriptions, one on the outer 
gate, the second over the cell itself, inviting, unne- 
cessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the 
spectator. Ferrara is much decayed, and depop- 
ulated ; the castle still exists entire ; and I saw the 
court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, 
according to the annal of Gibbon. 



I. 

Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 

And eagle-spirit of a Child of Song — 

Long years of outrage, calumny, and \vrong ; 

Imputed madness, prison'd solitude. 

And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 

When the impatient thirst of light and air 

Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 

Marrmg the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 

Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain 

With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 

And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 

Btands scoffing through the never-opcn'd gate, 

Which nothing through its bars admits, save day 

And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 

fill its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 

And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 

Bullen and lonely, couching in the cave 

Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 

All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 

For I have battled with mine agony, 

^nd made me wings wherewith to overfly 

The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 

iid Creed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 



And revell'd among men and things rfivine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honor of the sacred war for him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 

For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgivet, 

I have employ'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored 

II. 

But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done 

My long sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears, 

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none 

But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child! 

Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight. 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight . 

And therefore do I weep and ir.ly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed^ 

Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 

For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 

I know not that — but in the innate force 

Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse. 

Nor c#use for such : they call'd me mad— and why ? 

Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my frenzy was not of the mind; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I suffer it unbent. 

That thou wert beautiful, and 1 not blind. 

Hath been the sin wliich shuts me from mankind. 

But let them go, or torture as they will, 

My heart can multiply thine image still; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their 5ato 

To have all feeling save the one ddCay, 

And every passion into ouJ dilate, 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore 

III. 
Above me, hark ! the long and maniac ctj 
Of minds and bodies in cajitivity. 
And tiark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
And the half-inarticulate blasphrniy ! 
There be some here vrith worse than freniy ical« 



524 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Borne who do stul goad on the o'er-lahor'd mind, 

Ajid dim. the little light that's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrants will 

[s wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

•Mid sounds and sight? like these long years have 

pass'd; 
Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 
Bo let it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 

I had forgotten half I would forget. 

But it rei-ives — oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 

In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind 

Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 

And each is tortured in his seperate hell— 

For we are crowded in our solitudes — 

Many, but each divided by the wall, 

Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's call — 

None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 

Who was not made to be the mate of these, 

Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 

Feel I not wi-oth with those who placed me here ? 

Who have debased me in the minds of men, 

Debarring me the usage of my own. 

Blighting my life in best of its career. 

Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear ? 

Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 

And teach them inward sorrow's stifled groan ?* 

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 

Which undermines our Stoical success ? 

No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 

Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 

I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 

It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 

Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; 

Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 

V. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart. 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud. 
Till struck,— forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
i princess was no love-mate for a bard; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
Aipd if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
WVc punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Jath robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 



Oh ! not dismay'd — ^but awed, hke One above. 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass— 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me, but for thee 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the ie»^ 
Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 

VI. 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, which did pervade 

And mingle with whate'er I saw on eai'th ; 

Of objects all inanimate I made 

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 

Where I did lay me down within the shade 

Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 

Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 

Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 

Of such materials wretched men were made, 

And such a truant boy would end in wo, 

And that the only lesson was a blow ; 

And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 

But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 

Return'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 

The visions which arise without a sleep. 

And with my years my soul began to pant 

With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 

And the whole heart exhaled into One Wan*-, 

But undefined and wandering, till the day 

I found the thing I sought, and that was the© 

And then I lost my being all to be 

Absorb'd in thine — the world was pass'd away— 

Thmi didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

VII. 

I loved all solitude — ^but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we sufier more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore; 
The world is all before him — mine is Acre, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye, 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky— • 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof 

VIII. 
Yet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine. 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place. 
And all that may be borne, or can debase 



MONODY ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN. 



525 



I thought mine enemies had been but man, 
But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
[t may be, tempt me further, and prevail 
A.gainst the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire ? because I loved ? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mrartal, and than me. 

IX. 
I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er :— 
My scars are calloiis, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd 
Id mockery through them ; — if I bear and bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with a brand of shame 
Btamp madness deep into my memory, 
And woo compassion to a blighted name, 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No— it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
A. future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall v'sit for my sake. 



"While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dweZi 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down. 
And crumbling piecemeal view thy heartless hall. 
A poet's wTf ath shall be thine only croAvn, 
A poet's dungeon thy most far reno^vn, 
While stranger's wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls 
And thou, Leonora ! thou — who wert ashamed 
That such as I could love — who bjush'd to hear 
To less than monarchs that thou could'st be dear, 
Go ! tell thy brother that my heart, untameu 
By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
A taint of that he would impute to me — 
From long infection of a den like this, 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss. 
Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the toweri 
And battlements, which guard his joyous hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
Or left untended in a dull repose. 
This — this shall be a consecrated spot ! 
But Thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
Oue half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
Juo power in death can tear our names apart, 
As none in life could rend thee from my heart 
Yes, Leonora I it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late ' 



MONODY 



ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN 



HPOKEN AT DRURT-LANB THEATRB. 



When the last sunshine of expiring day 
fn summer's twilight weeps itself away. 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes, 
While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime. 
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 
Ine voiceless thought which would nbt speak but 

weep, 
A hrly concord— and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set ? 
'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tender wo, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Bhed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils, 
When Summer's day declines along the hilla, 



So feels the fulness of our heart ana eyes. 

When all of Genius which can perish dies. 

A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 

Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whoM 

hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — ^no name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
The flash of Wit— the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul. 
Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all, 
To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
From the charm'd council to the festive board, 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. 
The praised — the proud — who made his praise thtll 

pride. 



526 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



When the ioud cry of trampled Hindostan* 

Arose to heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 

The wi-ath — the delegated voice of Go(i ! [blazed 

Which shook the nations through his lips— and 

Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

A.nd here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm, 

The gay creations of his spirit charm, 

The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 

Which knew not what il was to intermit ; 

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 

Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 

These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 

To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 

Here in their first abode you still may meet, 

Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat, 

A- halo of the light of other days. 

Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight, 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own. 
Still let them pause — Ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd forever to detract or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name, 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy. 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
The envious who but breathe in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave. 
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
Half to the ardor which his birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 



* See Fox, BurkC; rnd PittV eulogy on Mr. Sheridan'* spc«ch on tho 
:harg^ exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Cqmmotii. Mr. 
Pitt entreated the House to adjo-im, to give time for a calmer conaideiatioo 
if the JCeSion thaa could then occur after tite imnaediate efibct at tiMt 



These axe his portion — ^but if join'd to these 
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep DiseaM, 
If the high Spirit must forget to soar. 
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid Rage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness, — 
If such may be the ills which men assail. 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaveil 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn. 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch-' 
and burst. 

But far from us and from our mimic scene 

Such things should be — if such have ever been ; 

Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. 

To give the tribute Glory need not ask. 

To mourn the vanquish'd beam — and add our mito 

Of praise in payment of a long delight. 

Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield. 

Mourn for the veteran Hero of our field ! 

iThe worthy rival of the wondrous Three ! ♦ 

KVhose words were sparks of Immortality ! 

Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear. 

He was your Master — emulate him here I 

Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 

He was your brother bear his ashes hence ! 

While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range, 

Complete in kind — as various in their change. 

While eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 

That humble Harmonist of care on Earth, 

Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 

Of pride in Merit's proud preeminence. 

Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain. 

And turn to all of him which may remain. 

Sighing that Nature form'd but one such 

And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan ! 



miiirtv^--,;-iUnry'n-'^ ima^Mitrin i 



■Tin —- ^-^-^. 



ODE TO NArOLEON BONAPARTE. 



Expende AnDibalem :— -quot libraa in dace (ummo 
Inronies?" JOVfiNAL. 5fcU 



'*T1)C ETfiperor Nepo« w» iicknow edged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Prorincials of Gaul ; hi» moral rlrtue*, and militar* aiend, •■• 
tnjtii/ wtebrsled ; and those who der ved any prirate benefit from hi* ffOTerumei , announced in vfophetic strains the restoration of publk ftlieity. 



By ft.if shameful abdication he protracted his life a few years, i 
DUcJfaH and FaU, srol. ri. p. 220. 



a Tery ambi^ous state, between an Emperor Bod an F.xile. tll- 



Tis done — ^but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 

Ill minded man ! why scourge thy kind, 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind. 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to SRve 
Thine only gift hath been the grave. 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 



Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to adore 
Those P;igod things of sabre-sway. 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay 

The triumph, and the vanity, 

The rapture of the strife — ' 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man secm'd made but to obey, 

Wlierewith renown was rife- 
All quell'd ! — Dark spirit! what must oe 
The maliKSB of thy memory I 



The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown . 
The Arbiter of others* fate, 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope, 
That with such change can calmly cope f 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave— 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave 1 

He' who of old would rend the oak, 

Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke- 
Alone — how look'd he round ? 
Thou in the sternness of thy strength 
An equal deed has done at length, 

And darker fate has found : 
He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey. 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman,3 when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart. 

In savage grandeur, home. — 
He dared depart in utter scorn • 

Of n^en that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour, 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 



The Spaniard,* whon the lust of swiif 
• Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away, 

An empire for a cell ; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds. 

His dotage 'trifled well : 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's t)iron« 



528 BYRON'S WOKKS. 


But thou— ffom thy reluctant hand, 


And she, proud Austria's Inouniful flowa 


The thunderbolt is wrung — 


Thy still imperial bride ; 


Too late thou leav'st the high command, 


How bears her breast the torturing hour f 


To which thy weakness clung ; 


Still clings she to thy side ? 


All E^-il Spirit as thou art, 


Must she too bend, must she too share 


It is enough to grieve the heart, 


Thy late repentance, long despair, 


To see thy own unstrung ; 


Thou throneless Homicide ? 


To think that God's fair world hath been 


If still she loves thee, hoard that gem. 


The footstool of a thing so mean ! 


'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem 1 


And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 


Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 


Who thus can hoard his own ! 


And gaze upon the sea ; 


A.nd Monarcns oow'd the trembling limb, 


That element may meet thy smile, 


And thank'd hira for a throne ! 


It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 


Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear^ 


Or trace with thine all idle hand, 


When thus thy mightfest foes their fear 


In loitering mood upon the sand, 


In humblest guise have shown. 


That earth is now as free ! 


Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 


That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 


A brighter name to lure mankind ! 


Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 


Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 


Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage,* 


Nor written thus in vain — 


What thoughts ^vill there be thine. 


Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 


While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 


Or deepen every strain — 


But one — " The world was mine ! " 


If thou hadst died as honor dies, 


Unless, like he of Babylon, 


Some new Napoleon might arise. 


All sense is ^vith thy sceptre gone. 


To shame the world again — 


Life will not long confine 


But who would soar the solar height, 


, That spirit pour'd so ^^idely forth— 


To set in su .n a starless night ? 


So long obey'd— so little worth ! 


/- ^ 




i Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust J 


Or like the thief of fire from heaven, 


^^ Is vile as vulgar clay ; -^ 


Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 


Thy scales. Mortality ! are just 


And share with him, the unforgiven. 


To all that pass away; 


His viilture and his rock ! 


But yet methought the living great. 


Foredoom 'd by God— a man accurst, 


Some higher sparks should animate, 


And that last act, though not thy wont 


To dazzle and dismay ; 


The very Fiend's arch mock ;7 


Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 


He in his fall preserved his pride. 


Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 


And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 


NOTES TO THE ODE TO NAPOLEON. 


I. 


Page 527. litte 61 


The rapture of the strife. 


Charles V. 


Page 527, line 29. 


5. 


'Jertaminis gaudia, the expression of Attila in his 


Thou Timour! in his captive's cage. 

Page 528, line 6S 


Darangue to his army, previous to the battle of Cha- 


lons, gi-^en in CassisiiDrus. 


The cage of Bajaset, by order of Tamerlane. 


2. 

Rt who of old would rend the oak. 


6. 

Or like the thief of ^re from heaven. 


Page 527, Une 46. 


Page 528, line 64 


MUo. 

3. 


Prometheus. 

7. 
The very bend's arch mock. 


The Roman, when his burning heart. 


Page 527, line 55. 


Page 528, line 71. 


**Tlia. 


" The fiend's arch mock— 


4. 


To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." — 


The Spaniard when the lu$t of sway. 


Shakapearh. 



ODE ON VENICE. 



I. 

Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

h. loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If [, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ? — any thing but weep : 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 
Is with the dashing of the springtide foam 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home. 
Are they to tnose that were ; and thus they creep, 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping 

streets. 
Oh ! agony — i,hat centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory tum'd to dust and tears ; 
And every monument the stranger meets, 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The ecno cf thy tyrant's voice along 
The soft waves, once all musical to song. 
That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overbeating of the heart, 
And flow of too miich happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors, 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors. 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay *, 
And Hope is nothing but a false ^elay. 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
VVheii Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away, 
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, 
To him appears renewal of his breath, 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ;— 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirit soaring — albeit weak, 
And of ike frenher air, which he would iMk * 
67 



And as he whispers knows not that he gaspe, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the film comes o'er him — and the diwty 
Chamber swims round and round — and shadows buBJ 
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam. 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled stream, 
And all is ice and blackness — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 



II. 

There is no hope for nations !— Search the pag« 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene, 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age. 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the aii ; 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beksti 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatomb" for feasts 
Are of %B high an order — they must go 
Even where their driver goads them, though fie 
slaughter. '^ 

Ye men, who pe'ur your blood for kings as watei, ^ 
What have they given your children in return i f 
A heritage of servitude and woes, y 

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows, y 
What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares bum 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real , 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
\11 that your sires have left you, all that Tuue 
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 
Spring from a different theme ! — Ye see and lead, 
Admire and sign, and tbf>n succumb and bleed I 
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all. 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'l 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, 
Oushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowil^ 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud. 
And trample on each other to obtain. 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore,— in which long yoked they ploagh*4 
The sand.— or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'di 
And thoir dead palates chow'd the cud of pain 
Tea t the few spiritJi—'^ho. despite of deeds. 



530 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Which they abhor, co nfound not with the cause, 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, 
•\Vhich, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth, 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 

III. 

Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers, 

With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate. 
But did not quench, her spirit — ^in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — ^with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
Were of the softer order — ^born of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common wo, 
And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know— 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV. 

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone, 
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 



[Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to ovrn 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the fre6 Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning growr:. 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great cligae, 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean, 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, ai d 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand. 
And proud distinction from each other land, 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motioa, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand, 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiano^ 
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, 

ly strike to those whose red right hands havf 

bought 
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. — Still, still, inn 

ever 

Better, though each man's life blood were a river. 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, 
Three paces, and then faltering :-r'better be 
Where the extinguish 'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud char^jiel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add. 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had. 
One freeman more, America, to thpe I 



THE DREAM. 



Our life is twofold ; Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reaLty, 
And dreams in their development have breath, 
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time. 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
/^hey pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
I Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
I The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
They make us what we were not — what they will. 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by. 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they sc ? 
(s not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 



Creations of the mind ? — The mind can ma& 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and giye 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in Itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, i» capable of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill. 

Green and of mild declivity, the last 

As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of sucn, 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base. 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 

Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 

Scatter'd at intervals,. and wreathing smoke 

Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 



THE DREAM. 



6<i« 



Was cTOwn'd with a peculiar diadem 

Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 

Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 

Gasing — the one on all that was beneath 

Fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her ; 

And both were young, and one was beautiful : 

And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was k,\x^ one beloved face on earth, ' 

And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 

Upon it till it Lould not pass away ; 

He had no breath, nor being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 

For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with b«rB, 

Which color'd all his objects : — he had ceased 

To live within himself; she was his life, 

The 0( ean to the river of his thoughts, 

Which terminated all : fTipon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

Unknowing of its cause of agony, i 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a b1 other — but no more ; 'twas much, 

For brotherkss she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honor'd race. — It was a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and 

why ? 
Time taught him a deep answer — ^when she loved 
Another ; even now she loved another. 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: 
Within an antique Oratory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake; he was alone, 
And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd 
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 
With a convulsion — then arose again. 
And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
Wliat he had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did ca''m himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, '' 

The Lady of hit love re<*nter'd there; 
She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew» 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was ^^Tetched, but she saw not all. 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ;(^ moment o'er his face 
A tablet of uniitterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came]) 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with stow steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
Pot they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 



From out the massy g^te of that old Hall; 
And mounting on his steed he went his way , 
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

IV. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was gir* 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all : and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fastcn'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around: 
And they were canopied by the blue sk^J\ 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, | 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven/ 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream 

The Lady of his love was wed with One 

Who did not love her better : in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his, — her native home. 

She dwelt, oegirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 

UpOn her face there was the tint of grief. 

The settled shadow of an iAward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye 

As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be ? — she had all she loved. 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wsh, 

Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 

VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was return'd ; I saw him stand 

Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The Starlight of his Boyhood ;— as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The self-same aspect, and the quivering shook 

That in the anticjue Oratory sliook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face, 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, — and then it faded as it came. 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fitting vows, but heard not his o^^^l words, 

And all tilings recl'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should hay« 

been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 
And the romemhcr'd chambers, and the place. 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade 
All things pertaining to that place and hour 



532 BYRON'S 

A-nd her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light : 

WTiat business had they there at such a time ? 

VII. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of other's sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, ^d the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful giff]) 
What is it but the telescope oftruth ? 
Which strips the distance of its phantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

VIII. 
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 


WCRiS.3. 

The beings which surrour.ded aim were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix d 

In all which was served up to him, until. 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many men, 

And made him friends of mountains : with the Btait, 

And the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues ; and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide^ 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a secret— be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality— the one 

To end in madness — ^both in misery. 


• MithiidiOei of Pontm. 


THE BLUES: 

A LITERARY ECLOGUE. 



"Ninlanim na crede colon." 

VlKGlIi. 
Oh tniit not, ye beautiful ereatum, to hue, 
Thou{^ your hair wei* aa red m your ttoeking$ are UiM. 



jfiCLOGUE FIRST. 

London—Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 

Enter Tkacy, meeting Inkel. 
Ink. Yo7'ee too late. 
Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. ' Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are cramm'd, like a garden in 

flower. 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 

fashion ; 
Do instead 6f "beaux arts," we may say "la belle 

passion " 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the tine gentlemen reading. 
Tra. 1 know it too well, and have worn out my 
patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Words- 
words and Co 



With their damnable— 

Ink. Hold, my good friend, do yoa kna>w 

Whom you speak to ? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and so does " the Row: ** 
You're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me ; I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who mak^ soxni 
pretence 

To their favors is such ^but the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces. 
As one finds every author in one of those places,) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming 

critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled witt 
Greek! 



THE BLUES. 



533 



Where vour friend— you know who — ^has just got 

such a threshing, 
That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely " refresh- 
ing.^' 
What a beautiful word ! 

Ink. Very true ; 'tis so soft 

And so cooling— they use it a little too oft; 
And the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
^o they've cut up oxir friend then ? 

Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag of his present or past reputation, 
Wliich they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

Ink. I'm sorry to hear this ; for friendship, you 
know— 
Our poor friend ! — but I thought it would terminate 

so. 
Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 
Vou do'nt happen to have the Review in your 
pocket ? 

Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors and 
others 
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
Ail scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 

Ink. Lpt us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 

Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd there's not 
room for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra. How can you tell that till you hear him ? 

Ink. I heard 

Quite enough ; and to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than- the heat. 

Tra. I haye liad no great loss then ! 

Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such 

labor, S^' 
That - — come— do not make me speak ill of one's 
neighbor. 

Tra T make you ! 

Ink Yes, you ! I said nothing until 

You compell'd me, by speaking the truth — 

Tra. To speak ill? 

Is that yo'ir deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly follow, not set an example. 
The fellow's a fool, an imposter, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one 
fool makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jews' harp he nicknames his lyre, 
To ?all you to this hot-bed. 

Tra. 1 own it— 'tis true — 

A fair lady — 

Ink. A spinster ? 

Tra. Miss Lilac ! 

Ink. The Blue ! 

rhf heiress ? 

TrcL The angel ! 

Ink. The devil ! why, man ! 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
Vou wei with Miss Lilac ! 'twould be your perdition . 
She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 



Tra. I say she's an angel 
Ink. Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you'll cerfainly wrangle 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

Tra. And is that any cause for not coming 

together ? _ 

Itik. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy 
alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with 

science. 
She's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with learning. 

That 

Tra. What ? 

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my trngy^e. 

But there's five hundred people can tell you you in 
wrong. 
Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 
Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue J 
Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you — som(»> 
think of both. 
The girl's a fine gM. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I 
demand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 
hand. • 

Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — that 

hand on the pen. 
Tra. Apropos — Will you write me a song no^* 

and then ? 
Ink. To what purpose ? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 

But in rhyme 

Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, there'i 
no lure 
For the heart of a fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 
Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In my name. I will copy them out, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 

Tra. Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 

So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 

What I've told her in prose, at the least as sublime? 

Ink. As sublime/ If it be so, no need of my Muse 

Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she's one of thr 

" Blues." 
Ink. As sublime! — Mr. Tracy — I've nothing to 
say. 
Stick to prose — as sublime ! ! — but I wish you gt>o4 
day. 
Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider-' T a 
wrong ; 
I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
Ink. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 

bad taste. 
Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it— wh«l 
Can I say to you more ? 

Ink. I see what you'd be at: 

You disparage my parts with insiduous abuse, [mm 
Till you think you can turn them best to tuui owi 



534 



BYRON'S WORKS- 



Tra. A nd i& not thiit a sigr I respect them ? 

Ink. • Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what : 

A.nd you, who're a man of the gay world, no less 
Than a poet rff t' other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A. Ejenius like you, and moreover my friend. 

Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should know 
what is due 
lo a man of but come — let us shake hands. 

Tta. You knew, 

And you k^ww, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
WJiatever you publish, am ready to buy. 

Ink. That's my bookseller's business ; I care not 
for sale ; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays. 
And my own grand romance — 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff 'd in the *' Old Girl's Review." 

Ink. What Review ? 

Tra. 'Tis the English " Journal de Trevoux ; " 
A clerical wo^k of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

Ink. That pleasure's to come. 

Tra. Make haste then. 

Ink. Why so ? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threatened to give up the ghost t' other day. 

Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 

Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout ? 

Ink. I've a card, and shall go ; but at present, as 
soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 

the moon, 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation. 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and 

praise. 
And I own, for my o^^'n part, that 'tis not unpleasant. 
Will you go ^ There's Miss Lilac will also be present. 

Tra. That "metal's attractive." 

Ink. No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra. You should rather encourage my passion 
than shock it. 
But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 

Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before they can 
come, 
Or else we'll be kept here an hour at their levy, 
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark ! Zounds, they'll be on us ; I know by the 

drone 
Of oli Botherby's spouting, ex-cathedra tone. 
Ay . 'I ere he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
Sour fiiends, or he'll pay you back in your own coin. 

Tra All fair ; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 

Ink That's clear. 

But fo/ God's sake let's go, or the bore will be here. 
Ct me, jome: nay, I'm off. [^Exit Inkel. 

Tra You are right, and I'll follow; 

"Tis hlKh time for a *' Sic me servavit Apollo." 
Alii ) vt we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
BIuop dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand 
Bcribes, ■ 



All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttle* 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

[Exit TiiAOt 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 

An Apartment in the House of Lady BLrEBOTTUi 

A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle, solus 
Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hiury 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void, 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd: 
The twelve do I say i — of the whole twenty-four, 
Is there one which I dare call my o^vn any more ? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining 
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling* 

and shining. 
In science and art, I'll be curst ff I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, 
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall b« 

done 
In a style that proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble m« 

sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost 
— For the bill here, it seems, is defray 'd by the host- 
No pleasure ! no leisure [ no thought for my pains. 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains ; 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews, 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call 

*« Blues;" 

A rabble who know not But soft, here they come I 

Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll iiC dumb 

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady 
Bluemount, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, 
Miss Mazarine, and others, with Scamp, tJu 

Lecturer, 8^c. 

Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good moiling ; I've 
brought you some friends. 

Sir Rich, {bows, mid afterwards aside.) If friends, 
they're the first. 

Lady Blueb. But the lunche&n at tends. 

I pray ye be seated. ** sans ceremonie." 
Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued ; take your chair there, 
next me. [They all til 

Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy- 

Lady Bluemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, :ray, te 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby— 

Both. Oh, my dear Lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye: 
You were not at the lecture. 

Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part— alas ! 
And when 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it wa? broiling ; but theu 
You have lost such a lecture ! 



THE BLUES. 



535 



Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 

Both. Because 

f defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls siook. 

Ink. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a wing ? 

Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lec- 
tures next spring ? 

Both. Dick Dunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not ? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Maderia ? 

Lady Bluem. With pleasure. 

Ink. How does yoTir friend Wordswords, that 
Windermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings. 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and 
kings ? 

Lady Bliceb. He has just got a place. 

Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Blicem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink. Nay, I meant him tio evil, but pitied his 
master ; 
For the poet of pedlars 'twere, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 'tis not 
The first time he has tum'd both his creed and his 
coat. 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel; we all 
know, my dear, 
'Tis his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 'tis one in the "the 
Stamps ; " 
He is made a collector. 

Tra. Collector ! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 

Ink. 1 shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat : 
There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Qanges. 

Ink. I shant go so far — I can have them at 
Grange's.* 

Lady Blueb. Oh fie ! 

Mi4s Lil. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 

Both, Very good ! 

Lady Bluem. How good ? 

Lady Blueb. He means nought — 'tis his phrase. 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Ltuiy Blueb. He means nothing ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

fVTiat you say ? 

Ink. Never mind if he did : 'twill be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 

Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 
Twas in your defence. 

Both. If you please, with submisiiion, 

I can make out my own. 



* Qiiu<g« b or vu a tunota jguUj-took aad fiultanr In FkudSUj. 



Ink. It would be your perdition 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or yovir works, but leave both to a friend 
Apropos — is your play then accepted at last ? 
Both. At last? 

Ink. Why I thought — that's to say — there had 
past 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted — ^you 

know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so. 
Both. Sir, the green-room's in rapture and so '-n ti;« 

committee. 
Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting oui 
" pity 
And fear/' as the Greek says : for '* purging the 

mind," 
I doubt if you'll leave us an equal behind. 
Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to 
have pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 
Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play's to 
be play'd. 
Is it cast yet ? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 
Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party and go the 

^rst night. 
Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double. 
Tra. Why so? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I am happy to say, I've no fears on 
that score. 

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Lik. Never mind mine ; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 
line. 
Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer I think, six ; 

of rhymes ? 
Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader sometimes 
On Wordswords, for instance. I seldom alight, 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight 
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common ; but 
Time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 

Ink. I've no sort of objection, 

So I'm not of the party to take the infection. 
Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they 

ever will take t 
Ink. Not at all^; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 
Of pension or place ; — but the subject's a bore I 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore ) 

What say you to this ? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of youi 

lectures ? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes undet 

my strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness :— 
the joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art 
Wild Nature '.—Grand Shakspeare ! 



&z% 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Both. And down Aristotle ! 

Lttdjif Bluem. Sir George thinks exactly with 

Lady Bluebottle ; 

And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear 

Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlars and asses. 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
Tra. And you. Scamp, — 

Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. 
Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who's already so 
harrass'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no sc/wols, 
and all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must 
be fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not: — ^it would save us some 
worry. 
Lady Bliteb. A truce with remark, and let noth- 
ing control 
This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
Oh, my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathise ! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic — " so bvoyant — so buoyatU ! " * 
Ink. Tracy ! open the window. 
Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check 
not * 

This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse which 

lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his 

mountain. 
*Ti8 the source of all sentiment — feeling's true 

fountain : 
Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 'tis the gas 
Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades.as they pass. 



Faot fom life, witk te inrdf» 



And making them substance : 'tis 8ometluii|| 
divine : — 
Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more 

wine? 
Both. I thank you ; not any moie, sir, till I dine^. 
InJc. Apropos--do you dine with Sir Humphrey 

to-aay r 
Tra. I should think with Duke Humphrey was 

more in your way. 
Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now look 
To the knight, as a landlord, much more than the 

Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
And (except with his publisher) dines where h« 

pleases. 
But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 
Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tis 
dark. 
And you. Scamp — 

Scamp. Excuse me ; I must to my noteSj 

For my lecture next week. 

Ink. He must mind when he quotes 

Out of " Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, now we break up ; 

But remember Miss Diddle invites us to sup. 
Ink. Then at two hours past midnight we all 
meet again. 
For the sciences, sandwiches, heck, and champagne! 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
Both. I honor that meal ; 

For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
Ink. True ; feeling is' truest then, far beyond 
question ; 
I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion ! 
Lady Bltieb. Pshaw ! — ^never mind that ; for one 
moment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 

Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follow s- But here comes youi 

carriage. 

Sir Rich, (aside.) I wish all these people were 

with my marriiage. lEzeunt 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



WHITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

Ab o'er the cold sepulchral stone, 
Some name arrests the passer-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
May mine attract thy pensive eye! 

And when by thee that name is read. 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Beflect on me as on the dead, 
And think my heart is buried here. 

September, Uth, 1809. 



TO ♦** 

Ok, Lady ! when I left the shore, 
The distant shore, which gave me birth, 

I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot on eaith: 

Yet here, amidst this barren isle, , 

Where panting Nature droops the head, 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark-blue main, 
A. few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 

Perchance I "lew her cliffs again: 

But wheresos 3r I now may roam. 
Through scorcjiing clime, and varied sea, 

Though Time restore me 1 o my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On tnee, in whom at once conspire 
All charms which heedless hearts can move, 

Whom but to see is to admire, 
And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

And since thy heart I cai not share, 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 



And who so cold as look on thee, 
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 

Nor be, what man should ever be. 
The friend of Beauty in distress ? 

Ah ! who would think that form had past 
Through Danger's most destructive path, 

Hath braved the Death-wing'd tempest's blast 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fierqei wrath ? 

Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose; 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls, 
The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Thou mightiest in the lists of fame, 

That glorious city still shall be ; 
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 

As spots of thy nativity : 

And though I bid thee now farewell. 
When I behold that wond'rous scene, 

Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
'Twill sooth to be where thou hast been. 

September, 1809. 



STANZAS, 

WRITTEN IN PASSIva THE AMBRACIAN OX7LF 

Through cloudless 8*i«v 'f rilvery sheen 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast, 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient wt>rld was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look. 
The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence ! whom I will love as ^ell 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Smcf^ Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,) 

Wliilst thou art fair and I aiu young ; 



538 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Sweet Florence ! those were pleas mt times, 
"When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd . 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 
But would not lose thee for a world. 

November Uth^ 1809. 



STANZAS, 

80MP08ED DtJRING THE NIGHt, IN A THUNDER- 
8T0KM, WHEN THE GUIDES HAD LOST THE ROAD 
TO ZITZA, NEAR THE RANGE OF MOUNTAINS FOR- 
MERLY CALLED PINDUS, IN ALBANIA. 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 

Where Pindus' mountains rise. 
And angry clouds are pouring fast. 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 

And lightnings, as they play. 
But show where rocks our path have crest. 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 
• On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 'tis tq tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

\nd who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
y^r rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wand'ring through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 

Thy bark hath long been gone : 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 

Bow down my head alone ! 



Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now, 

Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee, 

In darkness and in diead, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

Do thou amidst the fair white walls. 

If Cadiz yet be free. 
At times from out her latticed halls, 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles. 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace. 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shtin 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain. 

When sever'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 

And mourns in search of thine. 

October nth, ISOP 



WRITTEN AT ATHENS. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 
Each lucid interval of thought. 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter. 
And he that acts as wise men ought. 

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 

January IQth, iSlOi 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
SESTOS TO ABYDOS.* 

If, in the month of dark December, 
Leander, who was nightly wont 

(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 



On the third of May, 1810, while the &iiBcM« (Capuin Bathnret), wm 
lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of thai fri^te, and tiie write} 
of theie rhymes, twam from the European ihore to the Asiatic — by-ilie-by 
' fzoir Abydoii to Sesioa would have been uiure correct The whole diatai>c« 



MISCELLANEvJ JS POEMS. 



539 



If, when she wintry tempest roair'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
And thus of 6ld thy current poux'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 

• 

Foi me, degenerate modem wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
And think I've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the doubtful story. 
To woo,— and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

*Twere hard to say who fared the best : 
Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you 

He lost his labor, I my jest ; 
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague . 

May 9, 1810. 



SONG. 

Zcji; nov cas dyancii.* 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zciri fjLov (ras dyairQ. 

By those tresses unconfined, 
"Woo'd by each JEgean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge 
By those wild eyes like .the roe, 
Zcoij nov crdi ayairdj. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 

j>t that zone-encircled waist; 

B) \\\ the token-flowersf that toll 

Wha* words can never speak s* well ; 

By Lo?»<j's alternate joy and wj, 

Zw»i /^otf ffdf ayair(o. 



fe tn tlie place whence we itarted to our landing on the other lide, including 
he length we were carried by the current, Wiu coinputpd by those on boan.1 
(he rrigate at upwaniv of Tour tCngligh iiiilua ; though tlie actaai breadth ii 
snrely one. The rupidity of the curront in such llml no boat can row directly 
acroM, a)id it may in some nieaiurc be estimated from thf" circumstance of the 
krbolo distance being accomplished by one of the paries in an hour and Ave, 
ind by the other in an hour and ten, minute*. Tin; water was extremely 
cold from the melting of the mounuln snows. Alwut three weeks before, in 
April, we had made an attempt ; but having ridden all tlie way from tlje Troad 
Ihe same morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it ueces- 
•ary to postpone the completion till tlie frigate anchored lielow the castles, 
when we swam ihe straits, as Just suite<l ; entering a consiiler.ible way nboire 
the European, and landing lieluw llie Asiatic, lort. CItevalier says tlknt a 
f ouog Jew vwam the same distiince lor his mistress, and Oliver mentions its 
bar'nf been tlone by a Neapolitan j but our consul, Tarragona, remembered 
neilher of thaw; drMimstanc<!s, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A 
Bunber of the SaJsette's crew were known to have accomplished a greater 
'Irtaaoe ; tnd tiic only thing that surprised me Was, that, as duultts hod been 
«itertain«kj of t^ truth of Leander's slury, no traveller had ever endeavored 
4> aaccrtniu Its practicaliility. 

* Zo* m»u, tOM agfijH), h Homaie expression of tendemesa : U I tmnalate 
I , I shall uA'enJ the gimdemen, as it nuiy seem tlial I suppose they could tw>l ; 
•ad if I do not, I may atlront the ladies. For fuM o( any inisconslructiub « 
U^ part of the Ut'ier, 1 shall do so, begging ptinliin of the Imrueil. It mea;k4 
" My life, 1 love you I " which sounds very prettily In hII languages, and is na 
much In fushiou In Un«ce at this day is, Juvenal lells us, the two ftnt worl 
s^cre among the Roman ludii-s, whose exotic eiprraslons were all tle||enlw<t. . 

( lu the Kiurt, (where Indies am not lauglil to write, Iml they should scril^ ■ 
•le oMlgnatUiDs,) flr/wers, clinli-ra, p<-hliles, &c., convey the seutimonts of the 
^rtles by that universal depu^v if Mercury— nn old 4roman. A cinder says, 
'• . bum for Jiee ; " * bunch <^ Re wen tieil wlUt Ualr, " Take aw «uU lly ; " I 
/m % pebUe ixlt <••- vte uotbUf elae ulb I 



Maid of Athens . I am gone ; 
Think of me, sweet ! wnen alcne. 
Though I fly to Istambol,* 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
ZwJj fiov ads ayanui. 

Athens, 1810 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
WAR SONG, 

AsvTC naiSes rdv 'EAA^vwi/, 

WRITTEN BY RIGA, WHO PERISHED IN THE AT- 
TEMPT TO REVOLUTIONIZE GREECE. THE FOL- 
LOWING TRANSLATION IS AS LITERAL AS THS 
AUTHOR COULD MAKE IT IN VERSE ; IT IS CF XHH 
SAME MEASURE AS THAT OF THE ORIGINAL 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour's gone forth, 
Ard, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth 

CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks ! let us g<? 
In arms against the foe. 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Tuikish tyrant's yoke, 
Let yOu jountry see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven-hill'd city seeking, f 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, Hio, 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbc ra 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally! 
Leonidas recalling. 

That chief of ancient song. 
Who saved ye once from falling 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood. 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sous of Ore«'m.s, Ao. 



* Constantinople. 

t ConMautiiiupta. •'EnraAoJos 



540 BYRON'S WORKS. 

TEANSLATTON OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 



*SLoai6TaTTi XarjSn'" 

IHB BONO FROM WHICH THIS IS TAKEN IS A GREAT 
FAVORITE WITH THE YOUNG GIRLS OF ATHENS, 
OF ALL CLASSES. THEIR MANNER OF SINGING 
IT IS BY VERSES IN ROTATION, THE WHOLE 
NUMBER PRESENT JOINING IN THE CHORUS. I 

rave heard it frequently at our **x6poi" 

IN THE winter OF 1810-11. THE AIR IS PLAIN- 
VIVE AND PRETTY. 

I ENTER thy garden of roses, 

Beloyad and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee. 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee. 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful. 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice. 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances. 

Secure of his conquest before. 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances. 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses. 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes. 

And motims o'er thine absence with me. 



WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though not of love and thee bereft. 
To reconcile me with despair 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew 



ON PARTING, 



The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left, 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid strcama 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or wo, 

That heart no longer free. 
Must bear the love it cannot show 

And silent ache for thee. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot. 
And say, what truth might well have said 

By all, save one^ perchance forgot, 
Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee 

To bid us meet — no — ^ne'er again ! 

Could this have been — a word, a look 
That softly said " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook, 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart, 

Once long for him thou ne'er shall see. 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart t 

Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee hers } 
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 

In that dread hour ere death appear. 
When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 

Till all was past ! But when no more 
'Twas thine to reck of human wo, 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er. 
Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a dar 
In these, to me, deserted towers, 

Ere call'd but for a time away, 
Affection's mingling tears were onm ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMb. 



541 



Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 

The kiss, so guiltless and refined 
That Love each warmer wish forebore, 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone that taught me to rejoice, 
When prone, unlike thee to repine ; 

The song, celestial from thy voice, 
But sweet to me from none but thine. 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 
But wheie is thine ? — ah, where art thou ? 

Oft have I Lome the weight of ill, 
But never bent beneath till now ! 

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of wo for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere. 

Impart some portion of thy bliss, 
To wean me from mine anguish here, 

Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 



STANZAS. 

Away, away ye notes of wo ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence, for oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart ! 

'Tis silent all ! — ^but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
(ill consciousness Will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 



Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deeii, 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam i 
But, he, who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath. 
Will long lament the vanish 'd ray 

That scattered gladness o'er his path. 



TO THYRZA. 

OxE struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before ; 
Though every joy is fled below. 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring, 

Man was not form'd to live alone : 
I'll be that light unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none 
It was not thus in days more dear, 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the wo that lurks beneath. 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening sual 

The heart — the heart is lonely still I 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon. 

When sailing o'er the ^gean wavp. 
♦« Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " 

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed. 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veina^ 
•' 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains: " 
Like freedom to the time-worn el^ve, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
Relenting Nature vainly gave, 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to li> a I 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 

When love and life alike were new 1 
How different now thou mecfst my gam \ 

How ting'd by time with sorrow's huat 
The heart that gave itself with thee, 

Is silent — ah, w«jre mine as still ! 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be. 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 



b42 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



rhou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest ! 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves, 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead. 

Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there. 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow: 

No maiden, ^-ith dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 

But silent let me sink to Earth, 
With no officious mourners near : 

I would not mar one hour of mirth. 
Nor startle friendship with a fear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs. 

Might then exert its latest power, 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past. 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath, 

And woman's tears, produced at will. 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour. 
Without regret, without a groan ! 

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

"Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go . 
To be the nothing that I was. 

Ere born to life or living wo ! 

Coun* o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis something better not to be. 



STANZAS. 

IBU QUA.NTO MINUS EST CITM RELIQUI8 VEBSABI 
QtJAM TUI MEMINI88E." 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms bo rare, 

Tto soon retum'd to Earth I 



Though Earth received them in her -ed 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread, 

In carelessness or mirth. 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon tLe spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will maj grow^ 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove. 
That what I loved and long mtist love 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou. 
Who didst not change through all tlie pwJt 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill,, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep. 

Nor need I to repine. 
That all those charms have pass'd away; 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd, 
• Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief, 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf. 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow' d such a mom 

Had w«am a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep 

My tears might well be shed. 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vaiiii 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain 
Though thou Hast left me free, 



MISCELJiANEOCJS POEMS. 



549 



The loveliest things that still remaiAi 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The ail of thine that cannot die 
Throiig'. dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aupht, except its living years. 



STANZAS. 

Ir sometimes In the haunts of men, 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again, 

The semblance of thy gentle shade • 
And now that sad and silent hour, 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

On, pardon that in crowds awhile, 

I waste one thought I owe to thee. 
And. self-condemn'd, appear to smile. 

Unfaithful to thy Memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear. 

That then I seem not to repine; 
I would net fools should overhear, 

One sigh that should be wholly thine 

If not the goblet pass unquafF'd, 

It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

TLat drown'd a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou vanish 'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind, 

To honor thine abandon'd Urn ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; * 

Though all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meel that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
TJnmourn'd shall ([uit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him, but thou ; 
And, oh ! I feel in tliat was given, 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For carthlv love to merit thee. 

March Uth, 1812. 



ON A COKN ELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROKEN. 

iLL-FATEn Heart : and can it be, 
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike beer, all employ'd in vain ? 



Yet precious seems each shaiver'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since he who wears thee, feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his owa. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Few years have pass'd since thou an 1 1 
Were firmest friends, at least, in nara^j 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know st 
WTiat trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have lov'd the most. 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays. 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again 

If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine 
Which made thee fickle as thou art 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow ; 

And who would in a breast confide 
Where stormy passions ever glow • 

It boots not, that together bred. 
Our childish days were days of joy : 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy- 

And when we bid adieu to youth. 
Slaves to the specious world's control, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soxil. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined« 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in man's maturer years. 
When man himself is but a tool. 

When interest sways our hopes and feiini 
And all mast love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to bleed 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we thrn 'scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverie the general plan. 
Nor be whnt all in turn must be ? 

No, for mysr If, so dark my fate 

Through erery turn of life hath been* 

Man and th». world I so mu<'h hato, 
I care not when I quit Uic srone 



44 BYRON'S .WOBKS. 


But thou, with spirit frail and light, 


Yet was I calm : I knew the time 


"Wilt shine awhile and pass away ; 


My breast would thrill before thy loo!^ 


A.S glowworms sparkle through the night, 


But now to tremble were a crime— 


And dare not stand the test of day. 


We met, and not a nerve was shook 


Alas ! whenever folly calls 


I saw t^ee gaze upon my face. 


Where parasites and princes meet. 


Yet meet with no confusion there, 


• (For cherish'd first in royal halls. 


One only feeling could'st thou trace^ 


The welcome vices kindly greet,) 


The sullen calmness of despair. 


Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 


Away ! away ! my early dream. 


One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 


Remembrance never must awake. 


And still thy trifling heart is glad 


Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream ? 


To join the vain, and court the proud. 


My foolish heart be still, or break. 


There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 




Still simpering on with eager hasie. 




As flies along the gay parterre. 




That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 


FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 


But say, what nymph will prize the flame 


In moments to delight devoted. 


Which seems, as marshy vapors move. 


, *' My life ! " with tend'rest tone, you cry, 


To flit along from dame to dame. 


Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 


An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 


If youth could neither fade nor die. 




To death even hours like these must roll. 


What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd, 


Ah ! then repeat those accents never. 


Will deign to own a kindred care ? 


Or change " my life ! " into " my soul ! " 


Who will debase his manly mind, 


Which, like my love, exists for ever. 


For friendship every fool may share ? 




In time forbear ; amidst the throng, 




No more so base a thing be seen ; 




No more so idly pass along ; 


IMPROMTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND 


Be something, anything, but— mean. 






When from the heart where Sorrow sits, 




Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 




And o'er the changing aspect flits, 




And clouds the brow, or fills the eye. 


TO ***** * 






Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 


Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 


My thoughts their dungeon know too well ; 


That I should thus be happy too ; 


Back to my breast the wanderers shrink. 


For still my heart regards thy weal 


And droop within their silent cell. 


Warmly, as it was wont to do. 
Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 






Some pangs to view his happier lot : 




But let them pass— Oh ! how my heart 


ADDRESS, 


Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 






SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OP DBUKY-LANB THBA 


When late I saw thy favorite child. 


TBB, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 


I thought my jealous heart would break, 




But when th' imconscious infant smiled. 


In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd. 


I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 


Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride : 




In one short hour beheld the blazing fane. 


I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, 


Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign 


Its father in its face to see ; 




But then it had its mother's eyes. 


Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and moum'd. 


And they were all to love and me. 


Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 




Thrdtgh clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, 


Mary, adieu ! I must away : 


Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; 


While thou art blest I'll not repine, 


Saw the long column of revolving flames 


Put near thee I can never stay ; 


Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 


My heart would soon again be thine. 


While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 




Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 


I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 


As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 


Had quench'd at length my boyish flame. 


The skies, with lightnings awful as their own. 


I*Jor knew, till seated by thy side. 


Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 


My heart in all, save hope, the same. 


Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



645 



ba^ shall tins new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favor which the former knew, 
A. shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and youf 



Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
D.efies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
And bids the Drama be where she hath been. 
This fabric's birth attest the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say. How well . 

A(3 soars this fane to emulate the last, 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart, 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head ! 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs. 
Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs ; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line. 
Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 



Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 

Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise. 

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 

The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 

If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 

And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 

If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend. 

All past reproach may present scenes refute, 

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 

Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws. 

Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 

So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 

A nd reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside ! 



TO TIME. 



Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 
The varying hours must flag or fly, 

"Whose *,irdy winter, fleeting spring, 
But drag or drl73 us on to die — 

Hail thou ! who on my mirih bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thse known 
. Yet better I sustain thy load. 
For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 
Thy future ills shall press in vain ; 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retzirds, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to wo. 

For then, however drear and dark, 
My soul was suited to thy sky ; 

One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee — not Eternity. 

V 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse 

Through each dull, tedious, trifling part, 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed. 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be chown, 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon— a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SOK 

Ah ! Jjove was never yet without 
The pang, th« agony, the doubt. 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless siglk. 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my wo, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
▲las I I find them poison'd too. 



546 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 


What must they feel whom no false vision. 


Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 


But truest, tenderest passions warm'd ? 


Or circled by his fatal fire, 


Sincere, but swift in sad transition. 


Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 


As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 




Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 


A bird of free and careless wing 


And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 


"Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 




But caught within the subtle snare, 


— - • 


I bum, and feebly flutter there. 






ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THB 


Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 


"ORIGIN OF LOVE." 


Can neither feel nor pity pain, 




The cold rspulse, the look askance. 


The •• Origin of Love ! "—Ah, why 


The lightning of Love's angry glance. 


That cruel question ask of me, 




When thou may'st read in many an eye 


In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 


He starts to life on seeing thee ? 


Now hope, and he who hoped, decline j 


And should'st thou seek his end to know 


Like melting wax, or withering flower. 


My heart forebodes, my fears foresee 


I feel my passion, and thy power. 


He'll linger long in silent wo ; 




But liver-until I cease to be. 


My light of life! ah, tell me why 




That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 




My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 




And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 


REMEMBER HIM, &c. 


Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 


Remember him, whom passion's power 


What wretch with me would barter wo ? 


Ssverely, deeply, vainly proved : 


My bird ! relent : one note could give 


Remember thou that dangerous hour 


A charm, to bid thy lover live. 


When neither fell, though both were loTe<L 


My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain. 


That yielding breast, that melting eye, 


In silent anguish I sustain ; 


Too much invited to be blest : 


And still thy heart, without partaking 


That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 


One pang, exults— while mine is breaking. 


The wilder wish reproved, represt. 


Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 


Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 


Thou canst not murder more than now; 


But saved thee all that conscience fears, 


I've lived to curse my^hatal day, 


And blush for every pang it cost 


And love, that thus can lingering slay. 


To spare the vain remorse of years. 


JM y wounded soul, my bleeding breast. 


Yet think of this when many a tongue. 


Can patience preach thee into rest ? 


WWiose busy accents whisper blame. 


Alas ! too late, I dearly know. 


Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 


That joy is harbinger of wo. 


And brand a nearly blighted name. 




Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued 




A SONG. 


I bless thy purer soul even now. 




Even now, in midnight solitude. 


, ^Hou art not false, but thou art fickle, 




To those thyself so fondly sought ; 


Oh, God ! that we had met in time. 


The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 


Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free, 


Are doubly bitter from that thought: 


When thou hadst loved without a crime, 


1 is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 


And I been less unworthy thee ! 


Too well thou lov'st— too soon thou leavest. 






Far may thy days, as heretofore, 


The wholly false the heart despises, 


From this our gaudy world be past ! 


And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 


And, that too bitter moment o'er. 


But she who not a thought disguises. 


Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 


Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 




. When she can change who loved so truly, ♦ 


This heart, alas ! perverted long, 


It feels what mine has felt so newly. 


Itself destroy'd might there destroy j 




To meet thee in the glittering throng, 


To dream of joy and wake to sorrow. 


Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 


Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 




And if, when conscious on the morrbw, 


Then to the things whose bliss or wo, 


We scarce our fancy can forgive, 


Like mine is wild and worthlew all, 


That cheated us in slumber only, 


That world resign — such scenes forego. 


To leave the waking soul more lonely, 


Where those who feel must surely fall. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



547 



Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath past, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain. 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

rhough long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet ; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 

It felt not half so much to part, 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



LINES 

nreCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A 8KTJLL. 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 

In me behold the only skull. 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quafTd, like thee ; 

I died let earth my bones resign: 
Fill up— thou canst not injure me; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape. 
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 
The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 

WTiere once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 

Quaff while thou canst — another race, 
When thou and thine like me are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not ? since thrm.gh life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ; 

Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 

Newatead Abbey, 1808. 



ON THE DEAin OF SIR PETER PARKER, 
BART. 

There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the hiimblrst grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry, 
And Triumph weeps above the brave. 



For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 

In vain their bones unburied lie. 
All earth becomes their monument . 

A tomb is theirs on every page. 

An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age, 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not. 

Lamented by admiring foes. 
Who would not share their glorious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be • 

And early valor, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thpe 

In wo, that glory cannot quell, 
And shuddering hear of victory. 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cfterish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

While Griefs full heart is fed by fame, 

AJas ! for them, though not for thee, 
They cannot choose but weep the more 

Deep for the dead the grief must be, 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before 



TO A LADY WEEPING 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay: 

Ah, happy ! if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop in future years 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 

March, 18ia 



FROM THE TURKISH. 

Thb chain I gave was fair to view, 
The lute I added sweet in sound ; 

The heart that offcr'd both was true, 
And ill deserved the fate it found 

These gifts were charm 'd by secret spell* 
Thy truth in absence to divine ; 

And they have done their dtity well, 
Alas ! they fould not teach tlice thin« 



548 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou could'st think, 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'/i too, 
The chain is broke, the music mute. 

*Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



SONNET. 

TO QENEVRA. 

Thine eyes* blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — ^where serenely wrought, 

Beems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought— 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspe(^, by his colors blent, 
When from his beauty-breathing pencil bom, 

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) 
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Buch seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
With nought Remorse can claim — ^nor Virtue 
scorn. 



SONNET. 

TO OENETRA. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo. 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush. 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Boft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending. 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gltams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
Abo73 all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

k\ once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 



INSCRIPTION 

OW THE MOXUMBNT OP A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 

'* Near thb spot 

Are depotited the ReiTiaini of oim 

Who poMeaaed Beauty without VanitT, 

Strength without liuolenoe, 

Coung^ without Ferodty, 

As 1 an tfw YinuM of Mm. without hta Vieea. 



Tlua Praise, which would be onmeaning naMeiy 

If inscribed over human ashra, 

It but a just tribuw to the Memcty of 

BOATSWAIN, a Dog, 

Who wa» bom at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 

And died at Newslead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." 

Wheis some proud son of man returns to eartll« 

Unkno vn to\glory, but upheld by birth, 

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wc 

And storied urns record who rests below ; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend. 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

"Whose honest heart is still his master's own. 

Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth. 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour. 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power. 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgosi, 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 

Pass on — it honors none you \vish to mourn ; 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 

I never knew but one, and here he lies. 

Newsttad Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For others' weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh ; 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell» 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye. 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — ^Farewell ' 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 

But in my breast, and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by, 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain. 

Though grief and passion there rebel; 
I only know we loved in vain— 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 



BRIGHT BE THJi PLACE OF THY SOUL 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control. 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thftu wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be ; 

And our sorrow may cease to repine. 
When we know that thy God is with thee 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



549 



Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom, 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken. 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder conies o'er me— 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well :— 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget. 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ?— 

With silence and tears. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC* 

•• O I Jirhrymarum font, tRnero tncrM 
Duceritiuiii ortiii ex Hiiiiiio : ^uater 
Felix t in iinn ((iil KMiti*iilem 
Feaore hi, pla Nymphii, leiMll." 

rHKUE's not a joy the world can give like that it 
takes away, 

^^en the glow of early thought declines in feel- 
ing's dull decay ; 



• Theae veraoi were jyivim by IionI By run (u Mr. Pnwer, o( ihe Htmnd, 
rho hua pulillvtunl Uiuiii, with very beautUuJ innilc by Sir Jutui 



'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone 

which fades so fast. 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youtk 

itself' be past. 



Then the few whose spirits float above the \?r€ck ol 

happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean ol 



The magnet of their course is gone, or only poiati 

in vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall xvm 

stretch again. 



Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 

itself comes do\vn ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it date not dream 

its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears. 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where 

the ice appears. 



Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth 

distract the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their 

former hope of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy leaves around the ruin'd turret 

wreath. 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 

gray beneath. 



Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have 

been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanish'd scene: 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those teaii 

would flow to me. 

18lh 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC 

There be none of Beauty's daughteib 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is Ihy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the luH'd winds seem dreaming 
And the midnight moon is weaving 

Her bright chain o'er the deep; 
Whose breast is gently heaving, 

As an infant's asleep : 
So the spirit bows before thee, 
To listen and adoro thee ; 
With a full but soft emotion, 
Like the swell of Summer's ocean 



55G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



FARE THEE WELL. 



" Ala« I they had bfien friends in youth j 
Bui whisperiiig toujues can poison tru«h : 
Aod constancy lives in realms above : 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain : 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like clifis, which had been rent asunder; 
' A dreary sea now flows lietween. • 

• But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, 1 ween, 
The marks of that wliich once hath been." 

Coleridge'e Chriatabel. 

Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well : 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show ! « 

Then thou would'st at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises miist offend thee, 
Founded on another's wo — 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found, 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 
■■ Love may sink by slow decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 
Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper soitow 

Than the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morro-n 

Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And- when thou would'st solace gather, 
W tien our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say •• Father ! " 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands si- ail press thee, 

When'hpr lip to thine is prest, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 

Think of him thy love had blesa'd ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to rne. 



All my faults perchance thou knoMre<i(, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
Wither, yet with thee tbey go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bovr« 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 

Even my soul forsakes me now. 

But 'tis done — all words are idle- 
Words from me are vainer still ; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will.— 

Fare thee well ! — thus disanited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
SearM in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 

March 17, 1816 



A SKETCH * 

" Honest* nonest lago I 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

ShaJc»ptan 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred. 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 

Next — for some gracious service unexprest. 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair 

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick -with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess— 

An ofily infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

What she had made the pupil' of her art, 

None know — ^but that high Soul secured the heart. 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not bUnd 

Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 

Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain— 

Nor En\y ruffle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion boti 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live, 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 

Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 

She deems that all could be like her below : 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend. 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long. 
The baleful burden of this honest song— 



Mis. Cbarlmonk 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



561 



Tlvough all her former functions are no more, 

Bhe rules the circle which she served before. 

If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; 

If daugnters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 

If early habits — those false links, which bind 

At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 

Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will ; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 

If like a viper to the heart she wind. 

And leave the venom there she did not find ; 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints, 

While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 

smiles — 
A thread of candor with a web of -vyiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming. 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul harden'd scheming; 
A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; * 
A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze through her skin, and stagnate there to mud. 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale— 
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 
Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade — 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

t 
Oh ! wr^ch without a tear — \vithout a thought, 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain. 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush 'd affections light 
Back 3n thy bosom i^th reflected blight 1 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
Bla:!k — as thy will for others would create : 
TilJ thy hard heart be calcined into dust. 
And thy scul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh. may tliy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 
rhec, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 

, praypr, 
Lr.ok on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
E^ en worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for th? love I bore, and still must hear. 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human namo — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high; 
Exalted o'er thy leas abhorr'd compeers— 
4nd festering in the infamy of years. 



TO 



When all around grew drear and dark^ 
And reason half withheld her ray — 

And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way ,• 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 
And that internal strife of heart, 

"When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
The weak despair — the cold depart ; 

"When fortune changed — and love fled fai. 

And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast. 
Thou wert the solitary star 

"Which rose and set not to the last. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came. 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray- 
Then purer spread its gentle flame. 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine. 
And teach it what to brave or brook— 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, thougr gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pom 
But there thou wert — and still would 'st l>e 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me 

But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the moht of all. 

Then let the ties of bafiled love 
Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not n ove ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

And these, when all was lost beside, 
"Were found and still are fix'd in thefr— 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert — ev'u to me. 



ODE. 

[from the FRENCH. J. 
I. 

We do not curse thee, "Waterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain beiff<v 
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk, 



lUt nktsr, Mn Lalfh. 



552 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Like the water-spout from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion- 
It soars, and mingles in the air. 
With that of lost Labedoyere — 
With that of him whose honor'd grave 
Contains the " bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose ; 
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
Never yet was heard such thunder 
As then shaH shake the world with wonder 
Never yet was seen such lightning 
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 
Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
By the sainted Seer of old, 
Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood.* 

IL 

The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow men — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despot's banded, 

With that youthful chief competed ? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting. 
The Hero sunk into the King ? 
Then he fell : — So perish all, 
Who would men by man enthral ! 

III. 

And thou too of the snow-white plume ! 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb 'jf 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding. 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a m.eanly royal name ; 
Buch as he of Naples wears, 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little rMdst thou deem, when dashing 
On thy war-horse through the ranks. 
Like a stream which burst its banks, 
WTiile helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
Shone and shivei'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee: 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once — as thft moon sways o'er the tide, 
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
ThroTigh the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight. 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendancy, — 



See Rf ». chap. riii. Tsr*e 7, &c. " The first angel Bounded, and there 
Collowed h^iil and toe minted with blood," 4c. 

Verae 8. "And the second angel souude<l, and as it were a great mountain 
lurnin? with Bre wai ca« into the lea ; and the third part of the eea became 
blood." 

V rs" 10. "Anl be third angt;! aouuded, and there fell a great star from 
'jev n, boininf tta It were a lamp ; and it fell upon the third part of the 
*ren, and ipon the fountains of waters." 

Verse 11. "And the name of the stsr is called Wormwood: and the third 
put of lYif waters became •oormwood ; and many men died of the waters, 
jcettne th'V were mede bitter." 

t Murat's reniaiui are wid ^ "uive been t<Tn from the i^iave and burnt. 



And, as it onward rolling rose. 

So moved his heart upon our foes. 

There, where death's brief pang was qnickei* 

And the battle's wreck lay thickest 

Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 

JVTio could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again • 

IV. 

O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arcii— 
But let Freedom rejoice, * 

With her heart in lier voice ;* 
But, her hand on her sword. 
Doubly shalY she be adored ; 
France has twice too well been taught 
The " moral lesson " dearly bought^ 
Her safety sits not on a throne. 
With Capet or Napoleon ! 
But in equal rights and laws. 
Hearts and hands in one great cause- 
Freedom, such as God hath given 
Unto all beneath his heaven, 
With their breath, and from their birtfc , 
Though Guilt would sweep it from the eartJi , 
With a fierce and laA-ish hand 
Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 
Pouring nations' blood like water, 
In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

V. 

But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind. 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued- 
Man may die — the soul's renew'd : 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble. 
Tyrants shall believe and ixemble— 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

ALL WEPT, BTTT PARTICITLARLY 8AVART, AND A 
POLISH OFFICER WHO HAD BEEN EXALTED FROU 
THE RANKS BY BONAPARTE. HE CLUNO tO EM 
master's knees ; WROTE A LETTER TO LO U) 
KEITH, ENTREATING PERMISSION TO ACCOJtfPANf 
HIM, IN THE MOST MENIAL CAPACITY, WHICB 
COULD NOT BE ADMITTED." 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief, 

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy wanior's grief. 

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 555 


Woman's lOve and friendship's zea,\, 


Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood. 


. Dear as bo1?h has been to me— 


And swept down empires with its flood ; 


What are they to all I feel, 


Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 


With a sold'er's faith for thee ?. 


As thou didst lighten through all space ; 




And the shorn Sun grew dim in air. 


Idol of the soldier's soul ! 


And set while thou wert dwelling there. 


First in fight, but mightiest now : 




Many could a world control ; 


Before thee rose, and with thee grew. 


Thee alone no doom can bow. 


A rainbow of the loveliest hue, 


By thy side for years I dared 


Of three bright colors,* each divine, 


• Death ; and envied those whp fell, 


Arid fit for that celestial sign ; 


When their dying shout was heard, 


For Freedom's hand had blended them, 


Blessing him they served so well.* 


Like tints in an immortal gem. 


Would that I were cold with* those, 


One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 


Since this hour I live to see ; 


One, the bine depth of ^ Seraph's eyes; 


When the doubts of coward foes, 


One, the pure Spirit's ^eil of white 


Scarce dare trust a man with thee. 


Had robed in radiance of its light : 


Dreading each should set thee free ! 


The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream 


Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 


All their chains were light to me, 




Gazing on thy soul unbent. 


Star of the brave ! thy ray is palet 




And darkness must again prevail . 


Would the sycophants of him. 


But, oh thou Rainbow of the free . * 


Now so deaf to duty's prayer. 


Our tears anjd blood must flow for thee. 


Were his borrow'd glories dim, 


When thy bright promise fades away 


In his native darkness share ? 


Our life is but a load of clay. 


Were that world this hour his own, 




All thou calmly dost resign, 


And Freedom hallows with her tread 


Could he purchase with that throne 


The silent cities of the dead ; 


Hearts like those which still are thine ? 


For beautiful in death are they 


' 


Who proudly fall in her array ; 


My chief, my king, my friend, ad.eu ! 


And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 


Never did I droop before ; 


For evermore with them or theo ! 


Never to my sovereign sue, 




As his foes I now implore : 




All I ask is to divide 


^ 


Every peril he must brave : 




Sharing by the hero's side 




His fall, his exile, and hia grave. 


NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL 




[from the FRENCH.] 




Farewell to the Land, where the gloom ol my 


. 


Glory 


ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF 


Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name 


HONOR." 


She abandons me now — but the page of her story ^ 




The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 


I FROM THE FRKNCH.] 


I have warr'd with a word which vanquished me only 


When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 


Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath sned 


I have coped with the nations which dread me thui 


Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 


lonely, 


Ihou radiant and adored deceit! 


The last single Captive to millions in war 


Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 




Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 


Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown d 


Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 


me, 




I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 


J^iuls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; 


But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found 


Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 


thee, 


The music of thy martial sphere 


Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 


Was fame on high and honor here, 


Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 


And thy light broke on human eyes, 


In strife with the storm, when their battles wer« 


Like a Volcano of the skies. 


won — 




Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment wac 


' k. WbIitIoo ono man wiu Kwn, whmti li»ft arm wn» ihnttnrMi by ■ ean. 


blasted, 


»an ba:i, to wrnnch it oH with ttw- other, and throwing it up in the air, e»- 


Had still soar'd with eyes ftx'd on victory's sun ! 


BivinKxl to hU coinnulii ' Vl»e l'Kmp.-reur, jukiu'A Iu inort 1 ' There ware 
naiijr other inititiicii of thn ll"<o; thl» you may, huwevnr, dep vl oo ■■ 






mil ."—A PnvaU Umr frotl. Bruinlt. 
70 


m • TiniiMow.* 



^54 



_-\ 

BYRON'S i WORKS. 



farewell tc thee, Fi ance ! — ^but when Liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again — 
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
Tiiere are links which must break in the chain that 

has bound us, 
Titttt turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice. 



nmiTTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF "THE 
PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee. 

My friend, what magic spells belong ! 
As all can tell, who share, like me. 

In turn thy converse, and thy song. 
But when the dreaded hour shall come 

By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 
And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
flow fondly will she then repay 

Thy homage offer'd at hpr shrine, 
And blend, while ages roll away, 

Her name immortally with thine ! 

April 19^A, 1812. 



SONNET. 

lousSEAU — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and de Stael — 
♦Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore. 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall ; 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all. 
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt the wise and wond'rous ; but by thee 

How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel. 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea. 

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
Which of the heirs of immortality 

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 



\ 



STANZAS TO .f 

Though the day of my destiny's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquaint*d, 

It shrunk not to share it with me. 
And the love^which my spirit hath painted, 

It never hath found but in thee. 



■ Geneva, Feniey, Coppet, Lausanne, 
t His aiMer, Mti. Leigh. 



Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling. 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean. 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is mai^y a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me— 

'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 

Though slander'd, thqu never couldst shake, 
Though trusted, thgu didst not disclaim me. 

Though parted, it was not to fly. 
Though watchful, it was not to defame me. 

Nor mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most cherisn d 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit of th,ee. 



DARKNESS. 

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternsi space, 

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Mom came, and went — and came, and brought Ml 

day. 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
And they did live by watch-fires — and the throneflt 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. 
The habitations of all things which dwell. 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
dAnd men were gather' d round their blazing bomet 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



55i 



To look once more into each other's face • 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled, 

ALnd others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 

The pall of a past world ; and then again 

With curses cast them down upon the oust, 

And gjiash'd their teeth and howled : the wild birds 

shriek'd. 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And Wai which for a moment was no more, 
Did glut nimself again ; — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love \vas left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
Immediate and inglorious ; and the pa'lg 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
A.rd he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the drooping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enonnous city did survive, 
And they were enemies ; they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
And shivering scraped with their culd skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and their ttoblc breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
Their eves as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
Even of thfrir mutual hideousncss they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void. 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasonlcss, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. 
I And nothing stirr'd within tlieir silent depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
A.nd their masts fell down pioconioal ; as they dropp'd 
They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
The waves were dead ; tlio tidi-s were in their grave, 
The moon, their mistress, had expired l)efore ; 
The winds were withcr'd in the stagnant air, 
And the clouds perish 'd ; Darkness had no need 
Of Aid from them— She was tl.e universe. 



CHIRCHILL'S GRAVE. 

A FACT LITEBALLY RENDERED. 

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 

On that neglected turf and quiet stone. 

With name no clearer than the names unknown. 

Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 

That for this plant strangers his memory task'J 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ; 

And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do no* kno\* 

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; < 

He died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave ' 

And is this all ? I thought, — and do we ilp 

The veil of Immortality ? and crave 

I know not what of honor and of light 

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight i 

So soon and so successless ? As I said, 

The Architect of all on which we tread. 

For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 

To extricate remembrance from the clay, 

Whose minglings might conftise a Newton's thought 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 

Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 

Thus spoke he, — '* I believe the man of whom 

You wot^who lies in this selected tomb. 

Was a most famous writer in his day. 

And therefore travellers step from out their way 

To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er 

Your honor pleases," — then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 

Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 

So much but inconveniently ; — Ye smile, 

I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while. 

Because my homely phrase the truth would telL 

You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 

With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 

On that Old Sexton's natural homily, 

In which there was Obscurity and Fame 

The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 



PROMETHEUS. 



Titian ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were nt)t as things that gods despisv , 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent suffering, an(^intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The sufl'ocating sense of wo, 

Which speaks l»ut in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is eoholess. 



556 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



II. 



Titian ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate, 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee, 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee. 
But would not to appease him tell ; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
And evil dread so ill dissembled 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled, 

III. 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind. 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengthen man with his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou wert from high. 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not'convulse, 
A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To mcTtals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure soxirce ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence ; 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — an equal to all woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter'd recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy, 
And making Death a Victory. 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 

Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou see'st my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dreAid omnipotence I own ; 

,Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 



Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, 

Let superstition hail the pile. 
Let priests, to spread their sable reif^ 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 
Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne 

Shall man condemn his race to hell 
Unless they bend in pompous form ; 

Tell us that all, for one who fell. 
Must perish in the mingling storm ? 

Shall eJKjh pretend to reach the skies. 

Yet doom his brother to expire, 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound. 

Prepare a fancied bliss or wo ? 
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground, 

Their great Creator's purpose know ? 

Shall those, who live for self alone, 

Whose years float on in daily crime- 
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 
And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 

Father ! no prophet's laws I seek,— 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear ; 

I own myself corrupt and weak. 
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of ether's space 

Who calm'st the elemental war. 
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace :— 

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 
Who, when thou wilt, can take me heme. 

Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or wo betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall, 

In thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust restored, 
My soul shall float on airy wing. 

How shall thy glorious name adored 
Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 
With clay the grave's eternal bed. 

While life yet throbs I raise my prayer, 
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 
Grateful for all thy mercies past, 

And hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring life may fly at last. 

2^th Dec. 180C 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 557 

HOMANDE MUY DOLOROSO A VERr MOURNFUL B.lLL AD 



DEL 
8ITIO T TOMA DE ALHAMA. 

El qual dexia en Aravigo tuti, 

PaSSEAVASE el Rey Moro 
Por la ciudad de Granada, 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 
Hasta las de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama 1 

Cartas le fueron venidas 
Que Alhama era ganada. 
Las cartas ech6 en el fuego, 
jt al mensagero matava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Descavalga de una mula, 

Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
Por el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Av de mi, Alhama! 

Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
Al mismo punto raandava 
Que se toquen las trompetas 
Con aiiafiles de plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Y que atambores de guerra 
Apriessa toquen alarma ; 
Por que lo oygan sus Moros, 
Los de la Vega y Granada. 

\v de mi, Alhama ! 

Los Moros que el son oyeron, 
Que al sangrieuto Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron formavan. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Alii habl5 un Moro viejo ; 
Desta manera hablava : — 
Para que nos llamas, Rey ? 
Para que es este Uamada ? 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

AxtjB de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada : 
Que Christianos, con brayeza, 
Ya nos han tornado Alhama. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

AUi habl6 un riejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crccida y canal— 
Bien se te emplea, bucn Rey 
Buen Rey ; bien se te empleara. 
Ay de mi, Alhama I 

Mataste los Bencerrages, 
Que era la flor de Granada ; 
Cogiste los tomadiios 
De Cordova la nombrada. 

At de mi, Alhama I 



ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAH4« 

Which, in tht Arabie languag*, it to Iht follotting purport I 

The effect of the ori^nal ballad (which existed both in Spanish aad An 
bic) waa such that it was forbidden to be suog bj the Moon, oo j»kl 4 
death, within Granada.] 

The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ; 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell ; 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horw. 
And through the street directs his courso 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Then the Moors by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them theie, 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Wo is me, Alhama I 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
" Wherefore call on us, oh King ? 
What may mean this gathering ? '* 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

*• Friends ! ye have, alas! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow, 
That the Christians, stern and bold. 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 

Wo, is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
• " Good King ! thou art justly senrea. 
Good King ! this thou hast deserved 
Wo is me, Alhama I 

•* By thee were slain, Ip evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's tlower { 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of CordoTa the Chivalry. 

Wo is me, Alhama: 



568 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Pot esso mereces, Rey, 
Una pene bien doblada; 
Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, 

Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama I 

Si no rfe respetan leyes, 
Es ley que todo se pierda ; 

Y que ie pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

A.y de mi, Alhama ! 

Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera. 

Y coiro el otro de leyes 
De leyss tambien hablava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto. — 
Esso dize el Rey Moro 
Rrlinchando de colera. 

'Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la velida barba, 
El Rey te manda prender, 
Tor la perdida de Alhama. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y ponerla en el Alhambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

JT otros tiemblen en miralla. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Cavelleros, hombres buenos, 
Dezid de mi parte al Rey, 
Al Rey Mo'-o de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Av de mi, Alhama ! 



De averse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en el alma. 
Que si el Rey perdi6 su tierra, 
Otro mucho mas perdiera. 
Ay de mi, Alhama I 

Perdieran hijos padres, 

Y casados las casadas : 
Las cosas que mas amara 
Psrdi6 r un y el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Perdi una hija donzella 
Que era la flor d' esta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella, 
No me las estimo en nada. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Le cotaron la cabe9a, 

Y la elevan al Alhambra, 
Assi come el Rey lo manda 

Ay de mi, Alhama 



" And for this, oh King, is sert 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" He wko holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won. 
And thyself with her undone." 
Wo is me, Alhama I 

Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's ejres, 

The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answer' d, and because • 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" There is no law to say such thinga • 
As may disgust the ear of kings : "-» 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doora'd him dead. 
Wo is me, Alhama . 



Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The King hath sent to have thee seiied* 
For Alhama' s loss displeased. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe ; 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 
Wo is me^ Alhama ! 

" Sires have lost their children, wires 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower , 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
And think her ransom cheap that day.** 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor said, 
They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed 
Wo is me, Alhama I 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 559 




UoHibres, ninos y mugeres, 


And men and infants therein wewp 




Lloran tan grande perdida. 


Their loss, so heavy and sc deep 




Lloravan todas las damas 


Granada's ladies, all she rei^rs 




Quantas en Granada avia. 


Within her walls, burst into tears. 




Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


"Wo is me, Alhama ! 




Por las calles y ventanas 


And from the windows o'er the walla 




Mucho Into parecia ; 


The sable web of mourning falls ; 




Llora el Rey como fembra, 


The king weeps as a woman o'er 




Qu' es mucho lo que perdla. 


His loss, for it is much and sore. 




Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Wo is me, Alhama ! 




fiONETTO Dl VITTORELLI. 


TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. 




PER MONACA. 


ON A NUN. 




RrinoiOT a.mporto in nome di un genitor-, a ciii era morta poco Innana ana 


Sonnet compojed In the name of a father who(» daughter had recently Otat 




VtflU. appena maritata ; e cliretto al genitore della »acra spoia. 


■bonly after her marriage ; and addieased to the father of her who bat 




, 


lately taken the Teil. 




Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte 


Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired. 




Lieti miseri padri il ciel ne feo, 


Heaven made us happy ; and now, wretched sireB, 




11 ciel, che degne di piu nobil sorte 


Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires. 




L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. 


And gazing upon either, both required. 




La mia fu tolta da veloce morte 


Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired 




A. le fumanti tede d' imeneo ; 


Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon — expires: 




La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 


But thine, within the closing grate retired. 




Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo. 


Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 




Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 


But thou at least from out the jealous door. 




Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, 


"Which shuts between your never-meeting eyeb, 




La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 


May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more 




lo verso un fiume d' amarissim' onda, 


I to the marble where my daughter lies, 




Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa. 


Rush,— the swoln flood of bitterness I poyr, [P^ea 




Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde. 


And knock, and knock, and knock— but none nv 




TO MY DEAR MARY ANNE. 


May the Ruler of Heaven look down. 
And my Mary from evil defend ! 




1HB .'OLLOWIXG LINES ARE THE EARLIEST WRIT- 


May she ne'er know adversity's frown, 




TEN BY LORD BYRON. THEY WERE ADDRESSED 


May her happiness ne'er have an end . 




TO MISS OHAWORTH, AFTERWARDS MRS. MUSTERS, 






iN 1804, ABOUT A YEAR BEFORE HER MARRIAOB.j 


Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu ! 
Farewell ! I with anguish repeat. 




Adieu to sweet Mary for ever ! 


For ever I'll think upon you 

While this heart in my bosom shall beaL 




From her 1 must quickly depart ; 






Though the fates us from each other sever, 






Still her image will dwell in my heart. 


TO MISS CHAWORTH. 




fhe f\^m( ihi* tnthin my heart bums 






11 unlike what in lovers' hearts glows; 


Oh Memory, torture me no mor©, 




Ibe love which for Mary I feel 


The present's all o'ercast ; 




Is far purer ther Cupid bestows. 


My hopes of future bliss are o'er, 




, 


In mercy veil the past. 




I wish not your peace to disturb, 
I wish not your joys to molest 

Mistake not my passion for love, 
'Tib your friendship alone I request. 


WTiat bring those images to view 
I henceforth must resign ? 

Ah ! why thosfe happy hours renew, 
That never can be mine ? 




Not ten thousand lovers could feel 


Past pleasure doubles present pain. 




The friendsliip my bosom contains; 


To sorrow adds regret, 




It will ever within my heart dwt-ll, 


Regret nnd hope are both in vj»\n. 




While tlie warm blood flows through my veins. 


1 ask but to— forget. 1804 





560 



FRAGMENT. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 

L'AMITIE EST L' AMOUR SANS AILES 



Htlls of Annesley, bleak and barren, 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above thy tufted shade ! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling, 

Former favorite haunts I see ; 
Now no more my Mary smiling 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 1805. 



FRAGMENT. 

niVhen Ix)rd Byt<« ftrtt went to Newstead on his arrival from Aberdeen, 
M planted a young oak in some part if the grounds, and had an idea that 
U it flourished, so should ht. Some six or seven years after, on rerisitiiig 
(be <ipot, he found his oak choked up l«y weeds, and almost destroyed. The 
kUowing opening lines are a specimen of the poem he wrote on the occasa>n.] 

/OTJNG Oak, when I planted thee deep in the 
ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 
That Ihy dark-waving branches would flourish 
around. 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years. 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with 
pride ; 
They are past, and I water the stem with my 

tears, 

Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

1 left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire, &c. 



ON REVISITING HARROW. 

[Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a 
pulitular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memo- 
rial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author 
daitroyed tlie fr.ul reconi t>efore he lett Harrow. On revisiting the place in 
MOO, be wrote under it the following stanzas.] 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 
Young Friendship's record simply trace \ ; 

Few were her words, — but yet though few, 
Resentmemt's hand the line defaced 

Deeply she cut — ^but, not erased, 
The characters were still so plain. 

That Friendship once return'd, and gazed . — 
Till Memory hail'd the words '.gain. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more. 

That Friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 
. But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor, 
Or Friendship's tears. Pride rush'd between. 
And blotted out tte line for ever ! 



Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seal 
Where first my heart reponsive ^/it,— 

•• Friendship is Love without h.a wings I ** 

Through few, but deeply checker'd yeaiSf 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now, half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now, bright in rays divine; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
My soul, on raptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought i^ all thine o.vn. 
Worth worlds of bliss, that tho ight alone, 

" Friendship is Love without (lis wings !*' 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple gravCi 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rii,g8 , 
But here whene'er my footsteps move > 
My silent tears too plainly prove, 

" Friendship is Love without his wiL^* » * 

Oh Love : before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was tLi&e, 

But these are now decay'd ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings^ 
Away, away ! delusive power. 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 

" Unless, indeed, without thy wings ' 

Seat of my youth I thy distant sp're 

Recalls each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire,— 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still. 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; ' 
Again, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to say 

" Friendship is Love without his wingf ' 

My Lycus ! wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But oh, 'twill wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet| 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ' " 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



b6\ 



lo on*, and one alcne deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
N<v— from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
•'or none but these my breast shall wake, 

"Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! " 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours. 

My memory and my hope ; 
Tour worth a lasting love ensures. 

Unfettered in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings. 
With joy elate, by snares beset. 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls Ihe epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward. 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd fame but dwells with lies. 
Me the enchantress ever flies. 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ; 
Simple and young, I dare not feign. 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain 

*' Friendship is love without his wings ! " 

DecemhtTy 1806. 



TO MY SON .• 

Those flaxen locks, tnose eyes of blue. 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And sn.ile to steal the heart away, 
Re'jall a scene of former joy, 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy ! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same,- 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 



' " The only dreumitanee I know, that bean vwtn reminelj on the lutject 
ef thU poo n, b the following About a jtui or (wu bclbre the dute affixed to 
k, he wrou! to >U mother, Trom Harrow, (ni I have he^n told by a perxon, to 
Whom Mil. Byroii henelf communkeated ttie eircumatnnee,) to any, that he 
had lately a goo<l rieal of uncniineaa on account of a young woiiiaii, whom 
b* kiiew to have been a favcrile of hi* laU) friend, Ciinon, and who, finding 
henotf after hla ueath In a itate of pmgreaa towardi niiarrnily, hail dediired 
Lord Byron wai the father of her child. This, he poaitively ait'ired lila 
mother wua not the caae ; but bellering, aa he did Annly, thai the child 
iielongml to Cunon, it woa hU wiah thai it ihould be brought up with all po»- 
■Ible cnru, and he therefore entreated that hia iniHher would have the kiiidiieaa 
lo lake charge of It. I'hough auch a rrqueat might well (at my infunnant 
npreiaet it) have diteompoMHl a temper niont mild thiin Mra. Byron 'a, the 
nolwilhitandlng anawea-U her ton in the kindntt tenni, tuyiiig lltal the 
would willingly reatlvo the child aa toon at It wat bom, and bring It up hi 
Vha^cTer manner he deain>d. Happily, hiwever, the Infant died almoal 
tmnnediaiely, and waa thua apM«d llfet belnr t lax on Um good nature of any 
Wjj.— A/«r«. 

71 



Her lowly giave the turf has press'd, 
And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
Derision sneers upon thy birth, 
And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 
A father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
Must 1 ' nd Nature's claim disown ? 
Ah, no— 'hough moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love. 
Fair ch« rub, pledge of youth and joy*- 
A father guards thy birth, ray Boy ! 

Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace 
Ere age has wiinkled o'er ray face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son : 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ". 

Although so young thy hetdlsae lira. 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee, 
The breast, which beat to former joy. 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ' 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, 
SOUTHWELL, 



OF 



A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNlSiJS 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell 
A Cat-rier who carried hi^ can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and tie carried so fast. 
He could cari^ no more- so was carried, at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, oeing too much for on*». 
He could not carry off", — bo he's now carri-on. 
Sept. 1807 



FRAGMENT. 

The following Unet form the conoi lalon of a poem written !>y Lotd ] 
ut let the melancholy Inipreaaion that oe thould toon die.] 

Forget this world, my restless sprite 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven 
There must thou sotin direct thy flight 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow down beneath th' Almighty Throne, 

To him address thy trembling prayer. 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of light ! to thee I call, 

My soul is dark within ; 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall. 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering Star, 
Who calm's* the ♦'lemental war 



562 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 1807. 



♦ TO MRS. • * *, 

TV BBIN9 ASKED MY REASON FOR QTTITTING ENG- 
LAND IN THE SPRING. 

When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near the gate. 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours. 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 
He learnt to bear his load of grief; 

Just gave a sigh to other times. 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, Mary, will it be with me. 
And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise, 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise 
"Without the wish of dwelling there.f 

Dec. 2, 1808. 



A LOVE-SONG. 

.,.0 «««««««. 

Remind me not, remind me not, • 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours 
When all my soul was given to thee ; 
Hours that may never be forgot. 
Till time unnerves our vital powers. 
And thou and I shall cease to be. » 

Can I forget — canst thou forget, 
When playing with thy golden hair, 
How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet. 
With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
And lips, though silent, breathing lore, 

"When thus reclining on my breast, 
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet. 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire. 
And still we near and nearer prest. 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darkening gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow. 



This ud the lire following poem* were first publiihed in Hobhouie'i 



Tlw 



t In the original thii line stands, " Without a wish to enter tlxrs ' 
«adlnf fWeo above is from « MS. coenctioa t)y Lord Bjnta. 



I dreamt last night our love retnm'd, 
And sooth to say, that very dieam 
.Was sweeter in its phantasy 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

Of hours which, though for ever goro, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore. 
Till thou and I shall be forgot. 
And senseless as the mouldering Bton«» 
Which tells that we shall be na more 



STANZAS 

There was a time, I need not name, 
Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 

When all our feelings were the same 
As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour when flrst thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine. 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew, 
When late I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true. 
Remembrance of the days that weie. 

Yes ! my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me. 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be. 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine ' 



TO THE SAME. 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone. 
My bleod runs coldly through my breast , 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine 

And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



56fc 



Oh lady ! bVss©.! be that tear — 
It falls foi one that cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



SONG. 

Fill the goblet again, for I never before 

Felt the glow vhich now gladdens my heart to its 

core; 
Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, through 

life's varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is fond. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye ; 
I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can 

declare 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its 

spring, 
, And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends ! — who has not ? — ^but what tongue will 

avow. 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange. 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never 

canst change : 
Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but on earth 

what appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still Increase with its 

years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 

We are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast no such 

alloy 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last : 
Ther we find— do we not ? — in the flow of the soul. 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, was she not ? — but the goblet we kiss, 
And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own ; 
We must die — who shall not ?— ^ay our sins be for- 
given, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS. 



TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENOl/Un 

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And, whistling o'er the bending mast 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning bla$t ; 
And I must from this land be gone. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen— 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest. 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again ; 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate« 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face. 
And even in crowds am still alone. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam 
And I will seek a foreign home : 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place; 
My own .dark thoughts I cannot shun 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth. 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or sooth in wo ; 
But friend or leman I have none. 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There's not an eye will weep for me ; 
There's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene. 

Of what we are, and what we've been, 

Would whelm some softer hearts with WC^- 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one ma) be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see. 
And why that early love was crosv, 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the ino»^ 
But few that dwell benouth the sun 
Have loved so lon^. and loved bwt oaa 



564 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I've tried another's fetters too, 
"With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And I would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twonld soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.* 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

Huzza ! Hodgson, we are goJng, 

Our embargo's off at last ; 
Favorable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is tired ; 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time's expired. 
Here's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking. 
Cases cracking, 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket. 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar ; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering. 

We're impatient — push from shore. 
** Have a care ! that case holds liquor- 
Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh Lord ! " 
** Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker 
Ere you've been an hour on 'board." 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants. Jacks ; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling. 
Stuck together close as wax. — 
Such the general noise and racket. 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the captain, 

Gallant Kid, commands the crew ; 
Passengers their births are clapt in. 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
*• Hey day ! call you that a cabin ? 

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in— 

Who the deuce can harbor there ? " 
'* Who, sir ? plenty — 
Nobles twenty 



• Thu* eotrected by hlmaeirin a copy of the MiaeeUaay— (he two la*t 
Itog, orifinally, aa followt :— 



' Tbouifh whereaoe'er my bark may ran, 
Inve but Ibee. I love but one." 



Did at once my vessel fill — 

" Did they ? Jesus, 

How you squeeze us ! 

Would to God they did so still : 

Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 

Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 



Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob ! where are you 2 

Stretch'd along the deck like logs- 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses. 

As the hatchway down he rolls. 
Now his breakfast, now his verses, 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls 
"Here's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help ! " — " a couplet ? " — " No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
" What's the matter ? " 
" Zounds ! my liver's coming up : 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 



Now at length we're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is, 

As philosophers allow, 
Still to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things. 
Great and small things, 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we're quafSng, 
Let's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more ?— 
Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
Even on board the Lisbon Packet ? 

Falmouth Roads, June ZOth, 1809. 



LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' 
ORCHOMENUS. 



BOOK Al 



IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLEB HAD WRITTEN :— 

♦' Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim : 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name 



BENEATH WHICH ^ LORD BYRON INSERTED THB 
FOLLOWING reply: — 

The modest bard, 4ike many a bard unknown, 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
His name would bring more credit than his verse 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



585 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. 

A FARCICAL EPIGRAM 

Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle^ 

We knew before 

That Little's Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that's Little. 

Sept. 14, ISn. 



EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON, 

» ILNSWBR TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE 
CHEERFUL, AND TO " BANISH CARE." 

*♦ Oh ! banish care " — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour, 
When present, past, and future lower. 
When all I loved is changed or gone, 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one, 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst bold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men revere, 
By all unto thy bosom dear, 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, 
The tale of one who scorns atear; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms \yould bewail. 
But mine has suffer'd more than well 
'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 
When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 
Ask if I felt no secret pain. 
And / have acted well my part. 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return 'd the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;— 
Have kiss'd, as if without design, 
'i he babe which ought to have been mine^ 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time htvl not made me love the less. 

But let this ptss— I'll whine no more. 

Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 

The world befits a busy brain, — 

["11 hie me to its haunts again. 

l)Ut if, in some succeeding year. 

When Britain's " May is in the sere," 

riiou hoar at of one, whose deepening crimes 

>!iit wit)- ,he sablest of the times 



Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise. 
One, who in stem ambition's pride. 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside, 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age. 
Him wilt thou kriow — and hwxolng pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause, 

Newstead Abbey, Oct llthy ISlk 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS 

DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 

(I hope I am not violent,) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise — 
To common sense his thoughts could raise- 
Why would they let him print his lays ? 



To me, divine Apollo, grant — ! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

And thus to furnish decent lining 

My own and others' bays I'm twining — 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 

May, 181? 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" 1 lay my branch of laurel down, 
, Tteu thiis to tonn Apollo's crown, 

Let every other hrinsr his own." 

Lord Thurlow'* Line* to Mr. Rogem 

** / lay my bratu-h of laurel down." 
Thou " lay thy branch of laxirel down ! " 

\VTiy, what thou'st stole is not enow; 
And, were it lawfully thine own. 

Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 

Or send it back to Doctor Donne- 
Were justice done to both, I trow, 

He'd have but little, and thou — none. 

*' Then thus to form Apollo's crown." 
A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town, 

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers, . 

They'll tell you Phtrbus gave his oro>vn. 

Some years before your birth, to Rogers, 

*' Let every other brhuj his oicn." 
When coals to Newcastle are carried, 

And owls sent to Athens as wonders. 
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarrieti 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs ccise to quarrel, 

When Custlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then -Rogers sliaH ask us for laurel, 

And thou nhalt have plenty tn spam 



566 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 



WKITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COM- 
PANY WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT 
IN H0R8EM0NGER-LANE JAIL, MAY 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town, 
A.nacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
^oux Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 



But now to my letter — to yours 'tis an answer — 
To-moriuw be with me, as soon as you can, sir, 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
(^According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose that t-o-night you're engaged with some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote, 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO 
THOMAS MOORE. 

WhAt say I? " — not a syllable further in prose ; 
I'vn your man ** of all measures," dear Tom, — so 

here goes ! 
Here goes, f jr a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in 

the flood, • 

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap. 
And Southey's last Paean has pillow'd his sleep ; — 
That "Felo de se," who, half drunk with his 

malmsey, 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea. 
Singing " Glory to God " in a spick and span stanza, 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never 

man saw. 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses. 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het- 

man, — 
And what dignity decks the fla* face of the great 

man. 
I sawi him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces, 



The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and 

brisker, 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
A.nd wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 

Jersey, 
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 

• ««««» 

Junet 1814. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE. 



[Of this attange, wild poem, which extend* tc about two hiuJfwl and ft 
lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, 1 bebeye, .ever wrote, he presented H 
Lord Holland. Though w)th a good deal of vigor and unagination, It b 
for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and eondei* 
sation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Bjrron, adoptia| 
a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Ponon. There are 
however, some of the stanzas of " The Devil's Drive " well wortit pi» 
serving.]— Afoor«. 

The Devil return'd to hell by two, 

And he staid at home till five ; 
When he dined on some homicides done in *xigo%ttt 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, 
And bethought himself what next to do, 

" And," quoth he, " I'll take a drive, 
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night • 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I'll see how my favorites thrive. 

" And what shall I ride in ? " quoth Lucifer then'— 

" If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
But they're lent to two friends, who make me amendi 

By driving my favorite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

♦* So now for the earth to take my chance." 

Then up to the earth sprung he ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp'd across the sea, 
And rested his hoof on 'a turnpike road. 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say. 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare. 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair. 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the de»d, 

That it blushed like the waves of heil ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; 
" Methinks they have here little need of me ! " 



But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing : 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear. 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut. 
With his hollow cheek, and eyes half shut. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



567 



A ch»ld of famitie dying ; 
4nd the carnage begun when resistance is done, 
And the fall of the vainly flying I 



But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray ? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But he made ft tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
W\io bid pretty well— but they cheated him, though. 

The Devil firs, saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail, 

And seized him by the throat: 
" Aha," quoth he, " what have we here ? 
Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer ! " 

Bo he sat him on his box again. 

And bade him have no fear, 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein. 

His brothel, and his beer ; 
** Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 

I would 1 \ther see him here." 



The Devil gat next to "Westminster, 

And he turn'd " to the room " of the Commons ; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there. 

That " the Lords " had received a summons ; 
And he thought as a ** quondam aristocrat," 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them 

were flat ; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, 
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 

And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of some size— 
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes. 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 

And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring— 

A certain chief justice say something \\ke swearing. 

And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, " I 
must go. 

For I find we have much better manners below. 

If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 

1 <(vail hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 

December, 1813. 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

U'lC* eompoaxl on the occnilon of llli Royst IIi|rhnnM lh« Pr1nc« Re|{ent 
c^lni; WWII ilaiKlinfT hntween Die coffin* ot Henry VUl. and Charlea 1. In 
ttie royal vault ut W liitlior. 

Famrd for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
By headlciHs Charles see heartletw Henry lies ; 
Bfitween them stands another sceptcred thingf^ 
It uio\»8, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 



Charles to his people, Henry to nis wife, 
— In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain 
Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a G — ge. 

March, 1814. 



ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO 
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

There was a day — there was an hour, 
While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame 
Than gathers round Marengo's name 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all timo. 
Despite some passing clouds of crime 

But thou forsooth must be a king 

And don the purple vest, 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that fated garment ? where 

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest ? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say. 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 

Where may the wearied eye repose 

When gazing on the great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the bes^ 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 

To make man blush there was but one. 
Apnl, 1814 



TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 

And say'st thou that I have not felt. 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from n 
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 

On one unbroken dream of thee ? 
But love like ours must never be. 

And I will learn to prize thee less ; 
As thou hast fled, so let uic flee, 

And change the heart thou mayest not 

They'll tell thee, Clara I I have seem'd. 

Of late, another's charms to woo. 
Nor sigh'd, nor frown 'd, as if I deem'd 

That thou wert banish'd from my view. 
Clara ! this struggle — to undo 

What thou hast done too well, for rae 
This mask before the babbling orcw— 

This treachery — was truth to thee. 

I have not wept while thou wort gone, 
Nor worn one look of sullen wo ; 

But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah I need I name her ?) could beslovf. 



568 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



It is a duty which I owe 

To thine — to thee — to man — to God, 
To crush, tc quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 

But since my breast is not so pure, 

Since still the vulture teais my heart. 
Let me this agony endure, 

Not thee — oh ! dearest as thou art ! 
In mercy, Clara ! let us part, 

And I will seek, yet know not how, 
To sliuny in time, the threatening dart 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 

But thou must aid me in the task, 

And nobly thus exert thy power : 
Then spurn me hence — 'tis all I ask— 

Ere time mature a guiltier hour ; 
Ere wrath's impending vials shower 

Remorse redoi\bled on my head ; 
Ere fires unquenchably devour 

A heart, whose hope has long been dead. 

Deceive no more thyself and me. 

Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 
Ah ! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee. 

From wo like ours, from shame like thine ? 
And, if there be a wrath divine, 

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, 
E'en now all future hope resign. 

Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

[ SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the 

fame. 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may 

impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of 

heart. 

Too brief for ou^ passion, too long for our peace, 
Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness 

cease ? 
We repent — we abjure — we will break from our 

chain, — 
We will part, — we will fly to — ^unite it again ! 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou may'st. 

And atem to the haughty, but humble to thee. 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet. 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
%hall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder a t all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to thenr, but to mine. 

May, 1814. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE REOITED AT 
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land which spurn 'd the Roman chain 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 
That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath ; 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
And England ! add their stubborn strength to thni« 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free. 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim. 
But give support — the world hath given him fame 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led. 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath —'tis all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye m melancholy gaze. 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave. 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave. 

'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo 

Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ' 

Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 

Of half its bitterness for one so dear; 

A nation's gratitude perchance may spr?ad 

A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 

May lighten well her heart's maternal care. 

And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814 



ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETUllNINQ 
THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUIsTESS OJ 
JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE. 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord. 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave or just; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face the wondering air ? 
The thought of Brutus— for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth — that absence fix'i 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
Bright though they be, thine o^^'n had render d leaf 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



669 



If he, that vaii^ old man, whom truth admits 
Hair of his father's throne and shatter'd wits, 
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart, 
That tas eless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; 
A fo iXiX that only wants its living stream ; 
And nigtt with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to di-eani of tnee ; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Chan all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair. 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more thaa 

fair, 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our look? repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find ai.ew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen 'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And these must wait till every charm is gone 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none, 
That dull, cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and t?iine. 

July, 1814. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall : 
Behold I while yet before thee burn 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 

More than thy very diadem, 
Wh«re thou nast tarnish'd every gem :— 

Then throw the worthless bauble by. 
Which, worn by tliee, ev'n slaves contemn. 

And learn like better men to die. 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd, 

And ever light of word and worth, 
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst biith— 

\Tutit to go em, live or die. 
72 



HEBREW MELODIES. 

In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day 
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey i 
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, 
And our hearts were so full of the land far away. 

The song they demanded in vain — it lay still 

In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill 

They called for the harp, but our blood they sLal, 

spill. 
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of 

their skill. 

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree. 
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be, 
Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free, 
For oiu' God and our glory, and Sion ! for thee. 

October, 1814 



They say that Hope is happiness. 

But genuine Love must prize the past ; 

And Memory wakes the thoughts that ble«» •■ 
They rose the first, they set the last. 

And all that Memory loves the most 

Was once our only hope to be ; 
And all that hope adored and lost 

Hath melted into memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all, 

The future cheats us from afar, 
Nor can we be what we recall, 

Nor dare we think on what we ate. 

October, 1814 



LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING Oi 
"THE SIEGE OF CORINTH." 

[n the year since Jesus died for men. 

Eighteen hundred years and ten. 

We were a gallant company. 

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh ! but we went merrily I 

We forded the river and clomb the high hi it 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote. 

On the rougher plank ofVur gliding brat 

Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles epivad 

As a pillow beneath the resting head. 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow: 

All our thoughts and our words had scope 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ;— 
Some wore those who counted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church, 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither; 
Yet through the wide wprld might ye learoh 

Nor find a motlicr crew nor blither 



570 



BYKON'S WORKS 



But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills* 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills : 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home : 

But never more, oh ! never we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

Bet those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth and through the air, 

A wild bird, and a wanderer, 

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now. 

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 

December^ 1815. 



EXTRACT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED 
POEM. 

Cu ULD I remount the river of my years, 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
I would not trace again the stream of hours, 
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, 
But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. 



WTiat is this death r — a quiet of the heart ? 
The whole of that which we are a part ? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me. 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from tranquility, and spread 
A dreaay shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — \re they 

But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 

The ashes of a thousand ages spread 

Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 

Or do they in their silent cities dwell 

Each in his incommunicative cell ? 

Or have they their own language ? and a sense 

Of breathless being ? — darken'd and intense 

As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh Earth ! 

Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they birth ? 



* The last lidingi KCently heard of Dervish (one of the Araaouu who 
bllowed ine) suite him u> be in revolt upon the mounuins, at the bead of 
wnie of *be bauds commoD in thatcouutrr in times of trouble. 



The dead are thy inheritors— and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold. 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The ess snce of great bosoms now no more. 



October, L8I9 



TO AUGUSTA. 

I. 

My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same^ 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny,— 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee 

II. 

The first were nothing — ^had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore,- 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore 

III. 
If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shoclrs, 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
The careful pilot of my proper wo. 

IV. 

Mine were my faults, a^nd mine be their rewazd. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay 
But now I fain would for a time survive. 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 



Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roU'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of light patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we puichase pain. 



• Admiral Byron was remarkable for never malcii;g a voyage 
tempest. He was known to the sailors by the faee'joiis name of "Poul-weatJM 

Jaclt." 

" But though it were tempest-toet, 

Still liis bark could not be lost." 

He returned safely fh>m the wreck ot the Wagyjr, (in Anson s voyagw,) aiM 

subsequently circumnavigated the world many years after, as commar' let • 

a similar expedition. 



MISCELLAJSEOUS POEMS 



571 



VI. 



Perhaps the woi kings of defiance stir 
Within me,— or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur,— 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer. 
And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

VII. 
I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood : trees, and flowers, and brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

VIII. 
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But sometimes worthier do such scenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

IX. 

Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show ; 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, * 

A.nd the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

X. 

1 did remind thee of our own dear lake,* 
"By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leraan's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
The havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

XI. 
The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply— 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask. 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early Mend, and now shall be 
Uy sister— till I look again on thee. 

XII. 
I can reduce all feelings but this one : 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as tliose wherein my life begun 
The earliest — even the only paths for me— 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept, 
'' had not sutfer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 



'11m late o( NewMMil AUiay. 



XIII. 
With false ambition what had I . .'' do ? 
Little with love, and least of all with fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make— a nam« 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To bafflea millions which have gone before. 

XIV. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many thiiigs that were , 
My years have been no slumber, but the 'grey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

XV. 

And for the remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around, 
And worship Natiu*e with a thought profound 

XVI. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I knew myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart. 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 

October, 1818. 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN, BY CANOVA 

In this beloved marble view, 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
What Nature could, but would tiot do, 

And Veauty and Canova can ! 

Beyond imagination's power, 
Beyond the bard's defeated art. 

With immortality her dower. 
Behold the Helen of the heart ! 

Noveniber, 1816 



FRAGMENT OF A POEM ON HEARING 
THAT LADY BYllON WAS ILL.— 1816 

And thou wort sad — yet was I not with thee; 

And thou wert sick — and yet I was not near. 
Mcthought that joy and houlth nh)ne could b« 

Where I was ttot, and pain and sorrow here. 
And is it thus ? — It is as 1 foretold. 

And shall be more so :-'-&o.. &o. 



572 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

Mr boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee ! 

Here's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky's above me, 
Here's a heart for every fate. 

fii'ugh the ocean roar around me, 

Vet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me, 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were't the last drop in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon the brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would drink. 

With that water as this wine. 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

July, 1817 



STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO. 

RiTER, that roUest by the ancient walls, 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mii-vor of my heart, where she may read 

''he thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 

What do I say — a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings neve and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 

rime may have somewhat tamed them, — not for ever, 
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 

Thy bosom OTerboils, congenial river ! 
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, 

But left long wrecks behind, and now again 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 

Iliou tendest wildly onwards to the main. 
And I — to loving one I should not love. 

1 le current I behold will sweep beneath 
♦Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

Bhe will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee, 
Full of that thought ; and, from that moment, ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ; 



Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,— 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more ; 

Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ! 
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 

I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot. 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land, 

Born far beyond the mountaint-, out his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left my clime, nor should I be. 

In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

'Tis vain to struggle — let me perish young- 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. 
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved 

June, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGEHiLD* 
FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless. 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, an i 
raise 

His offspring, who expired In other days 
To make thy sire's sway by a ki» gdom less,— 
This is to be a monarch, and express 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traitSy 
For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 

Were it not easy, sire ? and is't not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; 
A despot thou, and yet thy people free, 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

August, 1819. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE INFERNO OP DANIB. 
CANTO FIFTH. 

" The land where I was bom sits b" the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends. 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends 

Love, who to none beloved to love again 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



573 



Remits, seiied me vnth wish to please, so strong, 

That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 
Ijove to one death conducted us along, 

But Caina waits for him our life who ended : " 

These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. 

Rince first I listen'd to these soul's offended, 

I bow'd ray visage and so kept it till — 

( then ) J 

*« What think'st thou ?" said the hard ; ( when ) 
unbended. 
And recommenced : " Alas ! iinto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts what strong ecstasies, 

Led these their evil fortune to fulfil ! " 
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 

And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 

Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 

By what and how thy love to passion rose, 

So as his dim desires to recognize } " 
Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes 

J . { recall to mind ) 

^ ^° .} remind us of ) our happy days 
{ this ) 

In misery, and ( that S thy teacher knows. 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
( relate ) 

I will ( do* even > as he who weeps and says 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 

Of Lancilot, how' love enchain'd him too. 

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolor'd by that reading were ; 

( overthrew ) 

But one point only wholly } us o'erthrew ; ) 
C desired ) 
When we read the ( long-sighed for ) smile of her. 



( a fervent 
(. 



To be thus kiss'd by such ( devoted > lover, 
He who from me can be divided ne'er 

Kiss'd my mcuth, trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed wa. ♦he book and he who wrote ! 
That day no further leaf we did uncover. 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot. 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, 

And fell down even as a dead body falls." 

March, 1820. 



THE IRISH AVATAR.t 

Ebb the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave. 
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave. 
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like 
his — ^Iride. 

True the gr«i . Df her bright and brief era are gone. 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could 
pause 
For the few little years, out of centuries won, 
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not 
her cause. 



• lo »oiiie of the edhiom h k, " diro," In othen, " hro ; •'— •n eaentkl 
iMnttiee bciwenn " Mjinf " and "dolnf," which I know not how lo d*- 
«to. Aik KoKolo. The 0— d ««MbM diive om dimI. 
Cn the Kln<'t •Mt lo lieluid, ia UUl. 



True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'ei tus rage 
The castle still stands, and the senate's no mora 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless cragi 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore — ^where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth, 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from hit 
hands. 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth 

But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes I 
Like a goodly Leviathan roU'd from the waves ! 

Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, 
With a legion of cooks and an army of slaves ' 

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part- 
But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er I 
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to hii 
heart ! 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 

And a new spring of noble affections arise — ■ 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy 
chain, 
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens th« 
skies. 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now f 
Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow- 
Such servile devotion might shame him away. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 

Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride- 
Not thus did thy Grattau indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. 

Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest I 
With all which Demosthenes wauted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess 'd. 

Ere TuUy arose in the zenith of Rome, 
Though unequaird, preceded, the task was begu» • 

But Grattan sprung up like a God from the tomb 
Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the one! 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glanoo 
of his mind. 

But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves I 
Feaats furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Point 

True Freedom but welcornes, while slavery still rat'fli, 
When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wTcck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace. Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 
Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied 

Or 1/ freedom past hope be extorted at last. 
If the idol of brass find his feet are oi clay, 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarch's ne'er give, but M wolvM 
yield their prev ? 



574 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, — 
To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 
The cause of the curses the all annals contain, 
"^ From Caesar the dreaded to George the despised. 

Wear, Fingal, thy trappings ! O'Connell proclaim 
His accomplishments ! His ! ! ! and thy country 
convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 
And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young 
prince ! " 

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs > 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
The slaves, whc now hail their betrayer with 
hymns ? 

Ay ! *' build him a dwelling ! " let each give his mite ! 

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poorhouse and prison ! 

Spread — spread, for Vitellius the royal repast, 
Till the gluttonous despot be stuffd to the gorge ! 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors, call'd 
" George ! " 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they //rortw like thy people, through ages of wo ! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, 

Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet 
has to flow. 

But let not his name be thine idol alone — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears ! 

Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine own ! 
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers ! 

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his 
birth. 
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her 
soil, 
Beems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her 
earth. 
And for murder repays him with shouts and a 
smile. 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 

The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 
If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hushW, 
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
spring — 
Bee the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full 
flush'd, 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king 1 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Erin, how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy 
right, 
My TCte as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 



This hand, though but feeble, would arm in th^^ 
fight, 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still 
for thee ! 

Yen, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not 
my land, 
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy 
sons, 
And I wept with the world o'er the patn'ct band 
Who are gone^ but I weep them no longer aa 
once. 

For nappy are tney now reposing afar,— 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy falL 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves '. 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day— 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetteilcss clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore. 
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties 
fled; 

There was something so warm and sublime in the coire 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
Which though ti'od like the worm will not turn 
upon power, 
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore 
September, 1821. 



STANZAS 

TO HER "WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THBM. 

Be it so ! we part for ever ! 

Let the past as nothing be ; — 
Had I only loved thee, never 

Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 

Had I loved, and thus been slighted, 
That I better could have borne ;— 

Love is quell'd, when unrequited, 
By the rising pulse of scorn. 

Pride may cool what passion heated, 
Time will tame the wayward will ; 

But the heart in friendship cheated 
Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill. 

Had I loved, I now might hate thee, 

In that hatred solace seek. 
Might exult to execrate thee. 

And, in words, my vengeance wreak. 

But there is a silent sorrow, 

Which can find no vent in speech, 

Which disdains relief to borrow 
From the heights that song can reach. 

Like a clankless chain enthralling, — 
Like the sleepless dreams that moc*,— 

Like the frigid ice-drops falling 
From the surf-surrounded rock. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



57d 



Such the cold and sickening feeling 
Thou hast caused this heart to knew, 

Btabbed the deeper by concealing 
From the world its bitter wo. 

Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee 
All that fancy's self could paint, 

Once It honored and esteemed thee 
As its idol and its saint ! 

More than woman thou wast to me : 
Not as man I looked on thee ; — 

Why like woman then undo me ? 
Why •' heap man's worst curse on me ? " 

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming 
Friendship's smile, and woman's art, 

And, in borrow'd beauty blooming, 
Trifling with a trusted heart ? 

By that eye which once could listen 

With opposing glance to me ; 
By that ear which once could listen 

To each tale I told to thee ; — 

By that lip, its smile bestowing, 
Which could soften sorrow's gush ; — 

By that cheek, once brightly glowing 
With pure friendship's well-feigned blush 

By all those false charms united, — 
Thou hast wrougHt thy wanton will, 

And, without compunction, blighted 
What " thou would'st not kindly kill." 

Yet I curse thee not in sadness, 
Still, I feel how dear thou wert ; 

Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness — 
Doom thee to thy just desert ! 

Live ! and when my life is over, 
Should thine own be lengthened long, 

Thou may'st then, too late, discover, 
By thy feelings, all my wrong. 

When thy beauties all are faded. 
When thy flatterers fawn no more,— 

Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
Some regardless reptile's store, — 

Ere that hour, false syren, hear me ! 

Thou may'st feel what I do now, 
While my spirit, hovering near thee, 

Whispers friendship's broken vow. 

But 'tis useless to upbraid thee 
With thy past or present state ; 

What thou wast, my fancy made thee, 
"^Vhat thou art, I know too late. 



What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory I 

Oh Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding ph, ases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one dirfcovei 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in mj 

story, 
1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

December, 1821. 



STANZAS 

WklTTEN ON THE ROA.D BETWEEN FLOBENCB 
AND PISA. 

Dh, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are thp days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth al. your laurels, though ever so plenty. 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON LADY BLESSINGTON EXPRESSING HEB INTBK 
TION OF TAKING THE VILLA CALLED " IL PARA 
DISO," NEAR GENOA. 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaim' d Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil ; 

But if the new Eve 

For an apple should grieve, 
What mortal would not play the Devil ? * 
April, 1823 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON 

You have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny ; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

Were 1 no^y as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence had painted so well ; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

1 am ashes where once I was fire. 
And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 

What 1 loved I noio merely admire, 
And my heart is as gray as my head. 

My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plou^H* 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

f Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
To sing what I gawi on in vain ; 

* For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy tne strain. 

Aj»-il, 1823 



* The OnoTM) wlu h(i(l Klrrad; nppllml thU IhiwuUmra )m( u> kli' 
TuklDKliilo Uiclr h(<iiiU Ihivl th« villii hit/' *^«mi flx«^ on lor liia owi 
thej ••Kl, " U Uluvulo e aiioroa entroDu In 



^76 BYRO:^ S 


WORKS. 


ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 


Oh ! I will wear it next my heart, 


SIXTH YEAR. 


'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee} 




From me again 'twill ne'er depart, 


'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 


But mingle in the grave with me. 


Since others it hath ceased to move ! 


» 


Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 


The dew I gather from thy lip 


Still let me love ! 


Is not so dear to me at this ; 




Thut I but for a moment sip. 


My da>s are in the yellow leaf; 


And banquet on a transient bliss : 


The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 




The worm, the canker, and the grief 


This will recall each youthful scene, 


Are mine alone ! 


E'en when our lives are on the wane; 




The leaves of Love wAl still be green 


The fire that on my bosom preys 


When Memory bids them bud again. 


Is lone as some volcanic isle : 




No torch is kindled at its blaze — 


Oh ! little lock of golden hue. 


A funeral pile 


In gently waAang ringlet curl'd, 




By the dear head on which you grew, 


The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 


I would not lose you for a world. 


The exalted portion of the pain 




And power of love, I cannot share, 


Not though a thousand more adorn 


But wear the chain. 


The polish'd brow where once you shone. 




Like rays which gild a cloudless mom. 


But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 


Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 


Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now, 


1806 


"WTiere glory decks the hero's bier. 
Or binds his brow. 






The sword, the banner, and the field. 


REMEMBRANCE. 


^ Glory and Greece around me see ! 




''Tie Spartan, borne upon his shield, 


'Tis done ! — I saw it In my dreams ; 


Was not more free. 


No more with Hope the future beams , 




My days of happiness are few : 


Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 


Chill' d by misfortune's wintry blast, 


Awake, my spiiit ! Think through whom 


My dawn of life is overcast ; 


• Thy life-4)lood tracks its parent lake, 


Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu : — 


And then strike home ! 


Would I could add Remembrance too. 




1806 


Tread those reviving passions down, 




Unworthy manhood !— unto thee 




Indifferent should the smile or frown 




Of beauty be. 


THE ADIEU. 


Il thou regret'st thy youth, why live f 


WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THl 


The land of honorable death 


AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. 


Is here : — up to the field, and give 




Away thy breath ! 


Adieu, thou Hill ! * where earl) joy 




Spread roses o'er my brow 


Seek out— less often sought than found— 


Where Science seeks each loitering boy 


A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 


With knowledge to endow. 


Then look around, and choose thy ground. 


Adieu my youthful ftiends or foes, 


And take thy rest. 


Partners of former bliss or woes ; 


Misaolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824. 


No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 




Soon must I share the gloomy cell. 




Whose ever slumbering inmates dwell, 




Unconscious of the day. 




Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 


rO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE 


Ye spires of Granta's vale. 


AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND 
WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.* 9 


Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 


And Melancholy pale. 




Ye comrades of the jovial hour. 


This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, 


Ye tenants of the classic bower. 


Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 


On Cama's verdant margin placed, ♦ 


It claims my warmest, dearest care. 


Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 


Like relics left of saints above. 


For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine 




These scenes must be effaced. 


• rhil and Ihe foUowiog poera from manuicripu coUo«»«d after tba death 




e Lorl Byron were fint publUhed to London In 1833. 


• Ifanow. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



577 



A.dleu, ye mountains of the clime 

"Where grew my youthful years ; 
Wliere Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Wliy did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
"Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
MaiT's dusky heath, and Dee's clear ware, 

To seek a Sotheron home ? 

Hall of my Sires ! * a long farewell — 

Yet why to thee adieu ? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
And former glories of thy Hall, 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings. 
And sometimes on JSolian wings 

In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

"While yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 

To retrospection dear- 
Streamlet ! t along whose rippling surge, 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge. 

At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardor from the shore. 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no morot 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here forget the scene, 

Still nearest to my breast ? 
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest ; 
Yet, Mary, J all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles display' d ; 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine imasre cannot fade. 

And thou ! my Friend ! § whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's thofds, 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear, 
"Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let pride alone condemn ! 

All, all, is dark and cheerless now ? 

No smile of Love's deceit. 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Mot e'en the hope of future fame 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame, 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
To humble in the dust my face, 

And mingle with the dead. 



73 



• New»tB«d. 
tTho river ante. 
X Miii7 UufT. 
II 



Oh Fame ! thou goddess of my heart 

On him who gains thy praise, 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart 

Consumed in Glory's blaze, 
But me she beckons from the earth. 
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth* 

My life a short and vulgar dream • 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's streavn. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay, 
"Where vmce my playf il fcx'^tstepa trod, 

"Where now my head must lay ; 
The meed of pity ^ill be shed 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed. 

By nightly skies and storms alcne' 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
"With tears the dark sepulchral deep, 

"Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless spiite 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven • 
There must thou soon direct thy flignt, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown, 
Bow do^vn beneath the Almighty's Throne % 

To Him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just, 
"Will not reject a child of dust. 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call,* 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's f^l. 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
"Who calm'st the elemental war, 

"Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes torglTe, 
And since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

180T 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl, why thus disclose 
"What ne'er was meant for other ears ? 

"Why thus destroy thine own repose, 
And dig the source of future tears ? 



Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, 
While lurking envious foes will s 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 



"Vain girl ! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, 
If thou heliev'st what striplings My : 

Oh, from thu deep temptation fly. 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
The words man utters to deceive ? 

Thy pence, thy hope, thy all is lost 
If thou canst venture to believe. 



% 



Bm Pnjtr of Nature, p«(i I 



578 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



While now amongst thy female peers, 
Thou teir^ again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush, 
Nor make thyself the public gaze : 

What modest maid without a blush 
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

Fcr she who takes a soft delight. 
These amorous nothings in revealing. 

Must credit all we say or write, 
Wliile vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous ; 

I thought from my wrath no atonement could 
save you ; 
But woman is made to command and deceive us — 

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 

I vowed I could ne'er for a moment respect you. 
Yet thought that a day's separation was long : 

When we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was 

VSTTOng. 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you : 

I saw you — ^my anger became admiration ; 
And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention! 

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ;— 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension. 

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore 
you ! January 16, 1807. 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh gay not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed 
The heart which adores you should wish to dis- 
sever ; • 

Buch Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, — 
To bear me from love and from duty for ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown. 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again, 



As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
The rage of the tempest united must weathei 

My love and my life were by nature design' d 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have ds 
creed. 
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; 
Till Fate can ordain that this bosom shall bleed. 
His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

1807. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGIN 

NING 

" * SAD IS MT VERSE,' YOU SAY, * AND YET NO TEA&.' * 

Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt; 

A devilish deal more sad than witty I 
Why we should weep, I can't find out. 

Unless for thee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas ! I think he needs it : 
For he, I'm sure will suffer sore. 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

The rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May once be read — but never after ; 

Yet their effect's by no means tragic, 
Although by far too dull for laughter. 

But would you make our bosoms bleed. 
And of no common pang complain— 

If you would make us weep indeed. 
Tell* us, you'll read them o'er again. 

March 8, 1807 



ON FINDING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt, 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd tne flame, 
But now no more his heart will melt, 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low. 
The aid which once improved the light, 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
Now quenches all their blaze in night, 

Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
As many a boy and girl remembers— 

While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

The/r5^, though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The lasty alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again. 
Not always doomed its heat to smothei, 

It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
Its former warmth around another. 

180? 



MISCELLANEOJS POEMS. 



579 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

rHCtV Power ! who hast ruled me thiough infancy's 
days, 
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should 
part; 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, 
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 

This boRora, responsive to rapture no more, 
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing ; 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
Yet even those themes are departed for ever ; 

No more beam the eyes which my dream could in- 
spire, 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul. 
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone. 
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 
Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to 
love ? 

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
tint how can my numbers in sympathy move. 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, 
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires ? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er: 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past. 
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate 
no more. 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot. 
Since early affection and love is o'ercast ; 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot. 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the 
last. 

Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can ne'er 
meet ; 
If our songs havr been languid, they surely are 
few: 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet— 
Thf. present — which seals our eternal adieu. 

1807. 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* 

JTOTTNO Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, 
1 hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish 
around. 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 



S«^ ^^r«Knl'^||t, pnjre 560. 



Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's jtars, 
On the land of my fathers I reared thee witk 
pride ; 
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,— 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the po^er» 
But his whose neglect may have made tnec expire 

Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and thy woundl 
gently heal ; 

But thou wert not fated affection to share — 
For who could suppose that a stranger would feel ? 

Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for awhile ; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run. 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile. 

When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, 

For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, 
And still may thy branches their beauty display 

Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 
Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot, 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread 

Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing primo 
Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay 

And here he must sleep, till the moments of time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. , 

1807. 



LINES. 



ON HEARINO THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.* 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here! 
And is it thus ? — is it as I foretold, 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wrock'd heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shattcr'd spoiU. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd and wi^h to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore. 
When all is lost, except a little life. 



S(« FmyiiiiMii, piirr 9TI. 



580 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I am too well avenged ! — ■l)ut 'tivas my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 

Mercy is for the merciful ! — If thou 

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep! — 

Yes I they may flatter thee, but thou must feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal,' 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
1 hou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a wo as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend. 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 
Hadst nought to dread — in thine own weakness 

shielded, 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare— 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
And the wild fame of my ungovem'd youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that are- 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 

For present anger and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
A.nd thus once enter' d into crooked ways, 
The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
Deceit, averments incompatible, 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
NTo matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won— 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 

September t 1816. 



STANZAS. 

'• COITLD LOVE FOR EVER.' 

Could Love for ever 
Run like a river. 
And Time's endeavor 

Be tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure ; 
And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying, 
And, form'd for flying, 



Love plumes his wing 
Then for this reason 
Let's love a season. 
But let that season be only Spn>\g. 

When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted 
And all hopes are thwarted, 

Expect to die ; 
A few years older. 
Ah ! how much colder 
They might behold her 

For whom they sigh . 
When link'd together. 
In every weather. 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing— 
He'll stay for ever, 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, wnen past the Spring 

Like Chiefs of Faction 
His life is action — 
A formal paction 

That curbs his reign, 
Obscures his glory. 
Despot no more, he 
Such territory 

Quits with disdain. 
Still, still advancing 
With banners glancing, 
His power enhancing. 

He must move on — 
Repose but cloys him, 
Retreat destroys him. 
Love brooks not a degraded throne 

Wait not, fond lover : 
Till years are over. 
And then recover. 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 
The other's failing. 
With ■wrath and railing 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing. 
Yet not quite ceasing, 
Wait not till teasing 

All passion blight : 
If once diminish'd 
Love's reign is finish'd — 
Then part in friendship, — and bid gocid mght 

So shall Afiection, 
To recolieotioE 
The dear connection 

Bring back with joy ; 
You had not waited 
Till, tired or hated. 
Your passions sated 

Began to cloy. 
Your last embraces 
Leave no cold traces — 
The same fond faces 

As through the past : 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors 
Reflect but rapture — not least tnough laat 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



581 



Trie, separations 

Afck more than patience • 

What desperations 

From such have risen ! 
But yet remaining, 
What is 't but chaining 
Hearts which, once waning, 

Beat 'gainst their prison? 
Time can but cloy love, 
And use destroy love : 
The winged boy, Love, 

Is but for boys — 
You'll find it torture 
Though sharper, shorter, 
T« wean, and not wear out your joys. 



STANZAS. . 

TO A HINDOO AIE. 

Oh .—my lonely — lonely— lonely — Pillow! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover ? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? 
Far — far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 
And my head droops over thee like the willow. 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Bend me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking. 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking ; 
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him. 
And then expire of the joy — but to behold him ! 
Oh ! mv \onely bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



OH. NEVER TALK AGAIN TO ME! 

In the original manuicript of the flrtt Canto of Childe Harold '• Pilgrimage 
en Uve following lines, for which thoae to Inex, page 27, were tubstituteii :] 

Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies : 
It has not been your lot to see. 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eyes be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses; 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes : 
In darkest glances seem to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her ruvcn tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curl'd to give her neck <»aresse8. 



Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession : 
And if their charms be fair to view. 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 
But born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
' And who, — when fondly, fairly won,— 

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz ? 

The Spanish maid is no coquette, 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble. 
And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold— 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long and love you dearly. 

The Spanish girl that meets your love. 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial. 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed a»d shares the danger 
And should her lover press the plain. 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger 

And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Boleio 
Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero. 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotion's choral band, 

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd vesper 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder ; 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May matcn the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz . 



THE THIRD ACT OF MxVNFRED, 

IN ITS ORIGINAL SHAPE, A8 FIRST SENT TO I'rfl 
PUBLISHER.* 

SCENE 1. 
A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sonMt 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well • 



8w Letter to Mr. Murray, April U, IMf. 



582 



BYRON'S WOEKS. 



Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman 

Man. f alone. ) There i » a calm upon me — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did now know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon " found 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once ; 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I witV.in my tables would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Heuman. 
Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these 
walls : 
Thy presence honors them, and bless those 
Who dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman retire. What would my reveiend 
guest ? [Exit Herman. 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude ; — Age and zeal, 
my office. 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted, neighborhood 
May also be my herald. Rumors strange. 
And of unholy nature, are abroad. 
And busy with thy name — a noble name 
For centuries ; may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpaired ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death. 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind. 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchoiite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things "i 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
liven thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

[ would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church t( 
heaven. 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply ; whate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! * 



Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! for the head 
strong wretch 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
There is the stake on earth, and beyond eartU 
eternal — 
Man. Charity, most reverend father. 
Becomes thy lips so much more than thismenaoC| 
That I would call thee back to it: but say, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee — but I keep them 

back, 
And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 
To penitence, and with gift of all thy lands 

To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee, — well. 

Abbot. Expect no mercy ; I have warned thee. 
Man. {opening the casket.) Stop- 

There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfrku opens the casket, strikes a lightf 
and burns some imense. 
Ho !• Ashtaroth ! 

The Demon Ashtaroth appears, singing as foi' 

[low$ : 

The raven sits 

On the raven stone, 
And his black wing flits 

O'er the milk-white bone ; 
To and fro, as the night winds blow, 

The carcass of the assassin swings ; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone,* 

The raven flaps his dusky wings. 

The fetters creak — and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
And this is the tune by the light of the moon 

To which the witches dance their round,— 
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily. 

Merrily, men-ily speeds the ball : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in blonde 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 

Abbot. I fear thee not — hence — hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one ! — help, ho ! without there ! 
Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn — ^to iti 
peak — 
To its extremest peak — ^watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him nbt; and when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him ! 

Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
Convent and all to bear hii^ company ? 
Man. No, this will serve for the present. faH! 

him up. 
Ash. Come, friar ! now an exorcism or two, 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

[Ashtaroth disa^rpears with the Abbot, »i*ig- 

ing as follows : 
A prodigal son and a maid undone. 

And a widow re-wedded within the year ; 
And a wordly monk and a pregnant nun, 
Are things which every day appear. 



It will be peicei*e(l that, u far at thit, the original matter of the Third * •< RaTen-atone, (Rabenstein,) a tranalatiou of the German went tot lk»' 
' •( hu beeu retained. (ibbet, which iu Gettmoj and Switzerland ii pennaneat, and madt ot Mom.- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



58{ 



Manfred alone. 

Man Why would this fool break in on me, and 
force 
My art to pranks fantastical ?— no matter, 
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens 
And weighs a, fix'd foreboding on my soul ; 
But it is calrfa — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane ; the winds are still, 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in them. Such a rest 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat. 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr'd 
In the immortal part of me. — What now ? 

Re-enter Herman. 

Her My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

pMANFRED advances to the window of the hall. 
Glorious orb ! * the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that were a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown— 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes. 
And those who dwell in them ! for, near or far. 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise. 
And shine, and set m glory ! Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

SCENE [L 

'CUe Mountains. — The Castle of Manfred at some 
distance. — A Terrace before a Tower.— Time^ 
Twilight. 

Hhrman, Manuel, and other Dependants of 
Manfred. 

Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night aftei night, for 
years, 
He hath pursed long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it,— 
So have we all been ofttimes ; but from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 



* Thla loUloquy, arul » pv^at part of Um uibMiQuent iobm, h»v« beSQ 
•^a.ned in the prvaiit form of th« diwna. 



One chamber where none enter ; I would give 
The fee of what I have to come these three yeare. 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise. 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within th0 

castle — 
How many years is't^ 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birtlv 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like pretacament 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits : 
Count Sigismuud was proud, — but gay and free,— 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time. 
Merrier than day, he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their deHghts. 

Her. " Beshrew the hour. 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them.' 

Manual. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in these few years.* 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some, to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remembei 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like it that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,— 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing seem'd to love, 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 
The lady Astarte, his 

Her. Look — look — the tower— 

The tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what 

sound. 
What dreadful sound is that ? 

[A cra^h like thunder. 

Manuel. Help, help, there ! — to the r?scue of thi 
Count, 
The Count's in danger, — what ho ! the re . approach i 
[The Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry ap 
proach, stupifed with terror. 
If there be any of you who have heart 
And love of human kind, and will to aid 
Those in distress — pause not — but follow me— 
The portal's open, follow. [Manuel (/oes in 

Her. Come — Who follows ? 

What, none of ye ? — ye recreants ! shiver then 
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
His few remaining years unaided. 

[Herman goe$ m 



Akand, In the pretent form to " Some Mrange things Ib IkMB, I 



.584 



BYRON'S WOJRILB. 



Vaasa*. Hark ! — 

No— all is aileut — not a breath — the flame 
WTiich shot forth such a blaze is also gone ; 
What may this mean ? Let's enter ! 

Peasant. Faith, not I, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind ; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating — come. 

Manuel, (speaking within.) 'Tis all in vain — 

He's dead. 

Her. (within.) Not so— even now methought he 
moved ; 
But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
Softly— how cold he is ! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase. 

Re-enter Manuel and Herman, bearing Manfred 
in their arms. 

Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leech to the city — quick ! some water there ! 
Her. His cheek is black — ^but there is a faint beat 
Btill lingering about the heart. Some water. 

IThey sprinkle Manfred with water : after a 
fiauae, he^ivea some signs of life- 



Manuel. He seems to strive to speak— coiqm-- 

cheerly. Count ! 
He moves his lips — canst hear him ? I am old, 
And cannot catch faint sounds. 

[Herman inclining his head and listening. 
Her. I hear a word 

Or two— but indistinctly — ^what is next ? 
What's to be done ? let's bear him to the castle. 
[Manfred motions with his hand not to removt 
him. 
Manuel. He disapproves — and 'twere of no avail- 
He changes rapidly. 
Her, 'Twill soon be over. 

Manuel. Oh ! what a death is this ! that I shQuld 
live 
To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
Of the house of Sigismund. — And such a death ! 
Alone — we know not how — unshrived — untended— 
With strange accompaniments and fearful signs — 
I shudder at the sight — but must not leave him. 
Man. (speaking faintly and slowly.) Old man! 
'tis not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred having said this expire*. 
Her. His eyes are fix'd and lifeless. — He is gona 
Manuel. Close them. — My old hand quiveri.— 
He departs — 
Whither ? I dread to think—but h9 ii gcma I 



DON JUAN 



" DifficUe Mt propria eommunia dkere." 

HOR. Efut mi. Pimm. 
* 1>M( th«a think, becauce thou art riituous, there ihall be no man Cakoi and Aier-^Vat» 
by SC Ann*, and Ginger iball be hot i' the mouth, too I " 

8UAKSPEARB, TutelftH Nifht, or What Tm WUL. 



DE])ICATION. 



dOB SouTHSY "You're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all the race, 
Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory at 

Last, — yours has lately been a common case,— 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
A- nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like ♦' four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ! 

IL 

" Which pye being open'd they began to siog," 
(This old song and new simile holds good,) 

•* A dainty dish to set before the King," 
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ;^ 

And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing. 
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,— 

Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 

I wish he would explain his Explanation.* 

in. 

You, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supersede all warblers here below, 

And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
And then you overstrain j ourself, or so. 

And tumble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob ! 

IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long •' Excursion," 
(1 think the quarto holds five hundred pages,) 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages 

Tis poetry — at least by his assertion, 
And may appt^ar so when the dog-star rages — 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 



1. C«teUie'« ' BloffT«phla Utam la " apjiraml In 4817. 
74 



You— Gentlemen ! by dint of long sec.usion 
From better company, have kept your own 

At Keswick, and, through still continued furion 
Of one another's minds, at last have grown 

To deem as a most logical conclusion. 
That Poesy hath wreathes for you alone 

There is a narrowness in such a notion. 

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakis tfH 
ocean. 

VI. 

I would not imitate the petty thought. 
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, 

For all the glory your conversion brought. 
Since gold alone should not have been its price 

You have your salary ; was't for that you wrought I 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.* 

You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 

And duly seated on the immortal hill. 

VIL 

Your bays may hide the boldness of your lic^r»— 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go - 

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you would engross below, 

The field is universal, and allows 
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow : [try 

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

VIII. 
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Mu8e«» 

Contend not with you on the winged steed, 
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses. 

The fame you envy, and the skill you need ; 



* Wopliwurth'a place may be in (he Ciiatoma— it la, I Uiliili, ir UwS K tto 
ExciM>— tipaktpa another at Lont L«naiiiilr'i titble, wlirn* tin* punleal akvti* 
tun iind political pi\nialtr llcki up the cruniha wll» a hantoKod ala«rtly | fM 
onnvortml Jneodin hartuK lui>( inbii-lrtl lulu the oli'Witkh 
worK prqjudkea of t « ariauicraev. 



586 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 
Of merit, and complaint of present days 
Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 

He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

A.nd although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

To — God knows where— for no one else can know. 



If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
And makes the word *' Miltonic " mean "sttblime," 

He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 

He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 

But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
Or be alive again — again all hoar 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 
And heartless daughters — worn — and pale* — and 

Would he adore a sultan ? he obey [poor, 

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ?t 

XII. 

Uold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant. 

Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

With just enough of talent, and no more. 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
And offer poison long already mix'd. 



• " Pals bit not ».daTeroii8 : " — Milton's two eldest daughtere axe »aid to 
hare robbed him of his books, besides cheating and plaguing liiin in tlie economy 
•f his house, &c., &c. His feelings on such an outrage, both as a parent and 
» tcholar, must hare been singularly painful. Hayley con:pare8 him to Lecur. 
See part third, Life of Milioa, by W. Hayley, (orHailey, as spelt in the edi- 
ttM. before me.) 
t Or,- 

" Would he Buoside into a hackney Laureate— 
A scribbling, self-sold, soul-lured, scorn 'd Iscariot? " 

, doobt If " Laureate " and " Jscariot " be good rhymes, but must say, as 
Ben Jonsoc t*id to SyiTester, who challenged him to rhyme wiib— 

" 1, John SyWester, 
Lay wivh yoar sister." 

)onMa AM'vnred — "I, Ben Jotisoii, lay wiii your wife." Syl««ster an- 
mmni,— ' That ta not rfayau."— " No," wid Ben Jonsoo, '< but it J* IriM." 



XIII. 

An orator of such set trash of phrasu 

Ineffably — legitimately vile, 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile,—* 
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil. 
That turns and turns to give the world a notiaa 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 
And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid, 
States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confine4| 

Conspu-acy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chlinSi 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind, 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind. 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fli, 
Eutropiufi of its many masters,* — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
Fearless — because ?w feeling dwells in ice, 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 

XVI. 

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, 

For I will never feel them ; — Italy ! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds [thee— » 

Beneath the lie this State-thing breath'd oei 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds 

Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime — S!'- Laureate — I proceed to dedicate 
In honest simple verse, this song to you. 

And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
'Tis that I still retain my " buff and blue ; " 

My politics as yet are all to educate : 
Apostasy's so fashionable, too, 

To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean 

Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian ?t 

Venice, September !«, 1818. 



* For tje character of Eutropius, the eunucb and miniscor at the eo 
Aicadius, see Gibbon. 

t 1 allude not to our friend I^odor's hero, the tnitoi Ceust JvUu, I 
Gibboa's hero, rulgaiiy yclept " The Apoaiale." 



DON JUAN. 



587 



DON JUAN 



CANTO I. 
I. 

1 «r A.NT a liero :— ran uncommon want. 

When e veiy year and month sends forth a new one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan : 
We all have seen him in the pantomine 
Bent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

II. 
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke, 

Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, 
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, [Howe, 

And fill'd their sign-posts then, like Wellesley now; 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 

Followers of fame, " nine farrow "' of that sow: 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 

III. 
Bamave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau, 

Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette, 
Were French, and famous people, as we know , 

And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Dessaix, Morearu, 

With many of the military set, 
Exceedingly remarkable at times, 
But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's god of war. 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 

Because the army's grown more popular, 
At which the naval people are concern'd: 

Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

V. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon,' 
And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 

Agood deal like him too, though quite the same none, 
But then they shone not on the poet's page. 

And 80 have been forgotten ; — 1 condemn none, 
But can't find any in the present age 

Fit for my poem, (tliat is, for my new one ;) 

Bo, as I have said, I'll take my friend Don Juan. 

VI. 
Most epic poets plunge in " medias res," 

(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road,) 
And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 

What went before — by way of episode, 
While seated after dinner at his ease, 

Beside his mistresH in some soft abode, 
palace or garden, paradise or cavern, 
ttThirh scxTes the haj py couple for a tavern. 



VII 



That is the usual method, but net mine— 
My way is to begin with the beginning : 

The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wanderings as the worst of sinning, 

And therefore I shall open with a line, 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning 1 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And ako of his mother, if you'd rather. 

VIII. 

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city, 
Famous for oranges and women — he 

Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 
So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 

Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
Cadiz perhaps, but that you soon may see : — 

Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 

A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His father's name was Jose — Don, of course 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain* 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse. 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 

Than Jose who begot our hero, who 

Begot — but that's to come — Well, to renew • 



His mother was a learned lady, famed 
For every branch of every science known— 

In every Christian language ever named. 
With virtues equal! 'd by her wit alone. 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed. 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XI. 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor miss'd his part. 
She could have served him for the prompter's copj 

For her Feinagle's were an useless art. 
And he himself obliged to shut up shop— he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorned the brain of Donna Ine«. 

XII. 
Her favorite science was the mathematical, 

Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity. 
Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all^ 

Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 
In short, in all things she was fairly what 1 call 

A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity. 
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
And other stuffs, with which 1 won't stay puuling. 

XIII. 
She knew the Latin — that is, " the Lords prayer/' 

And Greek, the alphabet, I'm nearly sure ; 
She read some French romances ht-re and there. 

Although her mode of sijeakiug wua not pure. 
For native Spanish she had no great care, 

At least her conversation was obscure; 
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 
As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 



588 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIV. 



She liked the English and the Hebrhj^ tongue, 
And said there was analogy between 'em ; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song, ['em ; 
But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 

But this I've heard her say, and can't be wrong, ['em, 
And all may think which way their judgments leaL. 

** 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means *I am,' 

The English always use to govern d n." 

XV. 

Borne women use their tongues — she looked a lecture, 
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 

An all-in-all sufficient self-director. 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romily, 

The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 
Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 

O'ne sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 

(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 

XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, [covers. 
Miss Edge worth's novels stepping from their 

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 

** Or Coeleb's Wife " set out in quest of lovers, 

Morality's prim personification. 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 

To others' share let ** let female errors fall," 

For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XVIL 
Oh J she was perfect past all parallel — 

Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 
So far above the cunning powers of hell, 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 
Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
Save thine *' incomparable oil," Macassar 1* 

XVIII. 
Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 
Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours,) 
Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind. 
With no great love for learning or the learn'd. 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind. 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said two; 

But for domestic quarrels one will d?. 

XX. 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Neglect, indeed, '•equires a saint to bear it. 
And such indeed she was in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 
And sometimes wiix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getling her liege lord into a scrape. 



XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard , 

And even the wisest, do the best they can, 
Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared. 

That you might " brain them with their lady's fan-* 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

'Tis a pity learned virgins ever wed 
With persons of no sort of education. 

Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bredj 
Grow tired of scientific conversation : 

I don't choose to say much upon this head, 
I'm a plain man, and in a single station. 

But— oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 

Inform us truly, have they not henpeck'd you aJ ? 

XXIII. 
Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why 

Not any of the many could divine, 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine ', 
I loathe that low vice, curiosity ; 

But if there's any thing in which I shine, 
'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs. 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 
Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd. 
For neither of them could I ever find. 

Although their porter afterwards confess 'd — 
But that's no matter, and the worst's behind. 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs. 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing. 
And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 

Instead of quarrelling had they been but Vth.in 
^ fieir senses, they'd have sent young mastR' fortl 

7 J school, or had him soundly whipp'd at honut . 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 
For some time an unhappy sort of life, 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 
They lived respectably as man and wife, 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred. 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife. 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out. 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVIL 
For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 

And tried to prove her loving lord was madf 
But as he had some lucid intermissions, 

She next decided he was only bad; 
Yet when they ask'd her for depositions, 

No sort of explanation could be had. 
Save that their duty both to man and God 
Required this conduct — ^which seem'd very odd. 



DON JUAN. 



589 



XXVIII. 

Whe kept a journal, yhere his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors, 

Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted;) 
The hearers of her case became repeaters, 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 

Borne for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 

With such serenity her husband's woes, 
Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 
Rever to say a word about them more — 

Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 
And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 
That all the world exclaim'd, •' What magna- 
n^'raity! " 

XXX. 
No doubt, this patience, when the world is damning 

Is philosophic in our former friends ; [us, 

'Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 

The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a " mains animus,** 

Conduct like this by by no means comprehends ; 
Revenge in person's certainly no vii-tue, 
But then 'tis not my fault if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories, 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

I'm not to blame, as you well know, no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories [all ; 
By contrast, which is what we just were wishing 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 
Their friends had tried a reconciliation, 

Then their relations, who made matters worse ; 
f'Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 

To whom it may be best to have recourse^ 
I can't say much for friend or yet relation ;) 

The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 
But scarce a fee was paid on either side 
Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 
He died: and most unluckily, because. 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kind of laws, 

(Although their talk's obscure and circumspect,) 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To i>ublic feeling, which on this occasion. 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah . he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say : 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever called the tertian, 

Aji 4 left bis widow to her own aversion. 



XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honorable man, 

That I must say, who knew him very well ; 
Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan. 

Indeed there were not many more to tell ; 
And if his passions now and then outran 

Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
As Numas'ff, (who was also named Pompilius,) 
He had been ill brought up, and was bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him. 

Let's own, since it can do no good on earth ; 
It was a trying moment that which found him, 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, [him , 
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd roiinol 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride. 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died, 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery-suit, and messages, and lands, 

Which, with a long minority and care, 
Promised to turn out well in proper hands ; 

Inez became sole guardian, which was fair. 
And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 

An only son left with an only mother 

Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

•xxxviii. 

Sages of women, even of widows, she 
Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree, 

(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Arragon :) 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry. 

In case our lord the king should go to war agaio^ 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery. 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired, 

And saw herself each day before all 
The learned tutors whom for him she hired, 

Was that his breeding should be strictly moral \ 
Much into all his studies she inquired, 

And so they were submitted first to her, all, 
Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 
To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead, * 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use 

In all these he was much and deeply read •; 
But not a page of any thing that's loose. 

Or hints continuation of the species, 

Was ever suffered, lest he should gr0 5T viciovAi 

XLI. 
His classic studies made a little puKfle, 

Because of filthy loves of gods and goddessea^ 
Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 

But never put on pantaloons or bodicee ; 
His reverend tutors hud at times a tussle. 

And for their jEneids, Iliads, and Odyteey^ 
Were forced to make an odd sort of apology^ 
For Dona luei dreaded the mythology. 



590 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 
Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him ; 

Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample ; 
Catullus scarcely had a decent poem ; 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 
A-lthougb^ Longinus tells us there is no hymn [pie; 

Where the sublime soars forth on wings more am- 
But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one 
Beginning with " Fornwsum pastor Corydon." 

XLIII. 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food, 
„ can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

JS Ithough no doubt his real intent was good, 
Foi ppeaking out so plainly in his song. 

So much indeed as to be do^vnright rude : 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all these nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIV. 

Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
Expurgated by learned men, who place. 

Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
And pitying sore his mutilated case, 

They only add them all in an appendix,* 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. • 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

rill some less rigid editor shall stoop 
To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring altogether, 

Like garden gods — and not so decent, either. 

XLVI. 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and thi^all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all. 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray. 
Is more than I know — but Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLVII, 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured. 

He did not take such studies for restraints ; 

But how faith is acquired, and thc^n insured, 
So well not on'e of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine, in his fine Confessions, 

Which made the reader envy his transgressions 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right. 

If such an education was the true one. 
She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one, 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright ; 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I rrcommend as mu^h to every wife. 



XLIX. 
Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and ^raoe 

At six a charming child, and at elexen 
With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was givpn : 
He Studied steadily, and grew apace. 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heavefl 
For half his days were pass'd at church, the othei 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother, 



At six, I said he was a charming child. 
At twelve, he was a fine, but quiet boy 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down among them : to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's jov 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still. 

But what I say is neither here nor there ; 
I knew his father well, and have some skill 

In character — but it would nolrbe fair 
From sire to son to augur good or ill ; 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted paip— 
But scandal's my aversion — I protest 
Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 

This I will say — my reasons are my own- 
That if I had an only son to put 

To school (as God be praised that I have none 
'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone ; 
No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college, 
For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge 

LIIL 
For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast, , 

Though I acquired — but I pass over that, 
As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 

I say that there's the place — but "Verbum sat. 
I think I pick'd up, too, as well as most. 

Knowledge of matters — but, no matter tohat— 
I never married — but, I think, I know 
That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 
Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 

Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit ; he seeni J 
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 

And every body but his mother deem'd 
Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage, 

And bit her lips (for else she might have screaip'd 
If any said so, for to be precocious 
; Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

! ' LV. 

Among her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of many charms, in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
Her zone to Vemxs, or his bow to Cupid, 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 



^ DON JUAN. 



591 



LVI. 

The darkness of her oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin : 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) . 
When proud Grenada fell, and, forced to fly, 

fBoabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great-great grandmamma chose to remain. 

LVII. 
Bhe married (I forget the pedigree) 

"With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 
His blood less noble than such blood should be: 

At such alliances his sires would frown, 
In. that point so precise in each degree 

That they bred in and in, as might be shown, 
Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts and nieces, 
Which always spoils the breed, if it increases, 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 

For, from a root, the ugliest in Old Spain, 
Spn;ng up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 

The sons no more were short, the daughters plain; 
But there's a rumor which I fain would hush — 

'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 
However this might be, the race went on 

Improving still through every generation 
Until it center'd in an only son, 

Who left an only daughter ; my narration ( 
May have suggested that this single one 

Could be but Julia, (who on this occasion 
I shall have much to speak about,) and she 
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 

Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
Until she spoke, then, trough its soft disguise 

Flash 'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
And love than either ; and there would arise 

A something in thom which was not desire, 
But would have been, perhaps, biit for the soul 
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the 
whole. 

LXI. 
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 

Her chcok .ill purple with the beam of youth, 
Uoimting at times to a transparent glo w, . 

As if hex veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
Possess'd an air and grace by no moans common : 
Ucr stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

LXII. 
Wedded she was some years, and to a man 

Of fifty, and such husbands arc in plenty ; 
^nd yet, I think, instead of such a onb, 

'Twere better t3 have two of flve-and-twenty, 
CspeclHllv in countries near the sun : 

And -.lO"- f think on't, *' mi vien in mente," 
Ladies rrer of the most uneasy virtue, 
Prefer a sp'^ ase whose age is short of thirty 



LXllI. 
'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 

And all the fault of that indecent sun. 
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 

But will keep baking, broiling, burning en, 
That, howsoever people fast and pray. 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 
Is much more common where the climates s anltrr 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral north ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin without a rag on, shivering forth, 

('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to reason ; 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth. 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they pleaso on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXV. 

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 
A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
They lived together as most people do, 

Suffering each others' foibles by accord, 
And not exactly either one or two ; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 

Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend ; 

Between their tastes there was small sympatny, 
For not a line had Julia rver penn'd : 

Some people whisper (but no doubt they lie, 
For malice still imputes some private end) 

That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 

Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And that, still keeping up the old connexion, 
Whi(;h time had lately render'd much more chaate 

She took his lady also in affection, 
And certainly this course was much the best . 

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ■ 

And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandAl* 

At least she left it a more slender handle. 

LXVIII. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the aff"air 
With other people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown} 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care. 
Indifferent from the first or callous grown : 

I'm really puzzled what to think or say, 

She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 
Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, V 

Carcss'd him often, such a thing might be 
Quite innocently done, and harmless styled 

When she had twenty years, and thirteen tut , 
But I am not so sure I should have smiled 

When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 
These few short years make wondrous ulteratioDf 
Particularly among sun-burnt nations 



592 



BYEON'S WORK!* 



LXX. 



Whatever the cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy; 

Their looks cast down their greetings almost dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye ; 

There surely will be Little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from hi&, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 

Wrought change with all Armida's fiery art 

like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while. 

For that compression in its burning core : 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth. 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 
Its working through the vainly-guarded eye, 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 

^nd burning blushes, though for no transgression, 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left ; 

All these are little preludes to possession, 
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 

And merely tend to show how greatly love is 

Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 

LXXV. 

Foor Julia's heart was in an awkward state 
She felt it going, and resolved to make 

The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 
For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake: 

Her resolutions were most truly great, 
And almost might have made a Tarquin quake — 

8he pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 

As being the best judge of a lady's case, 

LXXVI. 

Sne vow'd she never would see Juan more. 
And next day paid a visit to his mother. 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
"Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

•Tis surely Juan now— No ! I'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 



LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation . 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensatioiif 

That is to say a thought, beyond the pommon 
Preference that we must feel upon occasion ' 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 
And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And if, still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they're a¥«i 
And, if the man should ask, 'tis but deaial • 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine. 
Bright and immaculate, unmixed and pure 

Such as the angels think so very fine, 
And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine;" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sui©^ 

And so I'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent and may exist 
Between young persons without any danger; 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kissed ; 
For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger. 

But hear these freedoms for the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a rjinger : 

If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime 

But not my fault — I tell them all in tim* 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within it? proper limita, 

"Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Etherial lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and her together— 
I really don't know what, nor Julia either. 

LXXX 'I. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
In mail of proof — her purity of so'il. 

She, for the future, of her strength convmced, 
And that her honor was a rock, or mole. 

Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
With any kind of troublesome control. 

But whether Julia to the task was equal 

Is that which must be mentioned in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deemed both innocent and feasible, 
And, surely, with a strippling of sixteen [ble 

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seiza 
Or, if they did so, satisfied to mean 

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peacable 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 

Christians have burned each other, quite persuaJe<t 

That all the apostles would have done as they diti 



DOW JUAiS. 



593 



LXXXIV. 

And if, in the mean time, her husband died, 
But heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream, (and then she sigh'd !) 
Neyer could she survive that common loss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
I only say suppose it — inter nos. 

'This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought.) 

LXXXV. 

t only say suppose this supposition : 
Juan, being then grown up to man's estate, 

Would fully suit a widovr of condition ; 
Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn the rudiments of love 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan, 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming. 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow. 
His home deserted for the lonely wood. 

Tormented vnth a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 

I'm fond myself of solitude or so, 
But then I beg it may be understood 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not ^ 

A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 

LXXXVIII. 

♦' Oh love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
"Where transport and security entwine, 

Hore is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,* 
With the exception of the second line, 

For that same twining " transport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

rhe poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind. 

The very thing which every body feels. 
As all have found on trial, or may find. 

That no ono likes to be disturbed at meals 
Or love : — I won't say more about, *' entwined" 

Or "transport," as we know all that before. 

But beg •* security" will bolt the door. 

XC. 
Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 

Thinking unutterable things : he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 
There poets find materials for their books, 

And every now and then we read thom through. 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
UnleiB, like Wo-duworth, they prove iinintelligible. 
76 



XCI. 



He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul. 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
Had mitigated part, thought not the whole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control. 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition. 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCIl. 
He thought about himself, and the whole eai^h 

Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 

And then he thought of earthquakes and of ward 
How many miles the moon might have in gii'th, 

Of air balloons, and of the many bars 
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; 
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 

Inj thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 

Which some are born with, but the most part leaj q 
To plague themselves withal, they know not why 

'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern 
His brain about the action of the sky ; 

If you think 'twas philofophy that this did, 

I can't help tliinking puberty assisted. 

xciy. 

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 

And heard a voice in all th-e winds ; and then 
He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowtri, 

And how the goddesses come down to men : 
He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 

And, when he looked upon his watch again. 
He found how much old Time had been a winner- 
He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

XCV. 
Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book 

Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
Even as the page is rustled while we look. 

So by the poesy of his own mind 
Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook. 

As if 'twere one wherein magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing galt> 
According to some good old woman's tale. 

XCVI. 
Thu:« would he while his lonely hours away, 

Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted ; 
Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lav, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 
A bosoin whereon he his head might lay. 

And hear the heart beat with the lovc it granted, 
With — several other things, which I forget, 
Or which, at least, I need not mention yet 

XCVII. 
These lonely walks and lengthening reveries 

Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
She saw that Juan was not at his ease; 

But that which chiefly may and must surpriM 
Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 

II or only 8:':n with question or surmise ; 
Whether it was she did not see, or would not* 
Or. like all very clover people, cou'd not 



594 



BYRON'S WORKS 



XCVIII. 
This mav seem strange, but yet 'tis very common ; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the Avi-itten rights of woman, 

And break the — which commandment is't they 
(I have forgot the number, and think no man [break ? 

Sholild rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous. 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 
k real husband always is suspicious. 

But still no less susppcts in the wrong place, 
Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 

Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace. 
By harboring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 

The last indeed's infallibly the case : 
And when the spouse and friend are gone off wholly, 
He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 



Thus parents also are at times shortsighted ; 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover 
The while the wicked world beholds, delighted, 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
Till some ccnfounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 

But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think on this occasion, 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving Juan to this new temptation ; 

But what that motive was, I shan't say here ; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 

In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

CII. -N ,.' 

It was upon a day, a summer's dayf"' — 
Summer's indeed a very dangerous season, 

And so is spring about the end of May ; 
The sun no doubt, is the prevailing reason, 

But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say. 
And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 

That there are months which nature grows more 
merry in ; 

March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 

cm. 

Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of June : '*' 

I like to be particular in dates. 
Not only of ths age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of posthouse, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Ltarving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 

CIV. 
Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 

Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven, 
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 

As ere held houri in that heathenish heaven 
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 

To whom the lyre and laurels have been given. 
With all tne trophies of triumphant song — 
He woa them well, and may he wear them long 



CV. 



She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 

How this same interview had taken place, 
And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case- 
No matter how or why the thing befell. 

But there were she and Juan face to face — 
When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 
But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVI. 

How beautiful she looked ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wronft ; 

,0h love ' how perfect is thy mystic art, [strcii.g 
Strengthening the weak and trampling on tiM 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along ; 

The precipice she stood on was immense — 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 

CVII. 

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth 
And of the folly of all prudish fears, 

Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 

I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 
Because that number rarely much endears, 

And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, , 

Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CVIII. 

When people say, "I've told you ^Jiy times," 
They mean to scold, and very often do ; 

When poets say, '* I've written ^fty rhymes," 
They make you dread that they'll recite them too « 

In gangs oi fifty, thieves commit their crimes; 
At fifty, love for love is rare, 'tis true ; 

But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 

A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia had honor, virtue, truth and love. 
For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore. 

By all the vows below to powers above. 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore, 

Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove : 
And while she ponder' d this, besides much more, 

One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 

Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own; 

ex. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air 

Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To lea\F together this imprudent pair. 

She who lor many years had watch 'i her son 80^— 

I'm very certain mine would not have done so 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably, confirm'd its grasp, 

As if it said " detain me, if you please ;" 
Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze -. 

She would have shrunk as from a toad .'^t as;* 

Had she imagined such a thing could rous« 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 



DON JUAN. 



59^ 



CXII. 

1 cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
But what he did is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
And then, abash'd at his own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, 
Love is so very timid when 'tis new : 

Bheblush'd and frown'dnot, but she strove to speak', 

A.nd held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

CXIII. 

The sun set, snd up rose the yellow moon. 

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they 
Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 

Their nomenclature : there is not a day, 
The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 

Sees half the business in a wicked way 
On which three single ho^rs of moonshine smile — 
A.nd then she looks so modest all the while. 

CXIV. 
ThTe is a dangerous stillness in that hour, 

A stillness which leaves room for the full soul 
To open all itself, without the power 

Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 

Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws • 
A loving languor which is not repose. 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced, 
And half retiring from the glowing arm, 

Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed : 
Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 

Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist ; 
But then the situation had its charm. 

And then God knows what next — I can't go on ; 

I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXVI. 

Qh, Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 

Of human hearts, tlian all the long array ■ 
Of poets and romancers : — You're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been. 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXVII. • 
And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs. 

Until too late for useful conversation : 
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 

I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 
Bat who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation, 
A little still she strove, and much repented, 
And whispering •' I will ne'er consent," — consented. 

CXVIII. 
Tis said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 

To those who could invent him a new pleasure ; 
Methinks the requisition's rather hard, 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure; h 
For my part, I'm a modcratc-mindod bard, f" 

Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure;) 
( care not for new pleasures, as the old 
Axe Quite enough for me, so they but hold. 



CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure ! you're indeed a pleasan t thing, 
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt 

I make a resolution every spring 
Of reformation ere the year run out. 

But, somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx 

Here my chaste muse a liberty must take — 

Start not ! still chaster reader, — she'll be nice henri 

Forward, and there is no great cause to quake '• 
This liberty is a poetic license 

Which some irregularity may make 
In the design, and as 1 have a high sens* 

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 

To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 
Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill, 

For want of facts would all be thrown away,) 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we'll b&| 

'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era's more obscure. 

CXXII. 
We'll talk of that anon — 'Tis sweet to hear, 

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep, 
The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 
'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 

'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 
From leaf to leaf ; 'tis sweet to view on high 
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky ; 

y CXXIII. 

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honesi bark 

Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near hora« 
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 

Our coming, and look brighter when we come; 
'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapeA 
In Bacchanal profusion reel to eiirth 

Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 
From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 

Swoet to the miser are his glittering heaps , 
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth. 

Sweet is revenge — especially to women', 

Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen 

CXXV. 

Sweet is a legacy ; and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 

Who've made ** us youth " wait too— too lon| 

For an estate, or cash, or country-scat, (alread) 
Still breaking, but \vith stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are- fit t) nmb its 

Next owner for their douole-dumn'd itost-cbitM 



596 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXVI. 
Tie Bweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels 

By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 

Particularly with a tireso'^ne friend ; 
Bweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels; 

Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
Against th3 world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone. 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; [known — 

The tree ui knowledge has been pluck'd — all's 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

CXXVIII. 

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature and the various arts, 

And likes particularly to produce 
Some new experiment to show his parts : 

This is the age of oddities let loose, 
Where different talents find their different marts ; 

You'd best begin vrith truth, and when you've lost 

Labor, there's a sure market for imposture. [your 

CXXIX 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets:) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, [sockets ; 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockats. 
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

cxxx. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes. 
And galvanism has set some corpses grinning. 

But has not answer'd like the apparatus 
Of the humane Society's beginning. 

By which men are unsuffocated gratis ; — [spinning. 
What wondrous new machines have late been 

I said the small-pox has gone out of late ; 

Perhaps it may be follow'd by the groat. 

CXXXL 

'Tis said the great came from America ; 

Perhaps it may set out on its return,— 
'fhe population there so spreads, they say, 

'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilization they may learn ; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is— 
I'heir real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis ? 

CXXXII. 

ITiis is the patent age of new inventions 
For killing bodies and for saving souls. 

All propagated with the best intentions : 
Sir Humphry Dtvy's lantern, by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions ; 
Timbuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true. 

Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 



CXXXIII. 

Man's a phemenon, one knows not what. 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measu^ ; 

'Tis pity, though, in this sublime world, that 
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure. 

Few mortals know what end they would be at. 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then— 

CXXXIV. 

What then ? — I do not know, no more do ycu— 
And so good night. — Return we to our story : 

'TAvas in November, when fine days are few, 
And the far mountains wax a little hoary, 

And clap a white cap on their mantles blue ; 
And the sea dashes round the promontory, 

And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 

And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was brigb t 

With the piled wood, round which the family croi^ d 
There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 

Even as a summer sky's without a cloud; 
I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

CXXXVI. 

'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 

If they had never been awoke before — 
And that they have been so we all have read, 

And are to be so, at the least, once more— 
The door was fasten'd, but, with voice and fist 
First knocks were heard, then " Madam — Ma ^uoa-- 
hist : 

CXXXVII. 
" For God's sake. Madam, — Madam — heie's mj 

With more than half the city at his back — [m&stei 
Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster ? 

'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack I 
Do, pray, undo the bolt a little faster — 

They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly — 
Surely the window's not so very high ! " 

c:5:xxviii. 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, [bet 

With torches, friends, and servants in great cum 

The major part of them had long been vnved, 
And therefore paused not to disturb the slumbet 

Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
By stealth her husband's temples to eneamber: 

Examples of this kind are so contagious. 

Were one not punish' d, all would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't tell how, or why, or what suspicion 
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head ; 

But for a cavalier of his condition 
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred. 

Without a word of previous admonition. 
To hold a levee round his lady's be<i. 

And summ'^n lackeys, arm'd wrth tire and swords 

To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd 



DON JUAN. 



59^ 



CXL. 
Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep, 

(Mind — that I do not fay— sht had not slept,) 
Began at once to scream, and yawn, ami weep ; 

Her maid Antonia, wYo was an adept, 
Contrived to fling the bedclothes in a heap, 

As if she had just now from out them crept: 
I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 
To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, but still more of men, afraid. 

Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 

And therefore side by side were gently laid. 
Until the hours of absence should run through, 

'^.nd truant husband should return and say, 

' My de\r, I was the first who came away." ,, 

CXLII. ..■■- 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, [mean ? 

** In Heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye 
Has madness seized you ? would that I had died 

Ere such a moiister's victim I had been ! 
What may this midnight violence betide, 

A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 
Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill ? 
Search, then, theioom ! " — Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLIII. 

nc search'd, they search" d, and rumaged everywhere. 
Closet and d>thes'-pres3, chest and window-seat. 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair, 
To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 

Arras they prick'd and 'curtains with their swords, 

And wounded several snutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found- 
No matter what — it was not that they sought ; 

They 07 en'd windows, gazing if the ground 

Had signs or foot-marks, but the earth said nought: 

And then they stared each other's faces round : 
'Tib odd, not one of all these seekers thought. 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. , 
During this inquisition Julia's tongue [cried. 

Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," she 
" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have sufier'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain, 
[f there be law, or lawyers, in uU Spain. 

CXLVI. 
" Y08, Don Alfonso, husband now no more, 

If ever you indc^rd deserved the name, 
Is't worthy for your years ? — you have threescore, 

Fifty, or sixty — it is all the same — 
[n't wise or fitting causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso ! 
How dare you th'uk your lady would go on so ? 



CXLVII. 
" Is it. for this I have disdain'd to hald 

The common privileges of my sex ? 
That I have chosen a confessor &o old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex. 
And never once he has had cause to scold. 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married- 
How sorry you will be when I've misc^rnea i 

CXLVIIJ. 

" Was it for this that no Cortejo e'er 

I yet have chosen from out the youth c( Se^illli I 
Is it for this I scarce went any where, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, ncd reVfl 
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 

I favor'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I used him vilely ? 

CXLIX. 

'*< Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 

Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 

Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain ? , 

Were there not also Russians, English, many ? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 

And Lord Mount Cotfehouse, the Irish peer. 

Who kiird himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 
•• Have I not had two bishops at my feet, 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez f 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 

I wonder in what quarter now the mron is : 
I praise your vast forbearance not to b« \t 

Me also since the time so opportune i« — [}?pi 
Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd tri** 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 

CLI. 
" Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 

Under pretence of business indispensable. 
With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 

Whom I see standing there, and looking sensib.d 
Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 

Deserves the worst, his conduct's less defensible, 
Because, no doubt, 'twas for his dirty fee 
And not for any love to you or me. 

CLII. 
" If he comes here to take a deposition, 

By all means let the gentleman proceed; 
You've made the apartment in a fit condition. 

There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you umA 
Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd— 
But, as my maid's undress'd, pray turn your spies • -o u 
•• Oh ! " sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their ey« 
out." 

CLIII. 
" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 

The antechamber — search them under, over- 
There is the sofa, there the great arm-ehair, 

The chimney — which would really hold a lover 
I wish to sleep, and beg you will take cure 

And make no further noise till you discoyer 
The secret cavom of this lurking treasure — 
And, when 'tis found, let me. too. have that pleaauiv 



-598 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLIV. 

'« And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 

Dc.ubt upon me, confusion over all, 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the man you search for ? how d'ye call 
Kim ? what's his lineagp ? let him but be shown — 

I hope he'vS young and handsome — ^is he tall? 
Trill me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honor thus, it shall not be in vaiii- 

At kast, perhaps, he has not sixty years — 

At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 
Or for so young a husband's jealous fears, — 

I^Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 
[ am ashamed of having shed these tears. 

They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 
My mother dream'd not in my natal hour 
that I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 

»' Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous. 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 
Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, to hide; 

On'ly another time, 1 trust, you'll tell Us, 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

CLVII. 

" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow :— 
I l^ave you to your conscience as before, 

'Twill one day ask you tvhy you used me so ? 
Gcd grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Aujouia! where's my pocket-handkerchief?" 

CLVIII. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay, her daik eyes flashing through their tears 

Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil 
Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 

ller streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
To hide the glossy shoulder Avhich uprears 

Its snow tnrough all ; — her soft lips lie apart, 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack 'd room, 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
^^ot one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

H 3, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Ki-3wing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

With pr}'ing snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Fcliowing Antt)nia's motions here and there. 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputation, he had little care ; 

Bo that a suit or action were made good, 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believ'd in negatives, till these 

Wtre proved by competent false witnesses. 



CLXI. 

But Don Alf nso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks. 
And treating a young wife with so much rigoi. 

He gain'd no point, except some self rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigor 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half hour, 

Quick, thick, and heavy — as a thunder-showei 

CLXII 

^t first he tried to hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply was tears and sobs, 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prologue is always certain throes and throbs. 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose :— 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw, too, in perspective, her relations, 

And tl en he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather st§,mmer, 
But sage Antonia cut him short before 

The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 
With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no mors 

Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd "D — n her," 
But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 

He cast a nieful look or two, and did, 

He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid 

CLXIV. 

With him retir'd his "posse comitattts,'* 
The attorney last, who linger'd near the door, 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
Antonia let him — not a little sore 

At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus " 
In Don Alfonso's facts, which j list now wore 

An awkward look ; as he revolved the case. 

The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! oh sorrow ! and oh womankind ! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — foi there is more behind : 
With much heart-felt reluctance be it said, 
Young Juan slipp'd, half smother'd, from the bed 

CLXVI. 

He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where- 
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 

No doubt, in little compass, round or square. 
But pity him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that "pretty pair ; 
'Twere better, siire, to die so, than be shut, 
With maudlin Clarence, in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin. 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human, laws, — 

At least 'twas rather early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of cTil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil- 



DON JUAN, 



syo 



CLXVKI. 

Of hia position I can give no notion : 
*Ti8 written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 

Row thit physicians, leaving pill and potion. 
Prescribed, b) way of blister, a young belle. 

When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 
And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 

Perhaps 'twas in a different way applied, 

For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 
Wlut's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 

The moment he has sent his fools away. 
Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 

But no device could be brought into play— 
And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 

Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 
Antonia puzzled : Julia did not speak, 
But prcss'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He tum'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 

Even then their love they could not all command, 
And half forgot their danger and despair: 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

*• Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling there. 

She whisper'd in great wrath — " I must deposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXXI. 

** Pray keep your nonsense for some luckier night— 
Who can have put my master in this mood ? 

What will become on't ? — I'm in such a fright! 
The devil's in the urchin, and no good — 

Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 
Why don't you know that it may end in blood ? 

You'll lose your life/ and I shMl lose my place, 

My mistress all, foi/that half-girlish face. 

CLXXII. 

Had it but been for a stout cavalier 

Of twent3^-five or thirty — (come- make haste) — 
But for a child, what piece of work is here I 

I really, madam, wonder at your taste— 
(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near. 

There, for the present at the least he's fast, 
And, if we can but till the morning keep 
Our counsel — ^^Juan, mind you must not sleep.") 

CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid: 

Kce loiter'd, and he told hor to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd; 

However, present remedy was none. 
And no great good seem'd unswer'd if she stay'd : 

R<sg vrding both with slow and sidelong view, 

She inuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; 

flo would not justify what he had done. 
To .ay the best, it was extreme ill-breeding : 

6u{ there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he sprcified in t lus nis pleaaing : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

ni ih?toriC| which the learn'd call *^ rigmarole." 



CLXXV. 

Jniia said nought ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 

'Tis to retort with fii-mness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with threat 

CLXXYI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, 
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known , 

But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confouada 
But that can't be, as has been often shown • 

A lady with apologies abounds : 
It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXYII, 
There might be one more motive, which makes tw. 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded 
Conceal'd among his premises ; 'tis tiue, 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery broodei 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like thi-owing Juan in Alfonso's way 

CLXXYIII. 
A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff. 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact) 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rathej 

A lady always distant from the fact — [rough 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace. 
There's nothing so becoming to the face 

CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them ; at least 1 
Have always done so ; 'tis of no great use, 

In any case, attempting a reply, 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 

And when at length they're out of breath, they sigh 
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loos* 

A tear or two, and then we make it up 

And then — and then — and then — sit doun and »np 

CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begged her pardon 
Which Julia half withheld, and thou half {^ranted 

And laid conditions he thought very hard on, 
Denying several little things? he wanted: 

He stood, like Adam, lingering near his garden. 
With useless penitence perplex 'd and haunted, 

Beseeching she no further would refuse, 

When lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 
A pair of shoes ! — what then > not much, if tue> 

Are such as fit with lady's feet, but these 
(No one can tell how much I grieve to say) 

Were masculine : to see them and to seiie 
Wji» but a moment's aci -- ih ! wcll-a-day 

My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freca^- 
Alfonso first examined well their fashion 
And then flow out into another passion 



600 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXll. 

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew ; 
* My, Juan, fiy ! for Heaven's sake — not a word ; 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — fly — fly — -'adieu ! 
Haste — haste ! — I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet- 
Day has not broke — there's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
Tke only mischief was, it came too late ; 

Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown, 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light, 
Antonia cried out " Rape ! " and Julia " Fire ! " 

But not a servant stirr'd tc aid the fight. 
Alfonso, pommeird to his heart's desire, 

Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night ; 
And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher ; 

His blood was up ; though young, he was a Tartar, 

And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
A.nd the)- continued battling hand to hand, 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command, 

If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives. 

And how you may be doubly widows — wives 1 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, , 

And Juan throttled him to get away. 

And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow; 
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 

Juan contrived to give an awkward blow. 
And then his only garment quite gave way ; 

He fled, like Joseph; leaving it — but there, 

I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men and maids, who found 
An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 
Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Borne half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground. 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more ; 

fuan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 

A.nd, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 

tiere ends this canto. — Need I sing or say. 
How Juan, naked, favor'd by the night, 

(Who favors what she should not,) found his way. 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight T 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 
The nine d.-ys' wonder which was broug-ht to light, 

And how Alfonso sued lor a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 



CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole procf 
The depositions, and the cause at full, 

The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit or to annul. 

There's more than one edition, and the readings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull; 

The best is that in short hand, ta'en by Gumey, 

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

cxc. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in .Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 

First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies. 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCl. 

She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes by land or sea, 
To mend his former morals, and get new. 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do.) 

Julia was sent into a convent ; she 
Grieved, but perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of her letter : 

CXCII. 

'* They tell me 'tis decided, you depart : 
'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain : 

I have no further claim on yo-.ir y^ang heart, 
Mine is the victim, and would be again : 

To love too much has been the only art 
I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 

Be on this sheet, 'tis*not what it appears — 

My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears 

CXCIII. 
" I loved, I love you ; for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem 
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost, 

So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast, — 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I've nothing to reproach or to request. 

CXCIV. 

" Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart 
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart. 
And few there are whom these cannot estrange 

Men have all thfese resomces, we but one— 

To love again, and be again undone. 

cxcv. 

*• You will proceed in pleasure and in pride. 
Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 

For me on earth, except some year^ to hide 
My shame and sorrow deep in mj heart's core. 

These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
The passion, which still '•ages as Leiore, 

And so farewell — forgiv? me, Iova me — Nr, 

That word is idle now — but let it go- 



DON JUAN. 



601 



CXCVI. 

My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 

But still, I think, I can collect my mind; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 

As roll the waves before the settled wiad ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind: 
So shakes the nredle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart ro my fix'd soul. 

CXCVII. 
" I have no more to say, but linger still, 

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
And yet I may as well the task fulfil. 

My misery can scarce be more complete : 
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would 
And 1 must even survive this last adieu, [meet. 
And l»ear with life, to love and pray for you ! " 

CXCVIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edged paper, 
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new : 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do. 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 
The seal a sunflower ; " Elle vous suit partout" 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian. 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan s earliest scrape ; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventure is 
Dependent on the public altogether : 

We'll see, however, what they say to this, 
(Their favor in an author's cap's a feather, 

And no great mischief's done by their caprice;) 
A.nd, if their approbation we experience. 
Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence. 

CO. 

My poem's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning. 
New characters ; the episodes are three: 

A panorama view of hell's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
Bo that my name of epic's no misnomer. 

CCI. 

All these things will be specified in time, 
With strict regard to Aristotle's Rules, 

The vade mecutn of the true sublime. 

Which makes so many poets and some fools ; 

Prose poets like blank-verse — I'm fond of rhym« — 
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 

Ivc got new mythological machinery. 

And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 

There's only one slight difference between 
Me and my epic brethren gone before. 

And here the advantage is my OAvn, I ween, 
(Not that I have not several merits more;) 

But this will more peculiarly be seen ; 
They so embellish, that 'tip quite a bore 

Their labyrinth of fables to thiead through, 

VVhereaa this story's actually true. 
7rt 



I CCIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts, 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel, 

To plays in five, and operas in three, acts ; 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 

CCIV. 

If ever I should condescend to prose, 
I'll write poetical commandments, which 

Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My text with many things that no one knows 
And carry precept to the highest pitch : 

I'll call the work, *' Longinus o'er a Bottk, 

Or, Every Poet J-js own Aristotle." 

GOV. 

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dry den, Pope : 
Thou shalt not set up Woxdsworth, Coleridge 
Southey ; 

Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy 

With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy 

Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 

Commit — ^flirtation with the muse of Moore 

CCVI. 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his : 

Thou shalt not bear false witness, like " the Blues/ 
(There's one, at least, is very fond of this :) 

Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choosA 
This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 

Exactly as you please, or not — the rod. 

But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G— d 

CCVII. 

If any person should presume to assert 

The story is not moral, first, I pray. 
That they will not cry out before they're hurt , 

Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay. 
Besides, in canto twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCVIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 

To their own good this warning tc dtspise 
Led by some tortuosity of mind, 

Not to believe my verse and their own eyes. 
And cry that they ** the moral cannot find," 

I tell him, if a clergymen, he lies- 
Should captains the remark, or critics, make 
Thev also lie too— under a mistake. 

CCIX. 

The public approbation I expect, 

And beg they'll take my word about the morel 
Which I with their amiusement will connect, 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) 
Meantime, they doubtless please to recollect 

My enicaJ pretensions to the laurel. 
For fear some prudish reauer suinim grow akittisli 
I've bribed my grandmother's review— the Britiiih 



U02 



BYRON S WORKS. 



OCX 

I sen* it in a letter to the editor, 
Who thank 'd me duly by return of post— 

I'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost, 

And smear his page with gall instead of haney, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXl, 

I think that with this holy new alliance 

I may insure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science. 

Daily, or monthly, or three-monthly; I 
Hdve not essay'd to multiply their clients. 

Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try. 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a di» senting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

" Non ego hocferrem calida juventa 
Consule Planco,''^ Horace said, and so 

Say I, by which quotation there is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago, 

(Long ere I dreamt %f dating from the Brenta,) 
I was most ready to return a blow. 

And would not brook at all this sort of thing 

In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

CCXIII. 
But now, at thirty years, my hair is gray, — 

(I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
I thought of a peruke the other day,) 

My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 

And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
Have spent my life, both interest and principal. 
And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

CCXIV. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things ,we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee : 
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew ? 

Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power, 

To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

CCXV. 
No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 

Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
iLe illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 

Insensible, I trust, but none the worse ; 
And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, 
IhougL Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 

CCXVI. 

My days of love are over — me no more'' 
The charms of maid, Mife, and still less of widow, 

Can make the fool of which they made before— 
In short, I must not lead the life I did do : 

The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er; 
The copious use of claret is forbid, too ; 

Bo, for a good old gentlemanly vice, 

I think I must take up with avar'ce. 



CCXVII. 

Ambition was my idol, which was bioken 
Before the shrines of Sorrow and of Pleasure ; 

And the two last have left me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
** Time is, time was, time's past," a chymic trea 
sure 

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes— 

My heart in passion, and ray head on rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

What is the end of fame ? 'tis but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper ; 

Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor; 

For this men viTite, speak, preach, and heroes kill. 
And bards burn what they call their '• midnight 

To have, when the original is dust, [taper;*' 

A name, a wretched picture, and worst bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man ? old Egypt's king, 

Cheops, erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummv hid J 
But somebody or other, rummaging. 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

CCXX. 

But I, being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, '* Alas ! 
All things that have been born were bom to die, 

And flesh (which death mows down to hay) is gnrasB 
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 

And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass- 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse. 
And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse." 

CCXXI. 
But for the present, gentle reader ! and 

Still gentle purchaser ! the bard — that's I— 
Must, with permission, shake you by the hand. 

And so your humble servant, and good bye ! 
We meet again, if we should understand 

Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 
Your patience further than by this short sample— 
'Twere well if others follow'd my example 

CCXXIL 

" Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find thee after many days ' 
Wlien Southey's read, and Wordsworth undtrstocd 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise— 
The four first rhymes are Southey's, every line : 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 



DON JUAN. 



603 



CANTO II. 



I. 



Dh ye ! who teach the ingenuous y juth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, 

[ pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 
It mends their morals : never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations. 
In Juan's cause, were but employ'd in vain, 

Since in a way, that's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school, 
In the third form, or even in the fourth, 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
At least had he been nurtured in the north ; 

Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 
But then exceptions always prove its worth— 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Puzzled his tutors very much of course. 

III. 

1 can't say that it puzzles me at all, 
If all things be consider'd : first, there was 

His lady mother, mathematical, 
A , never mind ; his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman, — (that's quite natural, 
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass ;) 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

IV. 

Well — ^well, the world must turn upon its axis, 
Anfl all mankind turn out with it, heads or tails, 

A.nd live and die, make love, and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 

The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales. 

A. little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 

Fighting, devotion, dust — perhaps a name. 

V. 

I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz— 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is, 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel ;) 
And such sweet girls — I mean such graceful ladies, 

Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
r can't describe it, though so much it strike, 
Nor liken it — ^I never saw the like : 

VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
New broke, a camelcopard, a gazelle, 

No— none of these will do ;— and then their garb ! 
Their veil and petticoat— Alas ! to dwell 

Upon such things would very near absorb 
A canto — then their feet and ancles ! — well, 

rhank Heaven I've got no motJ^phor, quite ready, 
And 80, my sober Muse — come let's be steady — 



VII. 
Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, ycu m ist, —the 
veil 

Thrown back a moment, with the glancing hand; 
While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 

Flashes into the heart : — all sunny land 
Of love ! when I forgot you, may I fail [pl^nn'o 

To # say*^my prayers — but never was there 
A dress through which tlie eyes give such a volley 
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 

VIII. 
But to our tale : the Donna Inez seat 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 

But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
'Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant, 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 
To wean. him from the Avickedness of earth, 
And send him like a dove of promise forth 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 
According to dh-ection, then received 

A lecture and some money : for four springs 
He was to travel ; and, though Inez grieved, 

(As every kind of parting has its stings,) 
She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed • 

A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 

Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 

X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil or the fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day 
Dunces were whipp'd or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd — the ship got under weigti, 
The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay. 

As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well enough* 

And, standing upon deck, the dashing spray 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weathui -tough 

And there he stood to take, and take again. 

His first — ^perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 

XII. 
I can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To see oneJ's native land receding thiv-ugh 
The growing waters — it unmans one quite: 

Especially when life is rather new: 
I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 

But almost every other country's blue. 
When, gazing on them, mystified by distance, 
We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIII. 
So Juan stood bewilder'd on the deck : 

The wind sung, cordage strain d, and sailors swoi 
And the ship crcak'd, the Uwn became a speck 

From which away so far and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness ; try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure vou this is true. 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 



604 



BYRON'S WOUKS 



XIV. 



Don J uan stood, ar i, gazing from the stem, 
Beheld his native Spain receding far : 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 
Even nations feel this when they go to wai ; 

There is a sort of unexpress'd concern, 
A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people # 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave — 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 

Bo that he had much better cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And. if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife, 

No doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

XVI. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I'd weep, but mine is not a weeping muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Peirhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd, and thought, 
While his salt tears dropt into the salt sea, 

** Sweets to the sweet ;" (I like so much to quote ; 
You must excuse this extract, 'tis where she, 

Tlie Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave,) and sobbing often, he 

Reflected on his present situation. 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 
" Ftrewell, my Spain ! a long farewell !*' he cried, 

" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 

Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er. 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia I" — (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

" And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear- 
But that's impossible, and cannot be — 

Booner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Ihan I resign thine image, oh ! my fair ! 
Or think of any thing excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic" — 

(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick.) 

XX. 

• Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell 
Oh, Julia ! what is every other wo ! — [sicker) — 

(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor — 
Pedro ! Baptista help me down below.) 

Julia, m> love ! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 
Oh, Julia I — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 

Beloved Julia ! hear me still beseeching" — 

rHfxe he grew iaaiticulate with retching.) 



XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art. 
The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 

Or death of those we doat on, when a part 
Of us dies with them, as each fond hope ends 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetu^ 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII, 
Love's a capricious power ; I've known it hoW 

Out through a fever caused by its own heat 
But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 

And find a quincy very hard to treat : 
Against all noble maladies he's bold, 

But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet. 
Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh ; 
Nor inflamations redden his blind eye 

XXIII. 
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 

About the lower regions of the bowels ; 
Love, who heroically breaths a vein, 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign. 

Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how else 
Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar. 
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

XXIV. 

The ship, called the most holy "Trinidada," 
"Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 
"Were settled long ere Juan's sire was bom : 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the mora 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
"Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land. 

His headache being increased by every billow 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 

And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 
At sunset they began to take in sail, 

For the sky show'd it would come on to blow. 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock, the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

"Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

"Whole of her stern frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy. 

The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water foiindL 



DON JUAN. 



60S 



XXVIII. 
ime gang of people instantly was put • 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
lo get up part of the cargo, and what not, 

But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet : 
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzU g, 
While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
muslin, 

XXIX. 
Into the opening ; but all such ingredients [down, 

Would have been vain, and they must have gon-e 
Dsspite of all their efibrts and expedients. 

But for the pumps : I'm glad to make them known 
To all the brother-tars who may have need hence, 

For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
By them per hour, and they had been all undone 
But for the maker Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate. 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hard and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late [loose, 
A squall came on, and, while some guns broke 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam-ends. 

XXXL 

There she lay motionless, and seem'd upset : 
The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks. 

And made a seene men do not soon forget ; 
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks. 

Or any other thing that brings regret. 
Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks. 

Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers 

And swimmers who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediate\y the masts were cu away, 
Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 

The mainmast follow'd ; but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last, (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted,) 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

xxxin. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 
Was going on, some pebple were unquiet ; 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seamen, deeming his 
Dayi nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXIV. 

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
As rum and true religion ; thus it was, [psalms. 

Borne plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass 

The hoarse harsh waves kept time, fright cured the 
qualms 
Of all the luckless landsmen's seasick maws : 

Strange sounis of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 

Olamor'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 



XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, bt:; for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his yean, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears. 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 

" Give us more grog," they cried, '* for it wil be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No I 

*Tis true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below i 

Like brutes ;" — and thus his dangerous post kept he^ 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast 
And made a loud and pious lamentation > 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

Nothing should tempt him more (this peril pasti 
To quit his academic occupation 

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more , 
Day broke, and the ^^ind lull'd : the masts wci 
gone. 

The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore 
The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 

They tried the pumps again, and though before 
Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 

A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 

The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a saiL 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 
And for the moment it had some elfect ; 

But with a leak, and not a stick of mast 
Nor rag of canvas, what could they exptvit i 

But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 

And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 

'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 
There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and froa 
thence 

Without their will, they carried them away ; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commrnct 

A jury-mast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luefe 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps was rather less, 

But the ship labor'd so, they scarce could hop« 

To weather out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid moss 
Was scant enough ; in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight* 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 



606 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 

A-g^iTi the weather threaten'd — again blew 
A gale, and in the fore and after hold 

Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 

Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
Of all our pumps : — a ^vreck complete she roU'd, 

At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 

Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 
Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 

In his rough eyes, and told the captain he 
Cculd do no more ; he was a man in years. 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea. 
And if he wept at length, they were not fears 

Titat made his eyelids as a woman's be, 
■But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, 
Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow, 
Some hoisted out the boats : and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for absolution, 

"Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks, some put on 
Their best clothes as if going to a fair ; 

Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun. 
And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their 

And others went on, as they had begun, [hair ; 

Getting the boats out, being well aware 

That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 

Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XLVl. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'Twas difficult to get out such provision 
As now might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 

Two casks of biscuit and a keg of butter 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below, 
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met. 

But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon ; 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

rhe other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove -.r the beginning of the gale ; 

A.nd the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

/Lnd one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two Doats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To eave one half the people then on board. 



XLIX. 

"Fwas twilight, for the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the firowt 
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail ; 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was showa, 
And grimly darkled o'er their faces pale 

And the dim desolate deep — twelve days had Feai 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft. 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh flU 
If any laughter at such times could be. 

Unless with people who too much have quaff 'd. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee 

Half epileptical, and half hysterical : 

Their preservation would have been a miracle 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen-coops, span 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast loos« 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars ; 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 

And, going down head-foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, 
Then shnek'd the timid, and stood still the brave 

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave ; 

And the sea yavni'd around her like a hell, 
And down sh^ suck'd with her the whirling wave 

Like one who grapples with his enemy. 

And strives to strangle him before he die. 

LIIL 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd. 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek — the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had got off" before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore, 
And then they were too many, though so ftw- 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat. 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 

All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred «oult 

Had left their bodies ; and, what's worse, aluB 
When over Catholies the ocean rolls, 

They must wait several weeks, before a mass 
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 

Because, till people know what's come to paaSi 
They won't lay out their money on the dead- 
It costs three francs for every mas? that's said. 



DON JUAN. 



60T 



LVI. 

van got iiitc the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case ; 

Battista (though a name call'd shortly Tita) 

WTas lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 
I'tdro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
I,«ft him so drunk, ho jump'd into the wave, 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave : 

They could not rescue him, although so close, 
Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
A.nd for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 
A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose's, 

His father's, whom he loved, as j'e may think, 
For on such things the memory reposes 

With, tenderness — stood howling on the brink. 
Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 

No doubt the vessel was about to sink ; 
And Juan caught him up, and, ere he stepp'd 
Off, tlurew him in, then after him he leap'd. 

LIX. 

He also stufF'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would. 
Not knowing what himself to say or do, 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill. 

Thus reOmbark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 
Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 

That the sail was becalm'd between the seas. 
Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 

They dared not take it in for all the breeze ; 
Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet. 

And made them bale without a moment's ease. 
So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her ; the long-boat still 
Kept above wator, with an oar for mast, 

1 wo blunkets stitoh'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast ; 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
Arid present peril all before surpass'd, 

1 hey griev'd for those who perish'd with the cutter, 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXII. 
The sun rose red and fiery a sure sign 

Of the continuance of tae gale : to run 
Before the sea, until it should grow fine, 

Was all that for the present could be done : 
A few tuaiipoonfnls of their rum and wine 

Was serv'd out to the people, who begun 
To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
And most of thoui had little clothes but rags. 



Lxin. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a bpace 
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion : 

They did their best to modify their case, [sion, 

One half sate up, though numb'd with the immer* 

While t'other half were laid down in thv ir place. 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the ter^ 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, [tiaj 

With nothing but the sky for a great-coat. 

LXIV. 

Tis very certain the desire of life 
Prolongs it ; this is obvious to physicians. 

When patients, neither plagued with friend nor wife 
Survive through very desperate conditions. 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions. 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity. 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

* LXV. 

Tis said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others, — God knows why 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is 
That some, I really think, do never die : 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is. 
And that's their mode of furnishing supply: 

In my young days they lent me cash that way. 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVI. 

'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought, [teai; 
And stand, like rocks, the tempest's wear and 

And hardships still has been the sailor's lot. 
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production. 
And must have meals, at least one meal a day; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey • 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables in a grumbling way, 

Your laboring people think, beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion 

LXVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might ren9« 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 

LXIX. 
The consequence was easily foreseen — 

They ate up all they had, and drunk their wino 
In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 
They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men 

And carry them to shore : those hopes were fine, 
But as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 
I* would have been more wise to nave their victn>U 



608 



BYRON'S WORK&. 



LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
And ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child: 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild, 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 

Waks kill'd and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On thr sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received, (though first denied,) 
As a great favor, one of the fore-paws, 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
BiJister'd and scorch'd ; and stagnant on the sea, 

Ihey lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely 

ITiey glared upon each other — all was done, 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 
Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper' d his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 
An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thoughts each sufferer knew 
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood. 

And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes ; 

And then they look'd around them, and despair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 

At length the lots were torn up and prepared. 
But of materials that must shock the muse — 

Having no paper, for the want of better, 

They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and 
In silent horror, and their distribution [handed 

Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 
Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 

None in particular haa sought or plann'd it, 
'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 

By which none were permitted to be neuter— 

And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requests to be bled to death ; * 
The surgeon had his mstruments, and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath. 
You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died, as born, a Catholic in faith. 
Like most in the belief in which they're bred, 

At first a littlo crucifix he kiss'd, 

ind tb'in held aut his jugular and wrist. 



LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 

Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 

Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea, 

And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow'd o'er the billow— 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXVIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four. 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food t 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more; 
'Twas not to be expected that he should, 

Even in extremity of their disaster, 

Dine with tnem on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'Twas better that he did not ; for, in fact. 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act. 
Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blaspheme 

And foam and roll, \vith strange convulsions rack'd 
Drinking salt water like a mountain-stream, 

Tearing and grinning, hoAvling, screeching, swear* 

And, with hysena laughter, died despairing. [ing, 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction. 
And all the rest were thin enough, heaven knows ; 

And some of them had lost their recollection, 
Happier than they who still perceived their woes 

But others ponder'd on a new dissection. 
As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madly. 

For having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because. 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
There were some other reasons : the first was, 

He had been rather indisposed of late. 
And that which chiefly proved his saving clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd. 
But it was used sparingly, — some were afraid. 

And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
Or but at times a little supper made ; 

All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead : 

At length they caught two boobies and a noddy. 

And then they left off eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 
And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends. 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 



i»uN JUAN. 



609 



LXXXIV. 

Ind the same night there fell a shower of rain, 
For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks cf 
earth 

When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water's worth ; 

If ycu had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your birth, 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 

Vou'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a well. 

LXXXV. 

tt pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer, 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 

They wrung it out, and, though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not have thought the scanty draught so 

A-S a full pot of porter, to their thinking [sweet 

They ne'er, till now, had known the joys of drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'din the moisture, which like nectar stream'd; 

Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were 
black 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not, rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven — if this be true, indeed, 

Borne Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 

i.'here were two fathers in this ghastly crew. 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early ; and when he was gone, 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
One glance on him, and said, "Heaven's will be 

1 can do nothing ! " and he saw him thrown [done ; 

Into thf> deep, without a tear or groan. 

LXXXVIII. 

llie other father had a weaklier child. 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit, held aloof his fate : 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 

His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
Frox his pale lips, and ever on him gazed ; [come. 

And when the wish'd-for shower at length was 
And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 

Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam 
He 8(iueezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
j^nto his dying child s mouth — but in vaia. 

XC. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
And look'd upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
Stiif on his heart, and pulse and hope wore paat. 

He watched it wistfully, until away 
'Twaa borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down, at. dumb and shivering, 

i^id gave no signs of life, save his limbs quivering. ' 



XCI. 



Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through [sea, 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue : 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free. 

Then changed like to a bow that's bent, and^ then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

XCII. 
It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, 

The airy child of vapor and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun. 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion. 

And blending every color into one. 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen- 
It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 

Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope- 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 

XCIV. 

About this time, a beautiful white bird. 
Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 

And plumage, (probably it might have eiT'd 
Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
J'he men within the boat, and in this guise 

It came and went, and flutter'd roupd them till 

Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

xcv. 

But in this case I also must remark, 

'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch 

Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Returning there from her successful search^ 

Which in their Avay that moment chanced to faJ, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XCVI. 

With twilight it again came on to blow. 
But not with violence ; the stars shone out. 

The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 
They knew not where nor what they were about ; 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said '• No I ' 
The freqvcnt fog-hanks gave them cause todoubi— 

fcJi'DJe bwort that they heard breakers, others gusa« 

And all mistook about the latter once. 

XCVII. 
As morning broke, the light wind died away, 

When he who had the watch sung out, and swot* 
If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray 

He wish'd that land he never might see more> 
And the rest rubb'd their eyes, and saw a bay, 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course ft» 
For shore it was, and gradually grew [short 

Distinct and high, and palpable to view 



610 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCVIll. 

A.nd then of these some part burst into tears, 
And others, looking with a stupid stare, 

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 

While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep ; they shook them by the hand and head, 

And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

XCIX. 

n.e day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
They four.d a turtle of the hawks-bill kind. 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her.. 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 
Because it left encouragement behind : 

They thought that in such perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for theu- deliverance. 



The land appear'd, a high and rocky coast. 
And higher grew the mountains as they drew. 

Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been toss'd. 
So changeable had been the ^vinds that blew ; 

Some thought it was Mount -^tna, some the high- 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands, [lands 

CI. . 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore. 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 
Their living freight was now reduced to four ; 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before, 

Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 

Snch things, a mother had not knoAvn her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 

By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 

But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 

In washing dovra. Pedrillo with salt water. 

CIII. 
As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen, 

Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest tops, and smooth'd the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes as a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 
The shOk'e look'd wild, without the trace of man, 

And girt by formidable waves ; but they 
Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 

Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 
A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray ; 
But, finding no place for their landing bettc- 
rUey ran the boat hr shore, and overset hei 



CV. 



But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And, having learn'd to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turn'd the art to some account. 

A better s^nammer you Could scarce see ever, 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont 

As once, (a feat on which ourselves we prided,) 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did. 

CVI. 

So, here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buDy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to plj 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark 
The btach which lay before him, high and dry 

The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; 

As for the other two, they could not swim, 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

CVII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar. 
Which, providentially for him, was washi'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. 

And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas dnuh i 

"Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Roll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea: 

CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging hails he clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay, full-length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 

With just enough of life to feel its pain, 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain. 

CIX. 

With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee. 

And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for thoM 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea, 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes. 
Save one, a corpse from out the famish'd three, 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach for buiial ground. 

ex. 

And, as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast. 
And down he sunk, and, as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round B.nd round, and all his senses pass'd: 
He fell upnn his side, and his stretch'd hand 

Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,) 
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him, 

And time had nothing more of night nor day • 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim. 

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life^ 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retir'd with stritt 



DON JUAN. 



611 



CXII. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness : he thought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'er^vrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed; 
And then once more his feelings back were brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
S.^em'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Rf.cail'd his answering spirits back from death . 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to sooth 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

cxiy. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 

Rais'd higher the faint head which o'er it hung; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
His de^vy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 

A sigh "from his heaved bosom — and hers too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave. 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — (me 

f oung yet her elder, and of brow less grave> 
And more robust of figure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair. 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
In braids behind, and, though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould. 
They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

CXVII. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction, for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest urrow flew ; 

Tis as the snake, late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 
Her brow was white and low, her checks' pure dye 

Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 

Ever to have seen such ; |"or she was ope 
Fit for the model of a statiiary, 

(A rare of mere impostors, when all's done: 
I've seen mlich finer women, ripe and real, 
Vh»ui uU (he nonsense of their stone ideal.) 



CXIX. 
I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 

One should not rail -vvithout a decent cause 
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stem Time and Nature's wrinkling iaw« 
They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wroup'ht. 

cxx. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 

Her dress was very different from the Spanian, 

Simpler, arid yet of colors not so grave ; 
For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wav« 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXL 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress was many color'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 
- But through them gold and gems profusely shone. 

Her girdte sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stockir/g. 

CXXIL 

The other female's dress was not unlike. 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike: 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

cxxin. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
With food and raiment, and those soft attei' tions 

Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions ; 

They made a most superior mess of broth, 
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions 

But the best dish that e'er was eo(/k'd since. Homer '• 

Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, 
Lest they should seem princesses in diSgUibC ; 

Besides 1 hate all mystery, and that air 
Of clup-trap, which your poets prize; 

And so, in short, the girls they really were 
They shall appear before your curious eyes, 

Mistress and maid; the first was only daughtej 

Of an old man who lived upon the water. 

CXXV. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
And still a sort of fi.shernian was he ; 

But other speculations were, in sooth. 
Added to his connexion with the sea, 

Perhaps, not so respectable in truth ; 
A little smuggling, and some piracy, 

Left him, at la.st, the st»le of many mHstcn 

Of an ill-gotten million of jji^istres 



612 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXVI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he — though cf men, 
Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant vessels, now and then, 
And sometimes caught as many as he wlsh'd ; 

The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
Ke sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 

Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 

By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVII. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please. 

But this I know, it was a spacious building. 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIII. 
He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 

The greatest heiress of the Eastern isles ; 
Besides so very beautiful was she. 

Her do-rn-y was as nothing to her smiles ! 
6till in her teens, and like a lovely tree 

She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXXIX. 

And walking out upon the beach below 
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ; 

But, being naked, she was shock 'd, you know, 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 

As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 

A stranger," dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
"Was not exactly the best way to save. 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man had so much " vovi," 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 

He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 

And Iherefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guesi . 

And their compassion grew to such a size, 
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven — | 

(Saint Paul says 'tis the toll which must be given.) 

CXXXII. 
Ihey made a fire, but such a fire as they 

Upon the moment could contrive with such 
Materials as were cast up round the bay. 

Some broken planks and oars, that to the touch 
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay, 

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, 
rha^. there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 



CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs and a pelisse 
For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to laake 

His couch ; and that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake 

They also gave a petticoat apiece. 
She and her maid, and promis'd by daybreak 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish, 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXXIV. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 

"V\Tio sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 
Just for the present, and in his luU'd head 

Not even a vision of his former woes fspre4tf 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimei 

Unwelcome visions of our former years, 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

cxxxv. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless ; — but the maid 
"Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den, 

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd. 
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd: yet slie thought, at least she said, 
(The heart will "slip even as the tongue and pen,) 

He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 

Enjoining silence strict to Zop, who 
Better than she knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent. 

And Zoe spent hers as most women do, 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
"Which is acquired in nature's good old college. 

CXXXVII. 

The mom broke, and found Juan slumbering stil' 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 

His rest ; the rushing of the neighboring rill. 
And the young beams of the excluded sun. 

Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; 
And need he had of slumber yet, for none 

Had suffer'd more — his hardships were comparative 

To those related in my grand-dad's " Narrative." 

CXXXVIII. 

Not so Haidee ; she sadly toss'd -md tumbled, 
And started from her sleep, and, tmning o'er, 

Di>eam i. of a thousond wrecks, o'er which she 
stumbled. 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek, — 

Ihey knew not what to think of such a freak. 

CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get. 
With some pretence about the sun, that makei 

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 
And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaki 

Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are we» 
With mist, and every bird with him ^wakes. 

And night is flung off like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband,— K>r some other brute 



DON JUAN. 



613 



CXL. 

[ say, the sun is a most gVorious sig.it, 
I've seen him rise full "ft, indeed of late 

1 have set up on purpose all the night, 
Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate; 

A.nd so all ye, who would be in the right 
In health and purse, begin your day to date 

From day-break, and when coffin 'd at fourscore, 

Rngrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 
And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

FroiD heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
Like to s torrent which a mountain's base, 

That o\ irpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread. 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 
And down the cliflf the island virgin came, 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 

And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew. 
Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 
Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
Had all the advantage too of not being air. 

CXLIII. 
And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd, 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept : 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
'For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 

And Wi>ipp'd him closer, lest the air, too rave, 
Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
Bent with hush'd lips that drank his scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 
A.nd thus, like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 

As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 
But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying, 

Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it. 
She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 

She knew that the best feelings mustthave victual, 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little. 
And felt her veins cliill'd by the neighboring sea ; 

And 80, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea. 

But there were eggs, fruit, colfee, bread, fish, honey, 

With Scio wine — and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

ind Zof", when the eggs were ready, and 
The coff'ee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her (piick small hand, 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zo«' needs must underKtand ; 
And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That ^leep which seem'd as it vruld ne'er awake. 



CXLVII. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn c leek 
A purple hectic play'd, like dying day 

On the snow-tops of distant hills ; the streak 
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, [weak, 

Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, au4 
And his black curls were dewy with the spray. 

Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp at a salt 

Mix'd with the stony vapors of the vault. 

CXLVIII. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can brealti^ 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest, 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 

In short he was a very pretty fellow, 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 

CXLIX. 
He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 

But the fair face which met his eyes, forbade 
Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 

Had further sleep a further pleasure made; 
For woman's face was never form'd in vain 

For Juan, so that even when he pray'd, 
He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy. 
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Marv 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose. 

And look'd upon the lady in whose cheek • 
The pale contented with the purple rose, 

As with an effort she began to speak ; 
Her eyes were eloquent, her words would po** 

Although she told him, in good modern Gr^ek, 
With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 
That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

CLI. 
Now Juan could not understand a word. 

Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear. 
And her voice was the warble of a bird. 

So soft, so sweet, so di^licately clear, 
That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; 

The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 
Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 
Whence melody descends, as from a throne. 

CLII 
And Juan gazed, as one who is awoke 

By a dista)\t organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spoil is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality, 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 

At least it is a heavy soimd to me. 
Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 
And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 

Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 
A most i)r()digious appetite : the steam 

Of Zo«'''8 cookery no doubt was stealing 
Upon his senses, and the kindlij»g beam 

Of the new fire which Zoc- ki«pt up kncrling 
To stir her viands, made hinx quite awake 
And long f>r food, but chiefly a beef-stoak 



614 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLIV. 

But beof is rare within these oxless isles ; 

Goats' flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, andluutton, 
ALnd when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on: 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rooks with scarce a hut on, 
Others are fair and fertile, among which. 
This, though not Targe, was one of the most rich 

CLV. 
I aay that beef is rare and can't help thinking 

That the old fable of the Minotaur— 
Fiom which our modern morals rightly shrinking. 

Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
A. cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more. 
That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For wp all know that English people arje 
Fed apon beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 
From this my subject, has no business here : — 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear, 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer 

That beef and battles both were owing to her- 

CLVII. 
But to resume. The languid Juan raised 

I^s head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sight on which he had not lately gazed. 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw. 
Three or four things for which the Lord be praised, 

And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she, 
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead ; 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 
Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nursed, 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state, 
Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

I he seashore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he vvish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel. 

Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill 

CLX. 

N^ext they — ^he being naked, save a tatter'd 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 

\nd in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd, 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd. 
Omitting tixrban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They furnish'd him, entire except some stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 



CLXl. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speakn^ 
But not a word could Juan comprehend, 

Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an ead • 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her prot'^ge and friend, 

Till, pausing at the last her breath to take, 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs, 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, 

The answer eloquent, vrhere the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw express'd 

'a world of words, and things at which she guess'^ 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes. 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise. 
No doubt, less of her language than her look ; 

As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 

Thus Juan learn'd his alpha beta better 

From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young, 
As was the case, at least where I have been ; 

They smile so when one's right, and when one'l 
wrong 
They smile still^ore, and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ;— 

I learn'd the little that I know by this : 

CLXV. 
That is, some word's of Spanish, Turk, or Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers. 
Much English I cafinot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachert 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hate your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXYI. 

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 

Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
Like other men, too, may have had my passiott- 

But that, like other things, has pass'd away : 
And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on, 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to VM 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXVII. 

Return we to Don Juan. Hebt^un 

To hear new words, and to repeat them; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love — as you would be, no doubt* 

With a young benefactress, — so was she 

Just in the way we very often see. 



DON JUAN. 



611 



CLXVIII. 
kni every daj- by daybreak — ^rather early 

For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 
She oame into the cave, but it was merely 

To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
A.nd she woul'd softly stir his locks so curly, 

Without disturbing hei yet slumbering guest, 
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

in! every morn his color freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence, 

Twas well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

r )r health and idleness to passion's flame 
Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Kte also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli. 
For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood. — 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
Eggs, oysters too, are amatory food ; 

But who is their purveyors from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXI. 

When Juan woke, he found some good things ready, 
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; 

But I have spoken of all this already — 
And repetition's tiresome and unwise. — 

Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent. 
That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan seem'd 

To her, as 'twere the kind of being sent, 
Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 

A. something to be loved, a creature meant 
To be her happiness, and whom she deem'd 

To render happy ; all who joy would win 

Must share* it, — happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXTII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
Enlargement of existence to partake 

Kuture with him, to thrill beneath his toucn. 
To watch him shimbering, and to see him wake: 

'1 ■) live with him for ever were too n\uch ; 
tut then the thought of parting made her quake: 

EIc wa« her own, her ocean treasure, cast 

Like a i .ch wreck — her first love and her last. 

CLXXIV. 
\.nd thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Buch plentiful precautions, that still ho 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook : 
At last her father's prows put out to sea. 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Kot as of yore to carry off an lo, 
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Solo. 



CLXXV. 
Then came her freedom, for she had no motLer, 

So that, her father being at sea, she was 
Freed as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass. 
Without even the encumbrance of a brother, 

The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 
I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 
Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk, 

(For they must talk,) and he had learnt tc say 

So much as to propose to. take a walk, — 
For little had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk 
Drooping and dew^ on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon. 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXX VII. 
It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast. 

With cliffs above, and a brbad sandy shore. 
Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, 

With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 
A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar, 
Save on the dead long summer days, which make 
The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of jour champ>agne 

When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
That spriHgdew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 

Few things surpass old wine ; and they may preaci 
Who please, — the more because they preach it 
vain, — 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter. 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless wei e the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on nocasion ! 
But to return — get very drunk ; and when 
Yoji wake mth headache, you shall see what then 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you'll know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with snow 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow. 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 

Vie with that draught of hock and soda-wate* 

CLXXXL 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 

Was just describing — Yes, it tmis the coast- 
Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 

The sands untunibled, the blue waves untoss'i 
And all was stillness, save the sca-hiid's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow oross'J 
By some low rock or shelve that made it fret 
Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 



816 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CLXXXII. 

A.nd forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
6he waited on her lady with the sun, 

Thought daily service was her only mission. 
Bringing warm water, ■wreathing her long tresses. 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXni. 
It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 

Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 
SVliich then seems as if the whole earth it bounded. 

Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 
With the far mountain-crescent, half surrounded 

On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 
CJpon the other, and the rosy sky, 
With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

A.nd thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand. 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 

Glided along the smooth and harden'd sand. 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 

Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd. 
In hollow halis, with sparry roofs and cells, 

They tum'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by an arm. 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
"Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low, 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this. 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love. 
And beauty, all concentrating like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
Such kisses as belong to early days. 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move. 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze. 

Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 

by length I mean duration ; theirs endured 
Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
reckon'd, 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second : 
They had not spoken ; but they felt allured. 

As if their souls and lips each other beckon' i, 
UHiich, being join'd, like swarming bees they clung — 
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey 
sprizig. 

CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, yet not alone as they 
Who, shut in chambers, think it loneliness ; 

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 
The t%vilight glow, which momently grew less, 

lUe voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each other press, 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs and that their life could never die. 



CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other : though their speech 
Was broken words, they thought a language thwfc 

And all the burning tongues the passions teach. 
Found in one sigh the best interpreter 

Of nature's oracle — ^first love, — that all 

Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 

cxc. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows. 
Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 

Of plight and promises to be a spouse. 
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 

She was all which pure ignorance allows, 
And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 

And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 

Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adoicu. 
And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 
If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,- 

But by degrees their senses were restored, 
Again to be o'ercorae, again to dash on ; 

And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful. 
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always full. 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 

Prompts deeds eternity cannot annul. 
But pays oft' moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

cxciri. 

Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 
So loving and so lovely — till then never, 

Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever; 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair. 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian rivei 

And hell and purgatory — but forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 

They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm claspi 

Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps : 

She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 
He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 

And thus they form a group that's quite antique, 

Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

cxcv. 

And when those deep and burning moments past d 
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms. 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms ; 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast. 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now waimv 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pantH 

With all it granted, and with all it grants. 



CXCYI. 

kn infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A. devotee when soars the host in sight, 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor, when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest. 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping, 



DOA JUAN ei-i 

\ CCIII. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beatl 

How much it costs us, yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet. 

That wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchymy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even conscience, too, has a tough joli 
To make us understand each good old maxim. 
So good — I wonder Castlereagh doL't tax 'em. 



CXCVII. 

Kor there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
A.l that it Lath of life with us is living ; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving, 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving; 

1 here lies the thing we love with all its errors. 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCVIIL 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 

^ Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 

Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude, 
She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, 

Where nought upon their passion could intrude. 
And all the stars that crowded the blue space. 
Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all 6f theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone. 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet as real 
Torture is theirs — what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 

I'hey're right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 
Is always so to women ; one sole bond 

Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 

Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond ? 

A. thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 

Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over. 

CCI. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers. 
Some mind tlioir household, others dissipation, 

S >me run away, and hut exchange their cares. 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

F 5w changes e'er can better their affairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation. 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel: 

Bom? vlay the devil, and then write a noveh 

ecu. 

Ilaidec was nature's bride, and knew not this; 

Haidee was passion's child, horn where the mm 
Bhowers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
Fjlsewhere was nothing — She had nought to fear, 
Hone, care, nor love beyond, her heart beat here. 
78 



CCIV. 

And now 'twas done — on the lone shore were plightf i 
Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches^ silt i 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed. 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united, 
Their priest was solitude, and they were wed: 

And they were happy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

GOV. 

Oh love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neiiter— 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the waveW 
Oh Love ! thou art the very god of evil. 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil 

CCVI. 

Thou makest the chaste connubial state precarious 
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men: 

Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 

Have much employed the muse of history's pen 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, — 
Such worthies time will never see again : — 

Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCVII. 
Thou makest philosophers : there's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew ' 
Who to immoral courses would allu'e us 

By theories, quite practicable too 
If only from the devil they would insure us, 

How pleasant were the maxim, (not qrite new,) 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us ? ' 
So said the royal sage, §ardanapalus. 

CCVIII. 
But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't hut say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon. 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creaturei i 

CCIX. 
I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal m.i le 
Of such quicksilver clay that in his hreaist, 

No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
Love, constant love, has been my constant gueit 

And yet last night, being at a mascjuerado, 
T saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 
Which gave me some sensations like a villain 



618 



BYRON'S TVORKa 



OCX. 
But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper'd, " Think of every sacred tie ! " 
' I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 

••But then her teeth, and then, oh heaven ! her eye ! 
I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid. 

Or neither — out of curiosity." 
« Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian 
^Though she was mask'd then as a fair Venetian) — 

CCXI. 
*' Stop ! " so I stopp'd. — But to return : that which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration, due where nature's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favor'd object ; and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of admiration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the "beau ideal." 

CCXII. 

•Tis the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, [skies, 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the 
Without which life would be extremely dull; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes. 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling. 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the same object graces quite as killing 
As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 

'Twould save us many a heartache, many a shilling, 
(For we must get them any how, or grieve,) 

Whereas, if one sole lady pleased for ever, 

flow pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 

CCXIV. 
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven. 

But changes night and da} too, like the sky ; 
Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 

And\darkness and destruction as on high ; [riven. 
But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and 

Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 
Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears, 
Which make the English climate of our years. 

ccxv. 

The liver is the lazaret of bile, 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a while, 

1'iat all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
L»ke knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
3o that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail. 
Like earthquakes from the hidden tire call'd *' cen- 
tral." 

CCXVI. 
(c the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatjmy, I've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before. 

That being about the number I'll allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee, to plead 
fi'or them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO III. 



I. 



Hail, Muse ! et cetera. — We left Juan slf^ping, 
Pillow'd upon a fair and .happy breast. 

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping 
And loved by a young heart too deeply bless'd 

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping. 
Or know who rested there ; a foe to rest. 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears. 

II. 

Oh, love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 
With cypress branches hast thou Avi-eathed thy 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? [bowers. 
As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers. 

And place them on their breast — but place to die- 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

III. 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
In all the others all she loves is love. 

Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over? 
And fits her loosely — like an easy glove. 

As you may find whene'er you like to prove hei 
One man ^lone at first her heart can move ; 

She then prefers him in the plural number. 

Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

IV. 

I know not-if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing's pretty sure ; a woman planted. 
Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers,) 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; • 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had rums. 
But those who have ne'er end with only oite. 

V. 

'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime, 
That love and marriage rarely can combine, 

Although they both are born in the same clime i 
Marriage from love, like vinpgar from wine — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavor 
Down to a very homely household savor. 

VI. 

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 
Between their present and their future state ; 

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 

Is used, until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
The same things change their names at such aiaU 

For instance — passion in a lover's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 



DON JUAN. 



619 



VII. 



Men gi-ow ashamed of being so yery fond : 
They bonietimes also get a little tired, 

(But that, of course, is rare,) and then despond : 
The same things cannot always be admired, 

Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond," 
That both are tied till one shall have expired. 

Had thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorni^ig 

Hir days, and pnt one's servants into mourning. 

VIII.' 
There's doubtless something in domestic doings 

Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 
Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 

But only give a bust of marriages ; 
For no one cares foi matrimonial eooings. 

There's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss ; 
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 
He would have written sonnets all his life ? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 

- All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 

The future states of both are left to faith. 

For authors fear description might disparage 
t'he worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, [riage. 

And then both worlds would punish their miscar- 
So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready. 
They say no more of Death or of the Lady. 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or man-iage, are, 
Dante and Milton, and of both the affection 

Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 
Of fault or temper ruin'd the connexion, — 

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar ;) 
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
Were not di'awn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XL 

tJome persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's phantasy, 
Unless indeed 'twas from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee and Juan were not married, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair, 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 

I hen, if you'd have them wedded, please to shvit 
The book which treats of this erroneous pajr, 

Before the consequences grow too awful — 

Ti« dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIIL 

Tef they were happy —happy in the illicit 
Ind\ilgencc of their innocent desires; 

3ut, more imprudent grown with every visit, 
Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 

Wlicn we have what we like, 'tis hard to miss it 
At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 

Thus she came often, not a moment losing 

W^hilst her piratical papa yruB cruising. 



XIV. 



Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation. 

For into a prime minister but chaagc 
His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey 

And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important capture* 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 
Although a squall or two had damped his rapturei 

By swamping one of the prizes ; Le had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters. 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 
Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 
To his Tunis corrcspondr uts, save one man 

Toss'd overboard unsaleable, (being old ;) 
The rest — save here and there some richer one, 

Reserved for future ransom in the hold,— 
Were link'd alike ; as for the common people, be 
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey, 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, ti ji , 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIIL 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw. 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 

He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier too, which once had been a Britonis, 

Who dying on the coast of Ithica, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance 

These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 

He caged in one huge hamper altogether. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs, 

Despatching single cruisers here and there, 

His vessel having need of some repairs. 

He shaped his course to where his daughter fau 

Continued still her hosi)itable cares : 

But that part of the coast being shoal and bar«^ 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile, 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

XX. 

And there ho went ashore without delay, 
Having no custom-house or quarantine 

To ask him awkward qiiestions on the way, 
About the time and place ^'hcrc he had been* 

He ifcfi his ship to be hove down next day. 
With orders to the people to careen ; 

So that all hand« were bxisy beyond meastire, 

In getting out {roods, ballast, guns, and treasure 



B20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home. 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
A.11 feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
After long travelling by land or water. 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family's a serious matter; 

(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires, 
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter ;) 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler. 

And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 
May not have the good fortune of Ulysses : 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 
To his memory, and two or three young misses 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches, 

And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 
Has in his absence wedded some rich miser ; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 
May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise her ; 

And, that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Writes odes on the inconstancy of woman 

XXV. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liason of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship for a married lady — 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connexions the most steady, 
And the true Hymen (the first's but a screen) — 

Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 

I've known the absent wrong'd four times a day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 
Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney smoke, felt glad ; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad. 
Or that of any other strong emotion ; [her, 

He \o\ ed his child, and would have wept the loss of 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run. 
The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood, so cool and dun, 
The moving figures and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms, (in the East, all arm,) and various dyes 

r>f color'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 



XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he neais 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idlii\g. 

He hears — alas ! no music o^ the spheres. 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling ! 

A melody which made him doubt his cars. 

The. cause oe/i.g past his guessing or unriddling; 

A pipe too and a drum, and, shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing, 
Descending rather quickly the declivity. 

Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
'Midst other indications of festivity, [glancing, 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance so martial. 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a group of Grecian girls. 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 

Were strung together like a row of pearls ; 

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls— 
(The least of which would set ten poets raving,) 

Their leader sang — and bounded to her song. 

With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays 
Small social parties just begun to dine ; 

Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 
And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 

And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 
Above them their dessert grew on its vine, 

The orange and the pomegranate, nodding o'er, 

Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow 
store. 

XXXIl. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
There wreathe his venerable horns with floweig ; 

While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb. 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head, majestically tame. 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow is if in act to butt, and then. 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
Their laige black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks. 

Crimson a*s cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speikfc, 

The innocence which happy childhood blesses. 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 

So that the philosophical beholder 

Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should e'er gtM 
older. 

XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers 

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, 

Of magic ladies, who, by one sole act, 

Transform'd their lords to beasts, 'but that's a fact. 



DON JUAN. 



t>d; 



XXXV. 

Here wds no lack of innocent diversion 

For tlie imagjuation or the senses, 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastime in which no offence is ; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
Jreading that climax of a}l human ills 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah . what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A daj of gold from out an age of iron 
la all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least's) a siren, 
That lures to flay alive the yonng beginner ; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — ^being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not seiit before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
And long he paused to reassure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 
He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 

That a report (especially the Greeks) 
Avouch'dhis death, (such people never die,) 

And put his house in mourning several weeks. 
But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 

The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's cheek ; 
Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, 
She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fiddling. 
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure ; 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond measure. 

Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 
Compared with what Haidee did with'his treasure ; 

'Twas wonderful how things went on improving, 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 

lie tlew into a passion, and in fact 
1 here was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophecy some sudden act. 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

Tc teach his people to be more exact, 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 
He show'd the royal penchants of a pirate. 

XLI. 
you're wrong; — He was the mildest mannc* i man 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman. 

You never could divine his real thought ; 
No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety 
Hr was so great a loss to good society 



XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner-tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest gdest* 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd, 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday ? 
The vinous Greek to whom he had addiess'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fill'd up a glass of wine, 

XLIII. 
And, without turning his facetious head. 

Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air. 
Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

"Talking's dry work, I have no time to spare.' 
A second hiccup'a, *' Our old master's dead. 

You'd better ask our mistress, who*3 his h%ir, ' 
" Our mistress !" — quoth a third : " Our mistress !— 
You mean our master — not the old, but new." [pooh 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage felt— 

And o'er his eye a momenteiry gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

The expression, and, endeavoring to resume 
His smile, requested one of them to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron. 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matro« 

XLV. 

** I know not," quoth the fellow, ** who or what 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care ; 

But this I know, that this roast capon's fat. 
And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better far* 

And if you are not satisfied with that, 
Direct your questions to my neighbor there . 

He'll answer all for better or for worse, 

For none likes more to hear himself converse " 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of nationt 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 

He bore these sneers against his near relations, 
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 

The insults, too, of every servile glutton, 

Who all the time was eating up his muttan. 

XLVII. 

Now in a person used to much command — 
To bid men come, and go, and come agan— 

To see his orders done, too, out of hand — 

Whether the word ^^•as death, or but the chais- 

It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
Yet, such things are, which I canncit explain, 

Though doubtless he who can command himself 

Is good to govern — almost as a Ouelf. 

XLVIII. 
Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 

But never in his real and serious mood ; 
Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow 

He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood; 
With him it never was a word and blow. 

His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 
But in his silence there was much to rue, 
And his on* Woyr left U'^tle work for two. 



622 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way, 

Bo that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
So little they expected him that day ; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
For Ilaidee's sake, is more than T can say, 

But certainly to one, deem'd dead, returning, 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 



If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Wliich God forbid I) or some, or a great many ; 
For instance, if a husband or his wife, 

(Nuptial examples are as good as any,) 
No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, 

I he present weather would be much more rainy- 
Tears shed into the grave of the connexion 
Would share most probably its resurrection. 

LI. 

He enter'd in the house, no more his home, 
A tiling to human feelings the most trying, 

And harder for the heart to overcome 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb. 

And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 

He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 
Without a welcome ; there he long had dwelt, 

There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIII. 
He was a man of a strange temperament, 

Of mild demeanor though of savage mood. 
Moderate in all his habits, and content 

With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 
Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 

For something better, if not wholly good ; 
His country's wTongs and his despair to save her 
Ha,d stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old. 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was accustom'd to behold, 
The wild seas and wild men with whom he cruised. 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 

LV. 

But something jf the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

such as lit onward to the golden fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days : 

Tis true he had no ardent love for peace ; 
Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise: 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He v^aged, in vengeance of her degredation. 



LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the cluQfc 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystals^ and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spii'it in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love, reposed 
On that beloved daughter; she had be3n 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seca^ 

A lonely pure affection unopposed : 

There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness. 

And turn him, like the Cyclops, mad with blindi.es» 

LVIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock : 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging— 
Their fury being spent by its own shock — 

Than the stern, single, deep, and worldless ire 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is hard, although a common case. 

To find our children runniri^ restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves reformed in finer clay ; 

Just as old age is creeping on apace. 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone 

But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner :> 
'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up, (if nursing them don't thin her;; 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fireside, (a sight to touch a sinner :) 
A lady with her daughter or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven shilling pieces. 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
And stood within his hall at eventide , 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every side ; 

Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly. 

Mother-of-pearl and coral the less costly. x 

LXII. 
The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats, 
And safiron soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishM 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes : 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, [use. 
Squeezed through the rind which makes it best foi 



DON JUAN. 



623 



LXIII, 

These were i infixed round, each in its crystal ewer, 
And fiaits ar.d date-bread loaves closed the repast, 

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure. 
In small fine China cups, came in at last — 

Gold cups of filigree, made to secure 
The hand from burning, underneath them placed ; 

CI 'es, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 

Ui with the colfee, whicli (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIV. 

I'he hangings of the room were tapesk"y, made 
Of velvet pannels, each of different hue. 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid : 
Ani ro-und them ran a yellow border too ; 

The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 

ooft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 

From poe*<«, or the moralists their betters. 

LXV. 

Those oriental writings on the wall. 
Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors, adapted to recall. 
Like skulls at INIemphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall. 
And took his kingdom from him. — You will find, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure. 

There is i<o sterner moralist than pleasure. 

LXVI. 

A. beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has di-unk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd methodistic or eclectic — 
(For that's the name they like to pray beneath) — 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
Are things that really take away the breath. 

And show that late hours, wine and love, are able 

To do not pi"ch less damage than the table. 

LXVII. 

^laidee and Juan carpeted their feet 
On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new ; 

The velvet cushions— ^'for a throne more'meet)— 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun omboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal and mar1)le, plate and porcelain, 
Had done their work of splendor, Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, the heart bled to stain, 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

A ad dvarfs and blacks, aid such like, things that gain 
Theii bread aft ministeu and favorites— (that's 

To say, by degradation) — mingled there 

A.8 plentiful as in a court or fair. 

LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother-of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of lorsoise-shcll or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver : by command, 

The grea*«r part of these were ready spread 
With viands, and sherbets in ice, and wine — 
Kent fo: all Comers, at all hours to dine. 



LXX. 

Of aL the dresses I select Haidee's : 
She wore two jelicks — one was of pa.e yellow; 

Of azure, pink, and white, was her chemise — 
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow. 

And the striped white gauze baracan 'hat bound her 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp 'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold, 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm. 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
And clinging as if loth to lose its hcldj 

The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 

That e'er by precious metal was held in.^ 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar, above her instep roird,^ 

Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hana; 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 

Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could sc<\rce be told; 

Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furl'd 

About the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIIL 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
Her person* if allow'd at large to run ; 

And stili they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their boiads whene'er some zephyr caught began 

To offer his young pinion as her fan 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life, 
The very air secm'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies. 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, wer' tinged 
(It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 

For those large black eyes Mere so blacl< ly frinf(ed 
The glossy rebels niock'd the Jetty 8t»in, 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
llei nails were touch'd with henna; but again 

The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 

They could not look more rosy than before 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to malce 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair : 

She had no need of this — day ne'er will break 
On mountain tops more heavenly white than Hr 

The eye might doubt if it were well aAvake, 
She was ho like a vision : I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says 'tis vi«ry silly 

'• To gild rofiued gold, or paint *.he Iil> ' 



624 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
But a white baracan, and so transparent, 

The sparkling gems beneath you might oehold, 
Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 

His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't, 

Surmounted as its clasp — a glowing crescent, 

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

LXXVIII. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 
Dwaifs, dancing girls, black eunuch's, and a poet, 

WTiich made their new establishment complete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it ; 

Ilis verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, 

«Ie being paid to satirize or flatter, 

As the psalm says, ** inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present and abused the past, 

Reversing the good custom of old days. 
An eastern an ti -jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise— 
For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 

By his seeming independent in his lays, 
But now^ he sung the Sultan and the Pacha, 
With truth like Southey, and with verse like 
Crashaw. 

LXXX. ' 
He was a man who had seen many changes. 

And always changed as true as any needle, 
His polar star being one which rather ranges, 

And not the fix'd — he knew the way to wheedle; 
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 

And being fluent, (save indeed when fee'd ill,) 
He lied with such a fervor of intention — 
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he bnd genius — when a turncoat has it 

The " vates irritabilis " takes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it : 

Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
But to my subject — let me see — what was it ? 

Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty pair^ 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and 
Of living in then- insular abode. [mode 

LXXXII. 

Their pof t, a satt trimmer, biit no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow. 
Had been the favorite of full many a mess [low ; 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mel- 
And thougli his meaning they could rarely guess? 

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow, 
Ihe glorious meed of popular applause. 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But now being lifted into high society. 
And having pick'd up several odds and ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels, for variety. 
He deem'fi. oeing in a lone isle among friends, 

That without any danger of a riot, he 
Might for long lying make himself amends : 
• A.nd, singing as he sung in his warm youth, 

Vgvfe to a short armistice with truth. 



LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mong the Arabs, Turks, andFranKt 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations 

And, having lived with people of all ranks. 
Had something ready upon most occasions— 

Which got him a few presents and some thanks . 
He varied with some skill his adiflations ; 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 



LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing. 

He gave the different nations something nation* 1 
'Twas all the same to him — " God save the King " 

Or " Calira," according to the fashion all ; 
His muse made increment of any thing, 

From the high lyrical to the low rational : 
If Pindar sang horseraces, what should hinder 
Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he Avould write a chanson ; 

In England, a six-canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 

Would be old Goethe's — (see what says de StaCl ; 
In Italy, he'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t* y e 



The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace,— 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprunej • 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse ( 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires' *' Islands of the Bless'd. ' 

The mountains look on Marathon— 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream'd that Greece might still be free J 

For, standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set, where were they > 

And where are they ! and where art thotL 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hand** like mine ' 



DON -JAN. 



625 



Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ? 

Must tee but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal ! 

STou have the Pyrrhi-c dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — 

Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine ; 

He served — but served Polycrates-»- 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at 'east, our countrymen. 

The tyrant or the Chersonese 

Was fjeedom's best and bravest friend; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Ileracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks— 
They have a king who buys and sells : 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells : 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade— 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But, gazing on each glowing miiid. 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 

To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
7« 



Place me on Sunium's marble steep — 

Where nothing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die ; 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine- 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LXXXVII. 
Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung 

The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young 

Yet in these times he might have done much worse 
His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 

And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
Of other's feeling ; but they are such liars. 
And take all colors— -like the hands of dyers. 

LXXXVIII. 
But words are things, and a small diop of ink 

Falling like dew upon a thought, produces [thinv 
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions 

'Tis strange, the shortest' letter which man uses, 
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 

Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this. 
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his. 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
His station, generation, even his nation, 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
In chronological commemoration, 

Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station. 

In digging the foundation of a closet. 

May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

XC. 

And glory long has made the sages smile . 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, ^mid- 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind. 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyie; 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 

Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine ; 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love *nd wine, 
But his life falling into Johnson's wuy, 

We're told this great high priest of all the Niato 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his hous^ 

XCII. 
All these are, certes, entertaining facts, [bribes. 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lortt Bacon*! 
Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts; 

Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) 
Like CromweH'n pranks ; — but although truth exacti 

These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story. 
They do not much contribute to his Klory. 



626 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCIII. 

All are not moralists like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy ; " 

Or "Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Mornmg Tos* its aristocracy ; 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 

XCIV. 
Such names at present cut a convict figure, 

The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 
Their loyal treason, renegade vigor, 

Are good manure for their more bare biography. 
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 

Than any since the birthday of typography : • 
A. clumsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 
Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 
Between his own and others' intellect ; 

But "Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 
Joanna Southcote's Shiloh and her sect, 

A.rf. things which in this century don't strike 
The public mind, so few are the elect ; 

And the new births of both their stale virginities 

Have proved but dropsies taken for di^^nitie8. 

XCVI. 

But let me to my story : I must own 

If I have any fault, it is digression ; 
Leaving my people t( proceed alone, 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addi-esses from the throne, 

'W"hich put off business to the ensuing session: 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

XCVIL 

I know that what our neighbors call '* longueurs" 
("We've not so good a word, but have the thing 

In that complete perfection, which ensures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring) — 

Form not the true temptation which allures 
The reader ; but 'twould not be hard to bring 

Some fine examples of the ^pop^e, 

To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

XCVIII. 

We learn from Horace, Homer sometimes sleeps, 

"We feel without him, "Wordsworth sometimes 
, Tn show with what complacency he creeps, [wakes, 
With his dear " Wagoners" around his lakes 

He wishes for ** a boat " to sail the deeps — 
Of Ocean r — no, of air ; and then he makes 

Another outcry for " a little boat," 

And drivels seas to tiet it well afloat. 

XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. 
And Pegasus runs restive in his " wagon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's wain ? 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. 
He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 

Hould not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 



"Pedlars," and '-boats," and "wagons . " Oh I y» 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? [shadea 

That trash of such sort not alone evades 
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cadet 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 

The "little boatman " and his " Peter Bell ' 

Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " 

CI 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone. 

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 
The Arab lore and poet's song were done. 

And every sound of reyelry expired ; 
The lady and her lover, left alone. 

The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ;— 
Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 
That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest tb«»fl 

CII. 
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
"While swixng the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer 

cm. 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the almighty doT^« 
"What though 'tis but a pictured image strike — 
That painting is no idol, 'tis too like. 

CIV. 

Some kind casuists are pleased to say. 
In nameless print — that I have no devotion, 

^ut set those persons down with me to pray, 
And you shall see who has the properest notion 

Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
My altars are the mountains and the ocean. 

Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great 
whole, 

"Who hath produced, and will receive the soul 

CV. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — ^in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

"Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood. 
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o>i 

To where the last Csesarean fortress stood, 
Ever-green forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me. 

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ' 

CVI. 

The shrill cicalas, people of thf pine. 
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 

"Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
And vesper-bell's that rose the boughs along ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair thrrnjl 

Which leam'd from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye 



DON JUAN. 



621 



CVII. 

Oh Hesperus .' thou bringest all good things- 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
"Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft hour !* which wakes the wish and melts the 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day [heart 

"When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 

Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 

CIX. 

WTien Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd 

Amid the roar of liberated Rome, 

Of nations- freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb ;''' 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

ex. 

But I'm digressing : what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such like sovereign buffoons. 
To do with the transactions of my hero, [moon's ? 

More than such madmen's fellow -man — the 
Sure my invention must be down at zero. 

And I grown oi^ of many " wooden spoons " 
Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub the last of honors in degrees.) 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do— 
'Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two : 
They'll never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few; 
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, 

From Aristotle j5as5m. — See Uot/jrmr/f. 



CANTO IV. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end : 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning; 

Our sin the same, and hard ns his to mend, 
Being pride, which lends the mind to soar too far, 
Till our owT weaxnesH sho'ws us what we are. 



II. 



But time, which brings all beings to their level, 

And sharp adversity, will teach it last 
Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the denl 

That neither of their intellects are vast : 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 

We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; 
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean. 
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

III. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held the same opinion : 

They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
And other minds acknowledged my dominion ; 

Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion. 

And the sad truth' which hovers o'er my desk 

Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, which we must steep 

First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring. 
Ere what we least Avish to behold will sleep . 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx '. 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

V. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land, 

And trace iJt in this poem every line : 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be very fine ; 
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, 

Unless it was to be a moment merry, 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VL 

To the kind reader of our sober clime, 
This way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme. 

Who sung when chivalry was more Quixotic, 

And revell'd in the fancies of the time, [dcsp »tic, 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, king! 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete. 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

VIL 

How I have treated it, I do not know — 

PerVai)s no better than they have treated me 

Who nave imputed sxich designs as show. 

Not what they saw, hut what they wish'd to SCto 

But if it gives them pleasure, he it so, — 
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 

Meanlinii Apolh) phicks me by the ear. 

And tells me to resume my story here. 

vin. 

Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own heart s most sweet society \ 

Even Time the pitih'ss in sorrow cleft 

With his nule scythe such gentle bosoms; he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not i» 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring 

Before one charm or hope had taken viuir 



628 



BTRON'S WORKS. 



IX. 
Ffteir faces were not made for wrinkles, their 

Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 
The blank gray was i ot made to blast their hair, 

But, like the climes that know nor snow nor hail, 
They were all summer : lightning might assail 

And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 
A. long and snake-like life of dull decay 
Was not for them — they had too little clay. 



They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when separate : the tree 
Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Oaram'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XI. 

The heart — ^which may be broken : happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who, of that fragile n»}uld, 
The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day. 

And all which must be borne, and never told; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

XII. 

Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,' 

And many deaths do they escape by this : [more — 
The death of friends, and that which slays even 

The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 

Awaits at last even those whom longest miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 

Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; [them : 
The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for 

They found no fatflt with time, save that he fled ; 
They saw not in themselves aught to condemn • 

Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 

And knew such brightness was but the reflection 

Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 

The least glance better understood than words. 
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 

A language, too, but like to that of birds, 
Known but to them, at least appearing such, 

As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
1 : Ihose who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er 
heard : 

XV. 
All these were theirs, for they were children still, 

And children still they should have ever been ; 
They were not made in the real world to fill 

A busy character in the dull scene ; 
But like two beings born from out a rill, 

A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
I'o pass their lives iu fountains and on flowers, 
\nd neNer know the weight of human hours. 



XVI. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and ctiangeless fotinc" 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round : 
And these were not of the vain kind which cloy** 

For theirs Avere buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 
Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the whole world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — ^re. 

XVIII. 
Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many know 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Wlio never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care } 
Young inngite feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic. 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state. 

An opium dream of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or their fate ; 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly' breeding, 
So that there was no reason for their loves, 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset ; 'tis an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes. 

For it had made them what they were : the power 
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such 

When happiness had been their only dower, [skies. 
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 

Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that 
brought 

The past still welcome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I know not why, but in that hotir to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came. 

And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight. 
Like the vnnd o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
And thus some boding flash'd through either fram«, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh. 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 

And follow far the disappearing sun, 
As if their last day of a happy date, 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb wen 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — [gone 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 



u 



DON JUAN. 



S2i 



XXIII. 

She tum'd to him. and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile ; then tiirn'd aside ; 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport— 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be— 

Or 1 at least shall not survive to see." 

XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 

His lips to hers, and silenced him with this, 
And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 

Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 
And no doubt of all method's 'tis the best : 

Some people prefer wine — 'tis not amiss : 
I have tried both ; so those who would a part take 
May choose between the headache and the heart- 
ache. 

XXV. 
One of the two, according to your choice, 

Women or wine, you'll have to undergo ; 
Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 

But which to choose I really hardly know ; 
And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many reasons show, 
And then decide, without great wrong to either. 
It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXVI. 
Juan and Haidee gazed upon eacn other. 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 
Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother. 

All that the best can mingle and express. 
When two pure hearts are pour'd In one another, 

And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 
But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
By the immorta* wish and power to bless. 

XXVII. 
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 

Why did they not then die ? — they had lived too 
long, 
Bhould an hour cnme to bid them breathe apart ; 

Years could not bring them cruel things or wrong, 
The world was not for them, nor the world's art 

For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 
Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 
It wae their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 

Unfit to mix in tliese thick solitudes . 
Call'd social, where all vice and hatred are : 

\\ )w Imoly every frceborn creature broods ! 
Tl e sweetest song-birds nestle in a i)air; 

liii: eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just as mortals do. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd, cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A. gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame woiild creep; 

And Haider's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
A worldless music, and her face so fair 
8t irr'd vith her dream as rose-leaves with the ab: 



XXX. 

Or as the stirring ^ a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the ^vinl 

Walks over it, was she shaken by the dream. 
The mystical usurper of the mind — 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 

Good to the soul which we no more can biiid ; 

Strange state of being ! (for 'tis still to be,) 

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see, 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the seashore. 
Chain 'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threateniii| 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, fher 
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. 

Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
And something roU'd before her in a sheet, " 

Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid ; 
'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd 

XXXIII. 
The dream chang'd : in a cave she stood, its walls 

Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls, [and lurk ; 

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed 
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and murk 
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught; 
Which froze to marble as it fell, she thought. 

XXXIV. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now ) 

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea-dirges low 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song. 

And that brief dream appear'd a life too long 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Fadet^ or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trfice 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect greAV-» 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ! 

Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what d;irk eye meets sht 

'Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the paii ! [there \ 

XXXVL 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fcil, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to 8»'C 

Him whom she dccm'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well ; 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seeu such — but must no* call to mind- 



630 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXVII. 

rip Juan spi-ung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call 

A. thousand scimitars await the word : 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 'tis — 

Tis Lambr'^ -'Ijis my father ! Kneel with me — 
H 5 will forgive is — yes — it must be — yes. 

Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 
Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 

Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 

Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply, 

Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolv'd to die ; 

In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 

On the first ioe whom Lambro's call might bring. 

XL. 

" Young man, your sword ; " so Lambro once more 
Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free ;" [said: 

The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. 
And drawing from his belc a pistol, he 

Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head : " 
Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 

Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock— 

And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 
[c has a strange quick jar iipon the ear, 

That cocking of a pistol, when. you know 
A moment more will bring the sight to bear 

Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 
A gentlemanly distance, not too near. 

If you have got a former friend for foe ; 
But after being fired at once or twice. 
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 
Had stopp'd this canto, and Don Juan's breath. 

When iiaidee threw herself her boy before. 
Stern as her sire : " On me " she cried, " let death 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
He found — but sought not. I have pledged my faith ; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Yotu nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

XLIII. 

A. minute past, and she had been all tears. 
And tenderness and infancy : but now 

She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow: 

^nd tall beyond her sex and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

\ fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

^cr father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 



XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him : 'twas E^iange 
How like they look'd ! the expressioii was tla 

Serenely savage, with a little change [same 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame, 

For she too was as one who could avenge. 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame, 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. ' 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of their hands 
There was resemblance, such as true blood wear* 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears. 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both^ 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLVI. • 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still. 

And looking on her, as to look her through, 

"Not /," he said, "have sought this stranger's ill j 

Not / have made this desolation : few 

Woujd bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 

But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLVII. 

" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head. 
His own shall roll before you like a ball ! " 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
And blew ; another answer'd to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led, 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all. 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank : 

He gave the word, " Arrest or slay the Frank.** 

XLVIII. 
Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 

His daughter ; while compress'd within his grasp, 
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 

In vain she struggled in her father's grasp,^ 
His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 

Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 
The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through 

XLIX. 
The second had his cheek laid open ; but 

The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 
The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 

His own well in : so well, ere you could look, 
His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 

With the blood running like a little brook 
From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red- 
One on the arm, the other oh the head. 

L. 

And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
Juan from the apartment : with a sign 

Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore. 
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine 

They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line; 

On board of one of these, and under hatches. 

They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches 



DON JUAN. 



631 



LI. 



The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 

A. gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 
Handcome and young, enjoying all the present, 

Just at the veiT time when he least broods 
On such s. thing, is suddenly to sea sent. 

Wounded and cha^n'd, so that he cannot move. 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LII. 
Her? I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green te 
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 

For if my pure libations exceed three, 
I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 

That I must nave recourse to black Bohea : 
'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 

LIII. 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac ! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack. 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
T would take refuge in weak punch, but rack, 

(In each sense of the word,) whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim. 
Wakes me next m uning with its synonym. 

.LIV. 

I leave Don Juan for the present safe— 
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 

Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ? 

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe. 
And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 

Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 

Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

LV. 
There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit. 
Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 

But there, too, many a poison-tree has root. 
And midnight listens to the lion's roar. 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot. 
Or, heaving, whelm the helpless caravan, 
And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 

LVI. 

Afri" is all the sun's, and as her earth 
Her human clay is kindled : full of power 

\tor good or evil, burning from its birth. 
The Moorish blood partakes the phinet's hour, 

And liko the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
Be;uity and love were Haidee's mother's dower : 

But her large dark eye show'd deep passioii's force 

rhough sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII. 
Her daughter, tcmper'd with a milder ray, 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, 
Till slowly charged with thunder they display 

Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 
Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 

But, overwrought with passion and despair, 
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins 
Bt«i\ as the simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 



LVIII. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down 

His blood was running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own . 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more. 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce heW 

Her writhing fell she like a cedar fell'd 

LIX. 
A vein had burst,* and her sweet lips' pure dyes, 

Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'ei , 
And her head droop'd as when the lily lies [bor< 

O'ercharged with rain : her summon'a .andmaidf 
Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 
But she defied all means they could employ. 
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy 

LX. 
Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill 

With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 

No hideous sign proclaim' d her surely dead; 
Corruption came not in each mind to kill 

All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul. 
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there. 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 

O'er the LaocoOn's all eternal throes. 
And ever-dymg Gladiator's air, 

Their energy like life forms all their fame, 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the sama. 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Rither the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsover met her view 

Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true. 

Brought back the sense of pain without the caxise, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIIL 
She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 

On many a token without knowing what ; 
She saw them watch her without asking why, 

And reck'd not who around her pillow sat; » 
Not speechless, though she spoke not : not a sigh 

Reveal'd her thoughts ; dull silence and quick c hat 
Were tried in vain by those who served; she »{»♦<• 
No sign, save breath, of having loft the grave. 

LXIV. 
Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 

Her father watch'd, she tm-n'd her eyes uway ; 
She recognized no being, and no spot, 

However dear or chorish'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot 

Gentle, but without memory, slio lay ; 
And yet those eyes, which they would fain be wear.in§ 
Back to old thoughts, seem'd full of feaiful mcauine 



dd2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the fk-st notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent. 
Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp [sent. 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re- 
And he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
In tune to his old tune ; he changed the theme 

A nd sung of love — the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief ! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 
Although her paroxysm drew towards its close : 

Hers was a frenzy Avhich disdain'd to rave, . 

E-'«n when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

iTet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Noi hing could make her meet her father's face, 
Thou(;h on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
"Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A piirting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to possess such lustre — and then lack ! 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 
A second principle of live, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin : 
But closed its little being without light. 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 

In rain the dews of heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she : never more on her. 
Shall sorrow light oi shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear. 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delighthil — such as had not stay'd 

Jliong with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell. 



LXXI I 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay : 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII.. 
But many a Greek maid in a loving song 

Sighs o'er her name, and many an islandei 
With her sire's story makes the night less long } 

Valor was his, and beauty dwelt with her ; 
If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 

A heavy price must all pay who thus err, 
In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 
For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad 
And lay this sheet of sorrow on the shelf ; 

I don't much like describing people mad. 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself— 

Besides, I've no more on this head to add; 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf. 

We'll put about and try another tack 

With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV, 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,' 
Some days and nights elapsed before that he 

Could altogether call the past to mind ; 
And when he did, he found himself at sea. 

Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 

Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 

But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigseum. 

LXX VI, 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea) 

Entomb'd the bravest of tlie brave, Achilles : 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary ;) 

And further downward, tall and towering, still is 
The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus, — [li 

All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Scamander (if 'tis he) remain ; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame— 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

LXXVIII. 
Troops of un tended horses ; here and there 

Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth : 
Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 

A moment at the European youth 
Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear ; 

A Turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth« 
Extremely taken with his own religion. 
Are what I found there — bu t the devil a Phrygian 



DON JUAN. 



633 



LXXIX. 

Uon Joan, here permitted to emerge 
From hi.4 dull cabin, fcmnd himself a slave ; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadow d there bj' many a hero's grave : 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfact^/ry information 

Ibout his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow-captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians — as they were, in fact ; 

From tl;em, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 

In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 
In their vocation, — had been attack'd, 

In sailing from Livorno, by the pirate, 

But sold by the impresario at no high rate * 

LXXXL 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For, although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 
And bore him with some gayety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled d-^meanor 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying. " Our Machiavelian impresario, 

Making a signal off some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 

We were transfcrr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario ; 

But, if the sultan has a taste for song. 

We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

•' The prima donna, though a little old, 

And haggard with a dissipated life, 
\.nd subject, when the house is thin, to cold. 

Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 
With no great voice is pleasing to behold; 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife. 
By carrying off Count Caesare Cicogna, 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

" A.nd then there are the dancers ; there's the Nini, 
With more than one profession, gains by all ; 

Wen there's that laughing slut, the Pelegrini, 
She too was fortimate last carnival, 

And made at least five hundred zecchini. 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul ; 

^nd then there's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 

Where men have souls or bodies, she must answer. 

LXXXV. 

'• As for the Hguranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
\ pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
Ihoro's one, though tall, and stiffer than a pike, 

Yet has a KentiiiuMital kind of air. 
Which might go far, Imt nlie don't dance with vigor, 
•'he ir.oro's tbe pity, with her face and figure. 
HO 



LXXXVI. 

" As for the men, they are a mit dling set ; 

The musioo is but a crack'd oH basin, 
But, being qualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in. 
And as a servant some preferment get ; 

His singing I no further trust can place id : 
From all the pope^ makes yearly, 'twould perpiejt 
To find three perfect pipes of the thi:v> sti. 

LXXXVII. 

*' The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow , 

In fact, he had no singing education 
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tun. ^ess fellow 

But being the prima donna's near relation, 

"^ ho swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 

They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe 

An ass was practising recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

" 'Twould not become myself to dwell upon 
My own merits, and though young — I see, sir— yoo 

Have got a travell'd air, which shows you one 
To whom the opera is by no means new : 

You've heard of Raucocanti ? — I'm the man ; 
The time may come when you may hear me too . 

You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 

But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — do go. 

LXXXIX. 

" Our baritone I almost had forgot, 
A pretty lad but bursting with conceit. 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 
A voice of no great compass, and not sweet 

He always is complaining of his lot, 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street , 

In lovers' parts, his passion more to breathe, 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.*' 

XC. 

Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths ; each threi* 
A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all. 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the suri.) 
And then went down the hatchway « iie by one. 

XCI. 
They heard, next day, that in the Dardanelle 

Waiting for his sublimity's firman — 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

W^hich every body does without who can,— 
More to secure them in their naval cells. 

Lady to lady, well as man to man. 
Were to be chained and lotted out per couple, 
For the slave-market of Constantinople. 

XCII. 
It seems when this allotment was made out» 

There chanced to be nii»odd male and odd female 
^Vho (after some discussion and some doubt 

If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 
They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 

Were link'd together, and it huppen'd the malt 
Was Juan, wlio — an awkward thing at his agfr- 
Pair'd off with- a Bacchante's blooming vIah^ 



634 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCIII 

With Raucoc&nti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
"With this his tuneful neighbor than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they vvere so cross-grain'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debate, 

That each pull'd difFereat ways with many an oath, 

* Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both. 

XCIV. 
Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the march of old Ancona, 
With eyes that look'd into the very soixl, 

(And other chief points of a " bella donna,") 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 
Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. 

But all that power was wasted upon him, 
For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 

Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 

Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
(And she had some not easy tn withstand) 

Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle, 

Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVI. 

No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire. 
But facts are facts : no knight could be more true. 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 

'Tis said no one in hand '* can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus ; " but few, 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 
Here I might enter on a chaste description. 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But hear that several people take exception 

At the first two books having too much truth ; 
Therefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship socn, 

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
To pass, than those two cantos into families. 

XCVIII. 

Tis all the same to me ; I'm fond of yielding, 
And therefore leave them to the purer page 

Of SmoUet, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so coiTect an age ; 

I once had great alacrity in. wielding 
My ppn, and liked poetic war to wage, 

And recollect the time when all this cant 

Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't. 

XCIX. 

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 

But it this hour I wish to'part in peace, 
lieav'r '^ such to the literary rabble, 

W>.f ther my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to take a lease : 
I'he grass upon my grave will grow as long, 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not tb song. 



C. 



Of poets who come do\vn to us through distance 
Of time and tongues, the fostei'-babes of Famet 

Life" seems the smallest portion of existence; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er' a name, 

'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; 

But, after all, 'tis nothing but cold snow. 

CI. 
And so great names are nothing more than t minsl 

And love of glory's but an airy lust. 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would as 'twere identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing ali 

Leaves nothing till "the coming of the just"— 
Save change: I've stood upon Achilles' tomb. 
And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome 

CII. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 

Until the memory of an ag« is fled, 
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom. 

Where are the epitaphs our father's read ? 
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath 

And lose their own in universal death 

cm. 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 

Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived top long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 

A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn. 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy. 

Records Ravenna's carnage on its face. 

While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* 

CIV. 

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid ; 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn. 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the wanior's colunui 
The time must come when both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy and tho poet's volume. 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth 
Before Pelides' death or Homer's birth. 

CV. 

With human blood that column was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled. 

As if the peasant's co irse contempt were vented 
To show his loathing of the spot he spoil'd; 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 

Should ever be those bloodhounds, from whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has kno^vn 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards ; though fame is smoke 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought, 

And the unquiet feelings which first woke 

Song in the world, will seek what then they sought 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke. 

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 

Dash into poetry, which is but passion, 

Or at least was so ere it giew a fashion 



DON JUAN 



S35 



CVII. 
If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative, 
Men who partake all passions as they pass, 

Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
I'heir images again, as in a glass, 

And in such colors that they seem to live ; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em. 
Bat spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 
Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 

Benign ceruleans of the second sex ! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 

Your " imprimatur " will ye not annex ? — 
Wliat, must I go to the oblivious cooks, — 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea ? 

CIX. 

What, can I prove " a lion" then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-jn-ess darling. 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh *' I can't get out," like Yorick's starling, 
Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, [ing,) 

(Because the world won't read hihx, always snarl- 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the bi '«-coat misses of a coterie. 

ex. 

Oh ! "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
As some one ♦omewhere sings about the sky. 

And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; [why 

They say your stockings are so, (Heaven knows 

I have examined few pair of that hue ; J 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 

Round the patrician left-legs, which adorn 

The festal midnight and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features ; 
And — but no matter, all those things are over ; 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 

I knew one woman of that purple school. 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool, 

CXII. 

Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 
The last, if late accounts be accurate, 

Invented, by some name I have forgot, 
As well as the sublime discovery's date. 

An airy instrument, with which he sought 
To ascertain the atmospheric state, 

By measuring " the intensity of blue; " 

Oh ! Lady Daphne ! let me measure you I 

CXIII. 
But to the narrative. — The vessel bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
A.fter the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ;, 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, 

Were landed in the market, one and all, [sians 
And there, with Georgians, Russians, and Circas- 
Bought up for diticrent purposes und pasHiuns. 



CXIV. 

Some went off dearly : fifteen hundred dcTars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were g'ven, 

Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colors 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven ; 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven ; 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'Twas for the sultan, and at once withdrew 

cxv. 

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 
Which the West Indian market scarce would bnug 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
What 'twas ere abolition ; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king ; 

The virtues, even the most exalted, charity, 
j Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop. 
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jtvra 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the command of crews 

As renegadoes ; while in hapless group, 
Hoping no very old vizier might choose. 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim. 

CXVII. 

All this must be reserved for further song ; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this canto has become too long,) 

Must be postponed directly for the present, 
I'm sensible redundancy is wrong. 

But could not for the muse of me put less in't: 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
To what is called in Ossian, the txfth Duai» 



CANTO V 



WnKN amatory poets sing their loves 
In liquid lines mellifluously bland. 

And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doy9« 
They little think wliat mischief is in hand ; 

The greater their success the worse it pioves, 
As Ovid's verse may make you understated : 

Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity 

Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 

I therefore do donoTince oil amorous \\Titing 
ETtcept in such a way as jiot to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Fornrd rather for instructing than delighting, 
And with all passions in their turn <ttack'd » 

Now< il my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem will become a moral model. 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



III. 



The European with the Asian shcre 
Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream,^ 

Hers and there studded with a seventy-four 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 
The twelve isles, und the more than I could dream, 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

IV. 

' I have a passion for the name of " Mary," 
For once it was a magic sound to me, 

A.nd still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
Where I beheld what never was to be ; 

All feelings chg,nge, but this was last to vary, 
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : 

But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold. 

Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades, 

'Tis a grand sight, from oiF " the Giants's Grave," ' 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease ; 

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 
Twas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 

When nights are pqual, but not so the days ; 
The Parca3 then cut short the further spinning 

Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
The waters, and repentance for past sinning 

In all who o'er the great deep take their ways : 
They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 
Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won't. 

VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation. 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly 
changed. 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 
From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged ; 

The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

J lan was juvenile, and thus was full, 
As most at his ag2 are, of hope, and health ; 

yet I must own he look'd a little dull, 
A id now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A. mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction among Tartars, 

IX. 
Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless, 

Upon the whole his carriage was serene ; 
His figure, and the splendor of his dress. 

Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 
Orew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 

He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 
\nd then though pale, he was so very handsome 
Vn<l then- -ther calculated on his ransom. 



Like a backgammon-board the place was dottea 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for snW 

Though rather more irregularly spotted • 

Some bought the jet, while others chose the palp 

It chanced, among the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 

With resolution in his dark gray eye, 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy 

XI. 

He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow, a little marked with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sangfroid, that greatei 

Could scarce been shown even by a mere spectator 

XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of high spirit evidently, though 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which bad 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the wo. 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 

" My boy ! " — said he, " amid this motley crew 

Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not, 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue. 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 
The only gentlemen seem I and you. 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought ; 
If I could yield you any consolation, 
'Twould give me pleasure. — Pray, what is yoin 
nation ? " 

XIV. 
When Juan answer'd " Spanish ! " he replied, 

" I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 

Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 
But that's the way with all men till they're tried ; 

But never mind, — she'll turn, perh\ps, next week, 
She has served me also much the same as you. 
Except that I have found it nothing new." 

XV. 

" Pray, sir," said Juan, ** if I may presume, [rare- 
What brought you here ? " — " Oh nothing very 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — "To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question's fair, 

Is that which I would learn."—" I served for some 
Months with the Russian army here and there, 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin." 

XVL 
** Hare you no friends ? " — " I had — ^but, by God'i 
blessing. 

Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
I have answer'd all ycur questions without pressing, 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 
" Alas ! " saidjuan, 'twere a tale distressing. 

And long besides." — " Oh ! if 'tis really so 
You're right on both accounts to hold yoiu tongue 
A sad tale saddens doubly when 'tis long. 



DON JUAN. 



637 



XVII. 

Hut droop not . Fortune, at your time cf life, 

Although a female moderately fickle, 
■*V^ill hardly leave you (as she's not your wife) 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XVIII. 
'* *Tis not," said Juan, *• for my present doom 

I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid : '' 
lie paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 

A single tear upon his eyelash stay'd 
A moment, an I then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 

'Tis not my present lot, as I have said. 
Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XTX. 
" On the rough deep. But this last blow — " and here 

He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 
' Ay," qtioth his friend, " I thought it would appear 

That there had been a lady in the case ; 
And these are things which ask a tender tear, 

Such as I, too, would shed, if in your place: 
1 cried upon my first wife's dying day. 
And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 

** My third " — "Your third ! " quoth Juan, turn- 
ing round ; 
" You scarcely can be thirty ; have you three ? " 
' No — only two at present above ground 

Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock boiind ! " [she ? 
"Well, then, your third," said Juan ; "what did 
She did not run away, too, — did she, sir ? " 
" No, faith," — " What then ? " — " I ran away from 
her." 

XXI. 

' You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " "Why," 
Replied the other, " what can a man do ? 

There still are many rainbows in your sky. 
But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new. 

Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high ; 
But time strips our illusions of their hue. 

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 

Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake. 

XXII. 
" 'Tis true, it gets another btight and fresh. 

Or fresher, brighter ; but, the year gone through, 
This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, 

Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 
Love's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 

Ambition, avarice, vengeance, glory, glue 
The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 
Where still we flutter on for pence or praise," 

XXIII. 

•' All this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 

It betters present times with me or you." 
" No ! " quoth the other ; " yet you wi 1 allow, 

By setting things in their right point of view, 
Knowledge, at least, is gaiii'd ; for instance, now. 

We know what slavery is, and our disasters 

May teach us better to behave when masters 



XXIV 

" Would we were masters now, il bat to try 
Their present lessons on our pagam friends here, 

Said Juan — swallowing a heart-?; urning sigh ; 
" Heav'n help the scholar wnom his fortune sends 

" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," [heie ! ** 
Rejoin'd the other, " when our bad luck mendf 
here, 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye OBt 

I wish to G — d that somebody would buy us ! 

XXV. 

" But after all, what is our present state ? 

'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot : 
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great, 

To their own whims and passions, and what not: 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men ■without a heart." 

XXVI. 

J ust now a black old neutral personage 

Of the third sex stepp'd up, and peering over 

The captives, seem'd to mark their looks, and age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailer, 

XXVII. ' 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures ; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader. 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII. 
The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care, 

Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid, 
First, but for one, and after, for the pair ; 

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did ! 
As though they were in a more Christian fair, 

Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 
So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling. 
And pulling out reluctant purses, and 

Timing each piece of silver o'er, and tumblinf 
Some down, and weighing others in their hand. 

And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, 
Until the sum was accurately scann'd. 

And then the merchant, giving change and signing 

Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ; 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion. 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrudu 

And conscience ask a carious sort of (|uestion, 
About the right divine, how far we should font 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprcss'd 
I think it is, perhaps, the gloomiest hour 
"'Vhich turns up out of the sad twentv-four. 



638 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXI. 

Vo?taire says, " No : " he tells you that Candide 
F<. nnd life most tolerable after meals ; 

He's wrong — unless man was a pig, indeed, 
Repletion rather adds to what he feels ; 

Unless he's drunk, and then, no doubt, he's freed 
From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 

Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 

Ammon's, (ill pleased with one world and one father ;) 

XXXTI. 
[ think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, mth another act or two. 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 
And fish and soup, by some side-dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
Pepends so much upon the gastric juice ? 

XXXIII. 

The other evening, ('twas on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat was about me cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce past — 

And running out as fast as I was able,^ 
I found the military commandant 
Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. 

XXXIV. 
Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, [there 

They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him 
To perish on the pavement : so I had 

Him borne into the house and up the stair, 
And stripp'd, and look'd to But why should I add 

More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 
The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.* 

XXXV. 

f ^azed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

And, though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [and liver, 

So calm ; though pierced through stomach, heart. 
He seera'd to sleep, for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead:— 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

" Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 

Speak ! " bu • he spoke not : " wake ! " but still he 
But yesterday, and who had mightier breath ? [slept: 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
Id awt : he said, as the centurion saith, 

< Go,' and he goeth ; * come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
Tie trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed. 

To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
Wliich for the last, though not the first, time bled ; 

And such an end ! that he who many a day 
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 

The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 

'Should nc w b« utcher'd in a civic alley. 



XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his n»w. 
Those honor'd scars which brought him fame; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view — 

But let me quit the theme, as such things claim 

Perhaps, even more attention than is due 
From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same; 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death, 

Which should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 

And there we go : — but cohere f five bits of lead) 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed! 

Can every element our elements mar ? 

And air — earth — water — ^fire live — and we dead ? 

We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more ' 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
Bore off" his bargains to a gilded boat, 

Embark'd himself and them, and off they went thence 
As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 

They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
Wondering what next, till the caique was brought 

Up in a little creek below a wall 

O'ertopp'd with cypresses dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 
Here there conductor tapping at the wicket 

Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 
He led them onward, first through a low thicket, 

Flank 'd by large groves which tower'd on eithei 
hand : 
They almo«t lost their way, and had to pick it— 

For night was closing ere they came to land. 
The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 
Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 

XLII. 
As they were plodding on their winding way, 

Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so forth, 
(Of which I might have a good deal to say, 

There being no such profusion in the North 
Of oriental plants, " et cetera," 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 
Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 
Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks:) 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion : — 'twas the same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 

" Methinks," — said he — " it would be no great sham* 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free; 

Let's ftnock that old black fellow on- the head. 

And march away — 'twere easier done than said.'* 

XLIV. 
" Yes," said the other, " and when done, what Hien \ 

How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our ski^ 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den. 

And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take. 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak 



DON JUAN. 



639 



XLV. 



■* We must be near some place of man's abode ; 

For the old negro's confide*nce in creeping, 
With his two captires, by so queer a road, 

Shows that he thinks his friends have not been 
A. single cry woxild bring the mall abroad : [sleeping ; 

'Tis therefore better looking before leaping — 
A.nd there, you see, this turn has brought us through 
By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted, too." 

XLVI. 
It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 
There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 

And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 
A gaudy taste ; for they are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font : 
Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 
NeM painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savor 
Of certain stews, and roast meats, and pilaus, 

"hings which in hungry mortals' eyes find favor. 
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 

A.nd put himself upon his good behavior : 
His friend, tco, adding, a new saving clause, 

Said, " In Heaven's name lot's get some supper now. 

And them I'm with you, if you're for a row." 

XLVIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
Some tc men's feelings, others to their reason ; 

The last of these was never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on, 

With arguments according to their *' forte; " 

Butmo one ever dreams of being short. 

XLIX. 

But I digress: of all appeals, — although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold. 

Of beauty, flattery, throats, a shilling, — no 
Method's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold. 

Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 



Turkey .contains no bells, and yet men dine: 
And Juan and his friend, all)eit they heard 

No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
Of k*('.queys usher to the feast prepared. 

Vet smelt roast-uieat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean arms barel, 

And gazed aroi.nd them to the left and right 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 
They foUow'd close behind their sable guide, 

Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside: 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
Ami knocking at tlie gate, 'twas open'd wide, 

Ar.d a inaguihccr.t large hull di -play'd 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 



LIT. 



I won't describe ; description is my forte. 

But every fool describes in these bright days 
His wond'rous joflrney to some foreign court. 

And spawns his quarto, and demands youj praise- 
Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport ; 

Wliile nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 
Resigns herself with exemplary patience [tiona 
To guide-books, rhymes- tours, sketches, illustra- 

LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess : 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted, « • [dress , 
And some seem'd much in love wth their own 

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths of greater price or less; 

And several strutted, others slept, and some 

Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.* 

LIV. 

As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
Of purchased infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment without slackening fronti their pace ; 
But those who sate ne'er stirr'd in any wise* 

One or two stared the captives in the face, 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price* 

Some nodded to the negro from their station. 

But no one troubled him with conversation 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stop 
ping, 

On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping 

A marble fountain echoes, through the glooms 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 

Some female head most curiously presumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 

But not enouach to show the imperial halls, 
In all the Hashing of their full array ; 

Perhaps there's nothing — I'll not say appals, 
But saddens more by night as well as dav 

Than an enormous room without a soul 

To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 

LVII. 
Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing ; 

In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
There solitude, we know, has her full growth ia 

The spots which were her realms for evermore : 
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built ot yOI«| 
A kind of death comes o'er us all alone. 
Seeing what's meant for many with but one. 

LVIII. 
A neat, snug study on a winter's night, 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening p«M 
Though cerfcs by no means so grand a sight 

As is H theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in lont? gallerios solely, 
And that's the reason I'm so melancholv 



640 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LIX. 



Alas . man makes that great which makes nim little ; 

I grant you in a church 'tis very well : 
^^'^lat speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 

But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 

And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell : 
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 
Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-seat, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where'ifebuchodonosor, king of men, 
Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 
The people's awe and admiration raising ; 

Twas famous, too, for Thisbe, and for Pyramus, 

And the calumniated Queen Semiramis. 

LXI. 

That inJTTred Queen, by chroniclers so coarse, 
Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) 

Of an improper friendsHip for her horse, 
(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy :) 

This monstrous tale had probably its source 
(For such exaggerations here and there I see) 

In writing "Courser" by mistake for "Courier:" 

I wish the case could come before a jury here. 

LXII. 

But to resume, — should there be, (what may not 
Be in these days ?) some infidels, who don't, 

Because they oan't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 

(Though Claudius Rich, esquire, some bricks has got. 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't,) 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you : — 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 

Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 
"Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 

We know where things and men must end at last, 
A moral (like all morals) melancholy. 

And " Et sepulcri immemor struis domos " 

Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retired. 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber : 

Though full of all things which could be desired, 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 

Of articles which nobody required ; 
Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 

With furniture an exquisite apartment. 

Which puzzled nature much to know what art meant. 

LXV. 

It seem'd, however, but to opim on 
A range or suit of further chambers, which 

Might lead to, heaven knows where ; but in this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich ; 

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, 
So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, that made you wish 

Voii could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 



LXVl. 
The black, however, without hardly deigniUfe, 

A glance at that which rapt the slaves in wonder 
Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of staining 

As if the milky way their feet was under 
With all its stars : and with a stretch attaining 

A certain press or cupboard, niched in yonder 
In that remote recess which you may see — 
Or if you don't, the fault is not in me : 

LXVII. 

I wish to be perspicuous : and the black, 
I say, unlocking the recess, pulFd forth 

A quantity of clothes, fit for the back 
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth. 

And of variety there was no lack — 
And yet, though I have said there was no dearth] 

He chose himself to point out what he thought 

Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 

A Candiote cloak, which to the knee, might reach, 
And trowsers not so tight that they would burst 

But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
A shawl, whose folds iij Cashmire had been nurst 

Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 

In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy 

LXIX. 

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend. 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably attain both in the end, 
If they would but pursue the proper wa> 

Which fortune plainly seem'd to recommend , 
And then he added, that he needs must say, 

" 'Twould greatly tend to better their condition, 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX; 

For his own part, he really should rejoice 
To see them true believers, but no less 

Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
The other, thanking him for this excess 

Of goodness in thus leaving them a voice 
In such a trifle, scarcely could express 
Sufficiently (he said) his approbation 

Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 

For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite. 
And after swallowing down a slight reflection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite. 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite ' — 

Will it ? " said Juan, sharply; " Strike me dead. 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head — 

LXXII. 

" Cut oflF a thousand heads, before " — *' No^ 

Replied the other, " do not interrupt: [pray/* 

You put me out in what I had to say. 
Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd, 

I shall perpend if your proposals may 
Be such as I can properly accept ; 

Provided always your great goodness still 

Remit I the matter to our oad ♦ree-wilL" 



DON JUAN. 



641 



LXXIII. 
Biba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 

As dress yourself" — and pointed out a suit 
In which a princess with great pleasure would 

Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 
Ab not being in a masquerading mood, 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 
And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 
Replipd, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 

" What you may be, I neither know nor care," 
Said Baba, " but pray do as I desire, 

I h.»re no more time noi many words to spare." 
" At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 

The cause of this odd travesty ? " — " Forbear," 
Said Baba, " to be curious : 'twill transf)ire, 

No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 

I have no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 

" Then if I do," said Juan, " I'll be " " Hold ! " 

Rejoin'd the negro, *' pray be not provoking : 

This spirit's well, but it may wax too bold. 
And you will find us not too fond of joking." 

♦' What, sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress ? " But Baba,- stroking 

The things down, said — " Incense me, and I call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 

" I offer ycTT s handsome suit of clothes : 
A woman's tirie ; then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — '* What, though my 
soul loathes 
The effeminate garb ? " — Thus, after a short pause, 

Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
•' What the devil shall I do with all this gauze ? " 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 

LXXVII. 

And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
A pair of trowsers of flesh-cclor'd silk ; 

Vext with a virgin zone he was equipp'd. 
Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk, 

But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 
Which — as we say — or, as the Scotch say, whilk, 

(The rhyme obliges rne to this : — sometimes 

Kings are not more imperative than rhymes) — 

LXXVIII. 

Whilk, which (or what you please) was owing to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward : 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward; 

The negro Baba help'd a little too. 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck hard ; 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 

He paused and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd, — his hair 
Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare. 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there; 
And this addition with such goms was bound 

K.S suited the eiiaemhle of his toilet, 

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 



LXXX. 

And now being femininely all array'd, [tweezeri*, 
With some small aid from scissors, paint, anj 

He look'd in almost all respects a maid. 

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, ** You see, sirs, 

A perfect transformation here display'd ; [sirs, 

And now, then, you must come along with m*t. 

That is — the lady : " — clapping his hands twice, 

Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

" You, sir," said Baba. nodding to the one, 
** Will please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir : for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 

"V^rTiy, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

" You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm 
" So much the better," Juan said, •• for them 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm 
If any take me for that which I seem ; 

So that I trust, for every body's sake, 

That this disguise may lead to no mistake. 

LXXXIII. 

" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, [smile 

Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a 
Upon the metamorphosis in view, — 

♦' Farewell ! " they mutually exclaim'd : * this soil 
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 

One's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 

By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 

LXXXIV. 

• 
" Farewell ! " said Juan ; " should we meet no more, 

I wish you a good appetite." — *' Farewell ! " 
Replied the other ; " though it grievs me sore ; 

"When we next meet we'll have a tale to tell ; 
We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 

Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once 
fell." [carry me, 

*' Nay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self shan't 
Unless hie highness promises to marry me." 

LXXXV 

And thu»they parted, each by separate dovirs ; 

Baba led Juan onward, room by room, 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floor*. 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance towers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich i)erfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI. 

The giant door was broad, and bright, and h'gh. 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guiso, 

Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 

Here stalks the victor, there the vantiuish'd lien 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 
And in perspective many a squadron fives : 

It seems the work of times before the lino 

Of Home transplanted fell with Constantine 



642 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVIl. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 
Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
O'er them in almost pyraraidic pride : 

The gate so splendid was in all its features,'' 

You never thought about these little creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 

Who3e color was not black, nor white, nor gray, 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 
Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and though 
They look'd so little, did strong things at times — 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
As is the custom of those eastern climes. 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat ; 

For mutes are generally used for that. 

XC. 

They spoke by signs — that is not spoke at all ; 

And, looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba Avith his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small, 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on. 

XCI. 

Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 

"If you could just contrive," he said, "to stint 
That somewhat manly majesty of stride, [in't) — 

'Twould be as well, and — (though there's not much 
To swing a little less from side to side, 

Which has, at times, an aspect of the oddest; 

And also, could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 

'* 'Twould be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
Like needles, which might pierce those pgtticoats ; 

And if they should discover your disguise, 
You know how near us the deep Bosphorus floats ; 

h lid you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
To find our way to Marmora without boats, 

Btich'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 

A good deal practised here upon occasion." 

XCIII. 
With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away, 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast ; 
A dazzling mass of gems, and goUt and glitter. 
Magnificently minglei in a litter. 



XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — ^taste not much ; such 
Occur in orient palaces, and e^sen [things 

In the more chasten'd domes of western kings, 
(Of which I've also seen some six or seven,) 

Where 1 can't say or gold or diamond flings 
Much lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 

Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and picture*! 

On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined. 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady ; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling, sign'd 
To Juan, who, though not much used to pray. 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCVI, 

The lady, rising up with such an air 
As Venus rose with from the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem ; 

And, raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep-purple robe, and, speaking low 

Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCVII. 

Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate . 

I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features ; it would strike you blinl 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 

XCVIII. 
This much however I may add — ^her years [springs, 

Were ripe — they might make six-and-twentj 
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 

And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 
Such as was Mary's, Queen of Scots ; true — tears 

And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 
Charms from the charmer — yet some never grow 
Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos. 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen • 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew 
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus "cousui, 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 

C. 

They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 
But not by the same door through which came va 

Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
At some small distance, all he saw within 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
Marvel and praise : for both or none things wiu ; 

And I must say I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the " Nil Admirari." 



DON JUAN. 



643 



CI 



* Not to admire is all the art I know [speech) 

(Plain trath, dear Murray, needs few flowers of 

To make men happy, or to keep them so ; " 
(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 

Thus Horace wrote, we all know, long ago ; 
And thus Pope quotes the precept, to re-teach 

From his translation : but had none admired, 

Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CII. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 

A second time desired him to kneel down 
And kiss the lady's foot, which maxim when 

He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
Drew himself up to his full height again, 

And said "It grieved him, but he could not stoop 

To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope," W 

cm. 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride. 
Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 

He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
About a bowstring — quite in vain ; not yet [bride : 

Would Juan stoop, though 'twere to Mahomet's 
There s nothing in the world like etigtiette, 

In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 

As also at the race and county balls. 

CIV. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 

To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 
A thousand times of him had made an end ; 

At length perceiving the ''foot " could not stand, 

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

CV. 
Here was an honorable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, [guise ; 

Where they might meet in much more peaceful 

And Juan now his willingness express'd 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

CVI. 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more thorouffk-bred^ or fairer fingers 

No lips e'er left their transitory trace: 
On such as these the lip too fondly lingers, 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace. 
As you will see, if she you love will bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

An almost t-wclvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CVII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And tiiking hints in good part all the while. 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid, 

And, looking on him with a sort of smile, 
look leave with such a face of satisfaction, 
ft« i?oo»i men wear who have done a virtuous action. 



CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change, 
I know not what might be the lady's thought, 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange, 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
The verge of heaven ; and in her large eyei 

A mixture of sensations might be scaun'd, [wrough 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

CIX. 

Her form had all the softness of her sex, 
Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 

When he put on the cherub to perjilex 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil 

The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 
Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil 

Yet somehow there was something somewhere want 

As if she rather order'd than was granting. — [ingj 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was thro%vn, as 'twere, about the neck of you,- 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view 
Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey- « 

1'he spirit, in the end, will have its way 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 

(Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet, [tion— 

As though they were quite conscious of her sta 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine" 

CXII. 

" To hear and to obey " had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth. 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth ; 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
We should have found out the "perpetual motion." 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought. 

And when 'twas found straightway the bargaif 
closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble wliich her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 
The women pardon'd all except her face 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to s;ile ; 

She order'd him directly to be bought. 

And Bftba, who had ne'er boon kn()^vn to ftlil 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 

Had his instructions where and how to doal: 

She had no prudmoe, but he had ; and tnls 

Fxpluins the garb which Juan took ainisii 



644 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXV. 

His youth and features favor'd the disguise, 
And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified. 

As we may ascertain with due precision^ 

Same by experience, others by tradition, 

CXVI. 

B at to the main point, where we have been tending : 
She now conceived all difficulties past, 

Ajid deem'd herself extremely condescending 
When being made her property at last, 

Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 

And merely saying, *' Christian, canst thou love ? ' 

Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

CXVII. 

And so it was, in proper time and place. 
But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing 

With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 
Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing. 

Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace. 
And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing : 

These words went through his soul like Arab spears. 

So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIIl. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking ; • 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 

A. woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart, to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 

CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how ; 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 
Aught of a serious sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 
Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

CXX. 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil. 
And when a strong although a strange sensation 

Move- — female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

I'hey naturally pour the ** wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else ; an^ soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 
Of one who dared to ask if "he had loved,'* 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Blight with the very weakivess he reproved; 

md although sensitive to oeauty, he 

Felt most indignunt still at not being free. 



CXXll. 

Gulbtyaz, for the first time in her days, 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and piaisc 
And as she also risk'd her xife to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete. 

To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 

And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 
I also would suggest the fitting time, 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say — in a meridian clime ; 

With us there is more law given to the case, 
But here a small delay forms a great crime : 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment- r^JUfce. would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIV. 

Juan's was good ; and might have been still bettei 
But he had got Haidee into his head.: 

However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 

Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
For having had him to the palace led. 

Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 

Grow deadly pale, and then blush back agai». 

cxxv. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
Her hand on his, and bending on his eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries . 

She rose, and, pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

CXXVI. 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 

But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride ; 

With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 
And seated her all drooping by his side. 

Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

"Thou ask'st if I can love ? be this the proot 
How much I have loved — that I love not thee 

In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof. 
Were fitter for me : love is for the free ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof ; 
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems io be— 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around n tiirofit 

Ar.d hands obey — our hearts are still our o>vn." 

CXXVIII. 
This was a truth to us extremely trite, 

Not so to her who ne'er had heard such things ; 
She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 

Earth being only made for queens and kings * 
If hearts lay on the left side or the right 

She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
Aware of their due royal rignts o'er men. 



DON JUAN. 



645 



CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion any where ; 
And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Bome stress upon those charms which seldom are 
By the possessors thrown into the shade ;-»- 

She thought hers gave a double " right divine,'' 

And half of that opinion's also mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you cannot) imagine, 
Ye ! who have kept your chastity when young. 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 

By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject : then suppose the face 

Of a young dpwnright beauty in the case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose, — but you already have supposed, 
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby. 

Phaedra, and all which story has disclosed 
Of good examples ; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed. 
To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXII. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or any interesting beast of prey, 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies, who can not have their own way ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less, 

These don't express one. half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 

CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring's nature's general law. 
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings ; 

There's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw, 
Like an invasion on their babes and sucklings ; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
Kow mothers love their children's squalls and 
chucklings ; 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If 1 said fire fiash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
'Twerc nothing — for her eyes fiash'd always fire ; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
I should hu* bring disgrace upon the dyer, 

S.:) supernatural wns her passion's rise ; 
For ne'er till now she knew a chock'd desire: 

Even ye who know what a check'd woman is, 

(Enough, God knows!) would much fall short of this. 

cxxxv. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 
A moment's more had slaiji her ; b»it tlie while 

[t lasted 'twas like a short glimpse of hell : 
Nought's more sublime than energetic bile, 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell. 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

A.ni the dt ?p passions flasliing through her form 

Made V ar a beautiful enbodied storm. 



CXXX VI. 

A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 
To match a common fury with her rage, 

And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page ; 

Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune. 
Perhaps the faiilt of her soft sex and age— 

Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 

And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tean 

CXXXVIL 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pase'd, 
Pass'd without words — in fact she could not spcfcV 

And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
A sentiment till then in her but weak, 

But now it flow'd in natural and fast. 
As water through an unexpected leak, 

For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good for people in her station. 

CXXXVIII. 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 
It also gently hints to them that others. 

Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud ; 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 

And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 

Though not all born of the same sires and mothers 

It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches. 

But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches 

CXXXIX. 

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head , 
Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance ; 

Her third, to ask him where he had been bred • 
Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 

Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to sentenc* 

The lash to Baba : — but her grand resource 

Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it awk 

For Eastern stays arc little made to pad, [ward 
So that a poniard pierces if 'tis struck hard: 

She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 

Thougli he deserved it well for being so backward 

The cutting off his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 
Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 

Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish, 
And thus heroically stood resign'd, 

Ratlier than sin, — except to his OAvn wish: 
But all his great preparatives for dying 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying 

CXLIl. 
As through his palms Bob Acres' valor oozed, 

So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; 
And first he wondcr'd why he had refused ; 

And then, if matters could be made up now , 
And next his savage virtue he accused, 

Jtist as a friar may accuse his vow. 
Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 
Which mostlv ends in some small breach ot both 



646 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXLIII. 

Bo ho began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses. 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter. 
Or all the figm-es Castlereagh abuses ; 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIV. 
' Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon ! " 

("I^'as thus he spake,) "andEmpress of the Earth ! 
^liOiie frowi; Tould put the spheres all out of tune, 

"Whose sn.aie makes all the planets dance with 
mirth. 
Your slave brings tidings — ^he hopes not too soon — 

"^Vhich your sublime attention may be worth: 
The Sun himself has sent me like a ray. 
To hint that he 's coming up this way." 

CXLV. 

■'Isit," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say ? 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
But bid my women form the milky way. [ing — 

Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warn- 
And, Christian ! mingle with them as you may. 

And as you'd have me pardon your past scorn- 
Here they were l»iterrupted by a humming [ing " 

Sound, and then by a, cry, *' The Sultan's coming ! " 

CXLVI. 

First came her damsels, decorous file, 

An-d then his highness' eunuchs, black ar.d white ; 
The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 

His majesty was always so polite 
As to announce his visits a long while 

Before he came, especially at night ; 
For being the last wife of the emperor. 
She was of course the favorite of the four. 

CXLVII. 

His highness was a man of solemn port, 
Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch'd fi-om a prison to preside at court. 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention'd in the histories 

Of Caiitemir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line.^ 

CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 
With more than " oriental scrupulosity ; " 

He left to his vizier all state affairs, 
And show'd but little royal curiosity — 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
No ptocess proved connubial animosity ; 

r our wives and twice five hundred maids, uns sen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

1/ now and then there happen'd a slight slip 
Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 

rhs storj' scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
The sack and sea had settled all in time. 

From which the secret nobody could rip ; 
The public knew no more than does this rhyme ; 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Mcrals wen better, and the fish no worse. 



CL. 



He saw with his own eyes the moon was rouad 
Was also certain that the earth was square, 

Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular any where ; 

His empire also was without a bound : 
'Tis true, a little troubled here and there. 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours. 

But then they never came to " the Seven Tower* 

CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 

To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels who have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 
Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk, or 

The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 
He had fifty daughters and four dozens sons, 

Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd. 
The former in a palace, where like nuns 

They lived till some bashaw was sent abroad. 
When she, whose turn it was, wedded at once. 

Sometimes at six years old — though this seems odd. 
'Tis true ; the reason is, that the bashaw 
Must make a present to his su-e in law. 

CLIIL 
His sons were kept in prison till they grew 

Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 
One or the other, but which of the two 

Could yet be known unto the Fates alone ; 
Meantime the education they went through 

WcLS princely, as the proofs have always shown. 
So that the heir apparent still was found 
No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 

CLIV. 
His majesty saluted his fourth spoitse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank, [brows 

Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd hei 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank : 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank ; 
To no men are such cordial greetings given 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven 

CLV. 

His highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan among the damsels in disguise. 
At which he seem'd no whit surpris'd, ncr gri«'T*l 

But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved 

'* I see you've bought another girl; 'tis pity 

That a mare Christian should be half so pretty 

CLVI. 
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new -bought virgin, made her blush and shake 
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 

Oh, Mahomet ! that his majesty should take 
Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 

Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggles 
But etiquette forbade them all tc giggle. 



DON JUAN. 



647 



CLVII. 
•'he Turlss do well to shut — at least, sometimes — 
The women up — because, in sad reality, 
. rheir cliastity in these unhappy climes 

l8 not a thing of that astringent quality 
Which in the North prevents precocious crimes, 

And rcial-res our snow less pure than our molality 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
.Fiaa quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus fe.i ova chronicle ; and now we pause, 
Th<a-2:h nor for want of matter; but 'tis time, 

Accort'inti, to the ancient epic laws, 
To slacken eail, and anchor with our rhyme. 

Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 
Tiie sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 

Weanvh'ile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 

Vou'U pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PREFACE 

TO 

CANTOS VI. VII. AND VIII. 

The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the 
followin,r cantos ('?. e. the 7th and 8th) are taken 
from a French wort-., entitled, " Histoire de la Nou- 
velle Russie.'* Sonie of the incidents attributed to 
Don Juaa really occurred, particularly the circum- 
stance of his saving the infant, which was the actual 
case of the late Due de Richelieu, then a young 
volunteer m the Russiiin service, and afterwards the 
founder and beuefactor of Odessa, -where his name 
and memory cau never cease to be regarded with 
reverence. In the coursn of '.hese cantos, a stanza 
or two will be fc und relative to the late Marquis of 
Londondern-, but wrirten -ome time before his de- 
cease. Ha4 that person's digarchy died with him, 
they would have been, supp'-essed; as it is, I am 
aw ire of nothing in the manner of his death or of 
his lif' to prevent the free expri>i?sion of the opinions 
of all whom his whole existenco was consumed in 
endeavoring to enslave. That ho was an amiable 
man in private life, may or may not ho true ; but 
with this the public have^ nothing to 'io : and as to 
lamenting his death, it will be time ehorigh when 
Ireland has ceased to mourn for his birth. As a 
minister, I, for one of millions, lonkod upi<n him as 
the most despotic in intention, and the weukest in 
intellect that ever tyrannized over a country. It v 
♦he first time, indeed, since the Normans, that i'lig- 
and has been insulted by a minister (at least) who 
could not speak English, and t^iat Parliament per- 
mitted to be dictated to in the language of Mrs. 
Malaprip. 

Of the manner of his death little need be -"•' 
except that if a poor radical, surh as VNTaddm 
or Wntson, had cut his throat, he would havi 
buried in a cross-road, with the usual appii 
of the stake and mallet. But the minis; ' 
elegant lunatic — a sentimental suicide — he au rely 
nit the " carotid artery " (Idessings on their leani- 
mp!) — and lo ! the i)ago!int, and the abbey, and 
" the syllables of aol.r yelled forth " by thp news- 



papers — and the harangue of the coroner in ai; 
eulogy, over the bleeding body of the deceased — (an 
Antony worthy of such a Caesar)— and the nau;.r.ouE 
and atrocious cant of a degraded crew of conspira- 
tors against all that is sincere or honorable. In his 
death he was necessarily one of two things by the 
law — a felon or a madman — and in either case na 
great subject for panegyric* In his life he was— 
what all the world knows, and half of it will feel 
for year.s to come, unless his death prove a " moral 
lesson" to the surviving Sejanif of Europe. Ii 
may at least serve as a consolation to tne nations 
that their oppressors are not happy, and in soTuto 
instances judge so justly of their owii actions is lo 
anticipate the sentence of mankind. — Let us heai 
no more of this man, and let Ireland remove th« 
ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary oi "West- 
minster, Shall the Patriot of Humanity repose by 
the Werther of Politics ! ! ! 

"With regard to the objections which have been 
made on another score to the already published 
cantos of this poem, I shall content myself with 
two quotations from Voltaire : — 

" La pudeur s'est enfuite Cles coeurs, et s'est 
refUgiee sur les levres." 

" Plus les moeurs sont depravees, plus les expres 
sions devienment mesurces ; on croit regagner en 
langage ce qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded 
and h}T)ocritical mass which leavens the present 
English generation, and is the only answer they 
deserve. The hackneyed and lavished title of 
blasphemer — which, with radical, liberal, jacobin, 
reformer, &c., are the changes which the hirelings 
are daily ringing in the ears of those who will listen 
— should be welcome to all who recollect on ir?iom 
it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 
Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, 
and so have been and may be many who dare to 
oppose the most notorious abuses of the name of 
God and the mind of man. But persecution is not 
refutation, nor even triumph : the ^ATetchod infidel, 
as he is called, is probably happier in his prison 
than the proudest of his assailants. With his 
opinions I have nothing to do — they may be right 
or wrong — but he has suffered for them, and that 
very suffering for conscience' sake will make -"'^^ 
proselytes to Deism than the example ot heterodox | 
prelates to Christianity. ^-'-'^^ statesmen to op- 
pression, or ovp- .- — ioned homicides to the im- 
pious alli'-'^-^ which insults the world with the 
i,^.-...- of " Holy ! " I have no wish to trample 
on the dishonored or the dead; but it would be 
well if the adherents to the classes from whence 
those persons sprung, should abate a little of the 
cant which is the crying sin of this doublo-dcaiir.^ 
and false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and— 
biit enough for the present. 



1 ty by tirtf late of the land — t)>e lnw« of hiimnnity )a^^ mort< f^f^Xn ; 
., t.. i,.».ii,,mtei hnvo alwayg the /ait in thpir own niouUu, let Ihrm m«^ 

iiMiiber rtinrt be cxceptH Cnnnio?. '('ni'nliip '- ir •••-• 
>l ow. "" -»'>"■• » ^H, n ijti.'C, II niilmiinii : imkI ihi iiiiin 

liur»ii<> th'* |Mlh of liii Into prfxIi-crnHor, Viil C. If ttn 
iiitry, Ciiiiiiitia: ran ; but niil he ? I, for on- , t»'<|'^ m>. 

S.inlwicli ».il " h- .li.l nol know Id' llirn-., ,• '^•.»«.i 



•ChuKb ufEA.'lMMilMt 



*! 



048 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VII. 



CANTO VI. 



'" Thekb is a tide in the affairs of men 
Which, taken at the flood " — you know the rest 

And most-of us have found it, now and then ; 
Al len^i we think so, though but few have guess'd 

■Ihfc innaent, till too late to come again. 
But/o doubt every thing is for the best — 

Df Tjimch the surest sign is in the end ; 

^^'h'en things are at the worst, they sometimes mend. 

I "• 

/There is a tide in the affairs of women [where ! 

"Which, taken at the flood, leads" — God knows 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its currents to a hair ; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
Men, with their heads, reflect on this and that — 
But women, with their hearts, on heaven knows what. 

III. 

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she. 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 

A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
Beloved in her OAvn way, and rather whisk 

The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 

Though such a she's a devil, fit that there be one,) 

Yft she would make full many a Manichean. 

IV. 

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
By coraTnonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Antony be well remember'd yet, 

^'^ not his conquests keep his name in fashion ; 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eves, 

Outbalance ah tu. -.^,^,.,g victories. 



He diod at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, ■ 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds, are but a sport— I 

Romemher when, though I had no great plenty 
Df worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

(5ave what I had— a heart : as the world went, I 
G? ve what was worth a world ; for worlds couM never 
R pstore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

VI. 

T^'^as the bo5''s "mite," and like the " "-idoVs," 
Perhaps be weigh d ne.c<xftov, if ^lot now ; [may 
But v.-hether such things do or do not woio-h, 
AH who \r.Lve loved, or love, will still aUo.v 
God is love, thf-y >;iy, 
-■ was before the b^'i.v 



We left our hero and third heroine in 
A kind of state more awkward than ancominor. 

For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman ; 

Sultans too much abhor this sort of ?'n, 
And don't agree at all with the wise Romnn 

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, 

Who lent his lady to his friend lIort<msius. 

VIII. 

I know Gulbeyas was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, i uondemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction, even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, hcweVr ycL' b'amc it 
Her reason being w.-.ak, her passioi.s strong, 

She thought thai her lord's lu^arl (even couH fihi 
Was scarce enough ; for he harlfii'ty-nine [claim \t\ 
Yfears, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, " an aJithmeticsan," 
But by " the bookish theoric " it j>rjp»^r<r3, 

If 'tis summ'd up with ferrsinine prer tsion, 

That, adding to the account his highness' ypars 

The fair Sultana err'd from iranition ; 
For, were the Sultan jnst , c all hjls dears. 

She could but claim the fifte.^i.-hurtdreth part 

Of what should be monopoly — the^ heart. 



It is observed that ladies are litigious 
Upon all legal objects of poR','ession, 

And not the least so when they are /eligious, [sion. 
Which doubles what thev think of the transgres 

With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, 
As the tribunal shows thrcngh many a session, 

When they suspect that any one goes shares 

In that to which the law n.akcs them sole heirs. 

■ fl- 
Now, if this l|blds good; in a Christian land. 

The heatheJis also, t^oufh v/ith less^ latitude, 
Are ap't to carry thing* \vith a high hand, 

And take/what kinf ,s call "an imposing attitude ; ' 
And for their right? connubial make a stand, [tude 

AVhen their liege husbands treat them with ingrati 
And a/<' four wives must have quadruple claims, 
The T?gris bath its jealousies like Thames. 



^. 



XII. 

uli/uN .1/5 AA i -. cnc foi.rth, and (as I said) 
The fr.'Vorite ; but what's favor among four ? 
Polygamy may well be held in dread. 

Net only as a sin, but as a bore : 
Moj^t wise men, with one moderate woman wed, 
, Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 
And all (except Mahometans) forbear 
To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware." 

XIII. 

His highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
So styled according to the usual forms 

Of every monarch, till they are consigned 
To tnose sad hungry jacobins, the worms. 

Who 'on the very loftiest kings have dined,— 
His highness gazed upon Gullieyaz' charms, 

Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 

(A " Highland welcome " all the wide worfd over 



DON JUAN. 



641 



XIV. 

N ovf here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 

May look like what is — neither here nor there : 
Thej are put on as easily as a hat, 

Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
Triram'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 

Which form an ornament, but no m.ore part 

Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XV. 

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 

More in thp eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
Rather to hide what pleases most unkno%vn, 

.^Lie the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
9f love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 

A sincere woman's breast, — for over warm 

Or over cold, annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 

For over warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 'tis no great lease of its own nre ; 
For no one, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth, 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
A.t a sad discount : while your over chilly 
Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat silly. 

XVII. 
That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste. 

For so it seems to lo^-ers swift or slow, 
Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 

And see a sentimental passion glow, 
Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 

in his monastic concubine of snow ; — 
{n short, the maxim for the armorous tribe is 
Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

XVIII. 

The " tu " 's too much, — but let it stand — the verse 
Requires it, that's to say, the English rhyme. 

And not tbe pink of old Hexameters ; 
But, after all, there's neither tune nor time 

In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime . 

[ own no prosody can ever rate it 

A.S a rule, but Truth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 
If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 
iS much in most things, not loss in the heart 

Than other articles of female dress. 
Self-love in man, too, beats all female art ; 

They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less: 
And no one virtue yet, except starvation. 
Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose ; 

A bod is not a-throne, and they may sleep, 
Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes; 

Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 
tia any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as wo weep; 
Tis the vile daily drcp on drop which ^\ear8 
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 
83 



XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centage ; a child cross, dog ill, 
A favorite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 
Which leaves you minus of the cash you countec 

As certain ; — these are paltry things, and yet 

I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 

I'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! no^ womankind ' 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gull. 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call. 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or grom th. 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both. 

XXIII. 

So now all things are d — n'd, one feels at ease, 
. As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

'T:3 so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
At least one of them — Oh the heavy night 

When wicked wives who love some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite. 

To toss, to tuml)le, doze, revive and quake. 

Lest their too la.vfi»l bedfellow should wake. 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven. 

Also beneath the canopy of beds. 
Four-posted and silk-curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 

Snow." Well ! 'tis all hap-hazard when one wedl 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if apeasatit's quean 

XXVL 

Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, 

AVith all the damsels in their long arrar. 

Had l)ow'd themselves before the imperial eyetf. 
And, at the usual signal, ta'en their wav 

Buck to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies «iy 

Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bodoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 
I love *he sex, and sometimes would reveibe 

The tyrant's wish " that mankind oulyliad 
One neck, which he with one fell stroke ml^Af 
pierce : " 

My wish is quite as wide, but not so had, 
And much more tender on the whole than nero*» 

It being (not note, but inly while a lad) 
That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 
To kiss them all at once from North to South. 



660 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVIII. 

Oh enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 
And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion ! — But my muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 

Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love 

In whic'i we left him several lines abovj. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 
At the given signal join'd to their array ; 

And though he certainly ran many risks, 
Yet he could not at times keep by the way, 

(Although the consequences of such frisks 
Are worse than the worst damages men pay 

In moral England, where the thing's a tax,) 

From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 
The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng, [stalk'd 

By eunuchs fiank'd ; while at their head there 

A dame who kept up discipline among 
The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd 

Without her sanction on their she-parades : 

Her title was " the Mother of the Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether she was a ** mother," I know not, 
Or whether they were "maids" who call'd her 

But this is her seraglio title, got [mother ; 

I know not how, but good as any other ; 

So Cantemir can tell you, or De Tott : 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred [der'd. 

Young women, and correct them when they blun- 

XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 

More easy by the absence of all men 
Except his majesty, who, with her aid, 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 
A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den. 
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 
Where all the passions have, alas ! but one \ent. 

XXXIII. 
A.r.d what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — how 

Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 
Continue. As I said, this goodly row 

Of ladies of all countries at the will 
Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 

Like water-lilies floating down a rill, 
Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 
Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach *d their own apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 

Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 
When freed from bonds, (which are of no great use, 

A-fter all,) or like Irish at a fair, 
Their guards being gone, and, as it were, a truce, 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 



XXXV. 

Their talk, of course, ran most on the tew comei, 
Her shape, her air, her hair, her every thing : 

Some thought her dress did not so much become hei 
Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 

Some said her years were getting nigh their summci 
Others contended they were but in spring ; 

Some thought her rather masculine in height, 

While others wish'd that she had been so quite 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted, on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke her, a damsel fan, 

And fresh, and "beautiful exceedingly," 

Who with the brightest Georgians might compaxtt' 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex. 

After the first investigating view, 

They all found out as few^ or fewer, specks, 

In the fair form of their companion new. 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 

When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathec 

In a new face " the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 

And yet they had thou- little jealousies, 
Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation, 

Although they could no* see through his disguise, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about that.. 

XXXIX. 

But certain 'tis, they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 'twere 

A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 
Who wished they had a brother just like her, 

Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and Dudii ; in short, 
(To save description,) fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report. 
Though differing in stature and degree. 

And clime and time, and country and complex^Ml. 

They all alike admired their new connection. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India, and as warm j 
Katinka was a Georgian, white alad red, 

With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 
And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tredd 

But rather skim the earth; while Dudu's form 
Look'd more adapted to be put to bed. 

Being somewhat large, and 1 mguishing, and lusy 

Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 



I 



DON JUAN. 



651 



XLII. 
h. kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 

Yet very fit to " murder sleep " in those 
Wlio gaaed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 

Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 
Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 
It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 
bhe was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
Bhe look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
AnO timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 
Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 

*' Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 
Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — ■ 

** From Spain." — " But where is Spain ?" — "Don't 
ask such stuff, 
Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame ! " 

Said Lolah, with an accent rather rotigh, 
Tq poor Katinka: " Spain's an island near 
Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, 
As if she pitied her for being there, 

A pretty stranger, without friend or guide, 
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 

Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 

With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

XLVI. 
But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 

With, *' Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 
I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
• She added, to Juanna, their new guest : 
"Your coming has been unexpected here. 

And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
We will have all things settled fo^ you fairly." 

XLVII. 
Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
That any body should disturb you ; so 

I'll take Juanna ; we're a slenderer paii 
Than you would make the half of; — don't say n> ; 
And I of your young charge will take due care ' 
But here Katinka interfered, and said, 
* She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVin. 
'Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd : " Why so ? " — " For fear of 
Replied Katinka; " I am sure I see [ghost*-," 

A phantom lipon each of the four posts ; 
h.Tid then I have the worst dreams that can be, fhosts." 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in 
The dame replied, '• Between your dreams and you, 
i fe»vr Juaniiu's dieama woulj be but few. 



XLIX. 

*' You, Lolah, must continue still . lie 
Alone, for reasons which don't matter; yon 

The same, Katinka. until by and by ; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudii, 

Who's quiet, inofiensive, silent, shy. 
And will not toss and chatter the night through 

What say you, child ? " — Dudii said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up and kiss'd the matron's brow 

Between the eyes, and Lolah on both checks, 
Kat'inka, too, and with a gentle bow, 

(Curtsies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks, 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piqaea 
The others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of jDudu, though they held their tongues from def« 
» ence. 

LI. 
It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 

The Turkish title,) and ranged round the wall 
Were couches, toilets — and much more than thi« 

I might describe, as I have seen it all. 
But it suffices — little was amiss ; 

'Twas on the whole a nobly furnish'd hall. 
With all things ladies want, save one or two. 
And even those were nearer than they knew 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature. 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of natvire 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike. 

And, pleasing or unpleasing, still are like. 

LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth. 
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth. 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions, and so forth, [it 
Which some call " the sublime : " I wish they'd trv 

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 
But she was pensive more than melancholy. 

And serious more than pensive, and serene 
It may be more than either — not unholy fbofn 

Her tljoughts, at least till now, appear to hi-;« j 
The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was \vholl\ ; 

UnconsciouM, albeit turu'd of quick seventeen, 
That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tail. 
She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 
A.nd therefore was she kin'l and gentle as 

The Age of Gold (wlien gold whs yet unknown 
Pv which its nomenclature raint' to t)as8; 

Thuo most appropriately has been shown 
•' Lucus a non luceiulo," not what tros, 

But what 'CfK' no: ; a port of style that'? gio>>'n 
Extremely ior«mo'> in this age, whose metul 
The devil may ajcouipose, but never settle : 
f 



652 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



LVI. 

I think it may De of ♦* Corinthian Brass," 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader! pass 
This long parenthesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class [put 

My faults even with your own ! which meaneth, 

A kind construction upon them and me: 

But that you won't — then don't — I'm not less free. 

LVII. 
•Tis time we should return to plain narration, 

And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudii, 
With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 
This labyrinth of females, and each station [few : 

Described — what's strange, in words extremely 
I have but one simile, and that's a blunder, 
For worldless women, which is silent thunder. 

LVIII. 
And next she gave her (I say her, because 

The gender still was epicene, at least 
In outward show, which is a saving clause) 

An outline of the customs of the East, 
With all their chaste integrity of laws. 

By which the more a haram is increased. 
The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 
Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss. 
Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure. 

And between females means no more than this — 

, That they have nothing better near, or newer. , 
^*Kiss " rhymes to " bliss " in fact as well as verse-^ 

i wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of nature, carelessly array'd ; 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'Twas like the fawn which, in the lake display'd, 
Beholds her own shy shadowy image pass. 

When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; but not before she oifer'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance profFer'd— 

Wliich pass'd well ofi' — as she could do no* less : 
Though by this politeness she rather sufFer'd, 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a woman like a porcupine. 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, 
Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, 

In early youth to turn a lady's maid ; — 
1 did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
.The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
'^tuck al exactly in the proper spot. 



LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wiw— 
And I love Wisdom more than she love? me 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin. Knowledge, flies. 
What are we ? and whence came we ? what shall iM 

Our ultimate existence ? what's our present ? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

Thi°re was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights. 

And slumber hover' d o'er each lovely limb 

Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, ['trim, 

They should have walk'd there in their spriteiiest 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste. 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around. 

Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root 
In some exotic garden sometimes found. 

With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 

One, with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, 
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 

Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; [cloud 
And, smiling through her dream, as through a 

The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, 
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, 

Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 

All bashfully to struggle into light. 

LXVII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for [said. 

'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath heen 
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd [shora 
Through the heaved breast the dream of some fax 

Beloved and deplored : while slowly stray'd 
(As night dew, on the cypress glittering, tinges 
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark 
fringes. ^ 

*' LXVIII. 

A fourth, as marble, statue-like and still, 
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 

White, coM, and pure, as looks a frozen rill. 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will ;— 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and cho/^se — oerhaps you'll be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

IXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 

A lady of " a certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teena; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, 

As ere that awful period intervenes, 
Which lays both men and women on the sb^lt 
To meditate upon their sins and self. ' 



I 



DON JUAN. 



659 



LXX. 



Bui all this time how slept, or dream d, Dudii ? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over, 
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, 
fo those who like their, company, about 
Che apartment, on a sudden she scream' d out ; 

LXXI. 
4.nd that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
ftlatron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, [tion, 

All trembling, wondering, ^vithout the least no- 
More than I have myself, of what could make 
Xhr calm Dudii so turbulently wake. 

LXXII. 

ijut wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
With floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 
By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care. 

For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, 

Her eye dilated and her color heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But what is strange — and a strong proof how great 
A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay 

As fast as ever husband by his mate 
In holy matrimony snores away. 

Not all the clamor broke her happy state 
Of slumber, pre they shook her, — so they say, 

At least, — and then she too unclosed her eyes. 

And ya^vn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXXIV. 

A.nd now commenced a strict investigation, 
Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once, 

Conjeotiiring, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 
Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But being " no orator, as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound. 
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 

A *' wood obscure," like that where Dante found • 
Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 

Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue 
crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ;— 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 

And tree"* of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVI. 
And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 

A most prodigious pippin, — but it hung 
Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 

Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
BtoncH, and whatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
But I nrxyi at a most provoking height '-^ 



LXXVII. 

That on a sudden, when she least had acpe, 
It fell down of it's ovm accord, before 

Her feet ; that her first movement was to stocp 
And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 

That just as her young lip began to ope 
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 

A bee flew out and stung her to the heart. 

And so — she awoke with a great scream and start 

LXXVIII. 
All this she told with some confusion and 

Dismay, the usual consequence of dri-ams 
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 

To expound their vain and visionary gleams 
I've known some odd ones which seem'd reallj 

Prophetically, or that which cue deems [plann'd 
*' A strange coincidence," to use a phrase 
By which such things are settled now-a-days. 

LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some gieat liana 
Began, as is the consequence of fear. 

To scold a little at the false alarm 
That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear 

The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm 
Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear 

And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd. 

And said that she was sorry she bad cried 

LXXX. 
" I've heard of stories of a cock A.id bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee. 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past thre6 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see 
To-morrow, what his highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too ! the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamor — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone. 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXX II. 

Lolah's eyes sjiarkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her 3wn 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision. 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
Juanna ishould be taken from her, and 
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXTII. 
She promised never more to h ave n dream. 

At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 
She wonder'd ut herselE^how she could scream— 

'Twas foolish, ncr\ous, as she must allow, 
A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 
And begg'd they would excuse her; she'd get ov<i 
This weakness in a few hours, and recover 



554 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIV. 

A.nd here Juanna kindly intei-posed, 
And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed, 
When all around rang like a tocsin bell : 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

A^part from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once " mal-a-propos." 

LXXXV. 

AlS thus Juanna spoke, Dudu turn'd roiind, 
And hid her face mthin Juanna's breast; 

Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
The color of a budding rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
The mystery of this rupture of their rest : 

A.11 that I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

LXXXYI. 

And so good night to them, — or, if you will. 
Good moiTow — for the cock had crown, and light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill. 
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 
Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 

That stretches to the stony belt which girds 

Asia, where KafF looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather gray of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 
Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. 

The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail, 

[s lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 

LXXXVIII. 

And that's the moral of this composition. 
If people would but see its real drift ; — 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural — 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendor, — 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud, because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

Be beautiful that art could little mend her, 
Though pale with conflicts between love and pride : 

Bo agitated was she with her error, 

Bhe did not even look into the mirror. 

XC. 

Mso arose, about the self-same time, 
Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 

Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime. 
And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 

A thing of much less import in that clime— 
At least to those of incomes which afford 

The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 

rh %,n where two wives are under an embargo. 



XCl. 

He did not think much on the matter, not 

Indeed on any other : as a man, 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good storet 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty 

XCII. 

And now he rose : and after due ablutions. 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers, and other pious evolutions. 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased, 
In Catharine's reign, whom glory still adore«« 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w m 

XCIIL 
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 

Her son's son, — let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach, — and now rhymes waa- 

Almost as far as Petersburg, and lend [del 

A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's, — so you be 
Your father's son, 'tis quite enough f«r me. 

XCIV. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
That hater of mankind, would be a sharp e, 

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: 
But people's ancestors are history's game ; 

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
All generations, I should like to know 
What pedigree the best would have to show ? 

XCV. 
Had Catherine and the sultan understood 

Their own true interest, which kings rarely knoWt 
Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude. 

There was a way to end their strife, although 
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good. 

Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, 
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

XCVI. 

But as it was, his highness had to hold 
His daily council upon ways and means, 

How to encounter with this martial scold, 
This modern Amazon and queen of quean* ; 

And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 

Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 

Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

CXVII. 

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone« 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 

Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 



DON JUAN. 



65d 



XCVIIl. 

Mother of pftarl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Yied with each other on this costly spot; 

A-nd singing birds without were heard to warble ; 
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 

Varied each ray ; — ^but all descriptions garble 
The true effect, and so we had better not 

Be too minute ; an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fan:y does the rest. 

XCIX. 
And here she summon'd Baba, and required 

Don Juan at his hands, and information 
Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, 

And whether he had occupied their station ; 
If matters had been managed as desired. 

And his disguise with due consideration 
Kept up ; and, above all, the where and how 
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to 
know. 

C. 
Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions, ask'd 
More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 

His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide, 

Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 
He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recourse. 

CI. 
Uulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 

Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 
She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 

And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 
In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 

And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, 
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 
A.nd her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle. 

CXI. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseech 'd she'd hear him through — 
He could not help the thing which he related: 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudu 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 

But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm. • 

The chief dame of the Oda, T^pon whom 
The discipline of the whole haram bore, 

Aa scon as thoy re^nter'd tlieir own room. 
For Baba's ftmotion s'topp'd short at the door, 

Had settled all : nor could he then presxime 
(Ihe aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

CIV. 
He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure 

Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact, 
Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 

Because a foolish or imprudent act 
Would not alone have made him insecure, 

But ended in his being found out and .inck'df 
And thuown into the sea. — Thus Baba 8])oke 
Uf ftll save Dudii'g dream, which wai no ioke. 



I CV. 

This he discreetly kept in the back grmind, 
And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now 

For any further answer that he found. 

So deep an anguish Avrung Guloeyaz' brow ; 

Her cheek tum'd ashes, ears rung, brain whirl'd 
As if she had received a sudden blow, [round, 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

O'er her fair front, like morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he end - 

It was but a convulsion, which, though short, 
Can never be described ; we all have heard. 

And some of us have felt thus " all amort," 
When things beyond the common have occurr'dj 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agonji 

What she could ne'er express — then how ehould 1 1 

CYII. 

She stood a moment, as a Pythoness 
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 

Of inspiration gather'd from distress. 

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 

The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 
Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, 

She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 

And bow'd her throbbing head o'er tremblir^g knees 

CVIII. 
Her face declined, and was unseen ; her hair 

Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow 
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair 

Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, — 
A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow. 
Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles check 
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 

CIX. 
Her head himg down, and her long hair in stoopinK 

Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping 

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale ; 
Would that I were a painter ! to be grouping 

All that a poet drags into detail ! 
Oh that my words were colors ! but their tints 
May serve, perhaps, as outlines or slight hintf. " 

ex. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still. 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled ey«-» 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak— hn. 
paused, 

And then moved on again with rapid pace; 
Then slucken'd it, which is the march most oautad 

By deep emotion : — you may sometimes traoe 
A feeling in ench footstep, as disclosed 

By Siilhist in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
Their work even by the way in which he trodt 



656 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



CXII. 
Gnlbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba :— " Slave : 

Bring the two slaves ! " she said, in a low tone, 
But one which Baba did not like to brave, 

And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 

(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 
For fear of any error like the late. 

CXIII. 
•*The Georgian and her paramour," replied 

The imperial bride — and added, " Let the boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side : [throat, 

You know the rest." The words stuck in her 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 

And of this Balja willingly took note, 
A.nd begg'd, by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 
She would revoke the order he had heard. 

CXIV. 

* To hear is to obey," he said; "but still, 
Sultana, think upon the consequence : 

ft is not that I shall not all fulfil 
Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 

But such precipitation may end ill, 
Even at your own imperative expense ; 

I do not mean destruction and exposure, 

In case of any premature disclosure ; 

cxv. 

" But your own feelings. — Even should all the rest 
Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 

Already many a once love-beaten breast 
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide— 

You love this boyish, new seraglio guest. 
And — if this violent remedy be tried — 

Excuse ray freedom, when I here assure you. 

That killing him is not the way to cure you." 

CXVI. 

** What dost thou know of love or feeling ? — wretch ! 

Begone ! " she cried, with kindling eyes, " and do 
My bidding ! " Baba vanish'd ; for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further, he well knew, 
Might end in acting as his own " Jack Ketch ; " 

And, though he wish'd extremely to get through 
This awkward business without harm to others, 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

CXVII. 

Away he went then upon his commission, 

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 

Against all women, of whate'er condition, 
Especially sultanas and their ways ; 

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision. 

Their never knowing their own mind two days. 

The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 

'iVliich made him daily bless his owu neutrality. 

CXVIII. 

And then he call'd his brethren to his aid. 
And sent one on a summons to the pair, 

That they must instantly be well array'd. 
And, above all, be comb'd even to a hair, 

A.nd brought before the empress, who had made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care : 

kt which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly; 

But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 



CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
For the imperial presence, wherein whether 

Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration 
Or got rid of the parties altogether — 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 

Are things the turning of a hair or feather,— 

May settle ; but far be 't from me to anticipate 

In what way feminine caprice mav dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave them for the present, with good mshes, 
Though doubts of their well-doing, to arrange 

Another part of history ; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change 

And, trusting Juan may escape the fishes. 
Although his situation now seems strange 

And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair. 

The muse will take a little touch at warfare 



CANTO VII. 



Oh love ! Oh glory ! what are ye ? who ny 

Around us ever, rarely to alight : 
There's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more flerting flight. 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift en "ti^n 

Our eyes in search of either lovely ligLt j 
A thousand and a thousand colors they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

II. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 
A nondescript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
But ne'ertheless, I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at all things : for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a show f 



III. 

They accuse me — me — the present writer of 
The present poem, of — I know not what," 

A tendency to underrate and scoff" 

At human power and virtue, and all that ; 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be at ? 

I say no more than has been said in Dante's 

Verse, and by Solomon, and by Cervantes , 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Koclicfoucau 
By Fon^lon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 

By "I^illotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 

Tis not their fa«lt, nor mine, if this be so— 
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 

Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die, 

But which is best you know no more than L 



1>UJN JUAN 



667 



S<»crates paid, our only knowledge was, [pleasant 
♦* To know that nothing could be known ; " a 

Science enoiigh, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 

Newton, (that proTerb of the mind,) alas ! 

Declared, with all his grand discovericvs recent, 

That he himeelf felt only '* like a youth 

Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth." 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity — 

Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 
By their example-'* of true Christianity ; 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it ; 
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity. 

By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 
Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 
From holding up the nothingness of life ? 

VII. 
Dogs, or men ! (for I flatter you in saying 

That ye a.re dogs — your betters far) — ye may 
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 

To show ye what ye are in every way. 
As '.ittle as the moon stops for the baying 

Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray 
From out her skies ; — then howl your idle wrath ! 
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

'Fierce loves and faithless wars " — I am not sure 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter ; 

The fact's about the same ; I am secure ; — 
I sing them both, and am about to batter 

A town which did a famous siege endure, 
And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 

B; Suvaroff, or Anglico Suwarrow, 

Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow, 

IX. 

The frii-tress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 

With buildings in the oriental taste. 
But still a fortress of the foremost rank, 

Or was, at least, unless 'tis since defaced. 
Which with your conquerors is a common prank : 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 

And measures round of toises thousands three. 



Withir the extent of this fortification 
A borough is comprised, along the height 

Upon the left, which, from its loftier station, 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright, 

Po placed as to i7npede the fire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 
I, This circximstance may serve to give a notion 
'', Of the high talents of this new Vauban : 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean. 

The ramrart higher than you'd wish to hang : 
But then to ere was a great want of precaution, 

(Prith'.e, excuse this engineering slang,) 
Nor wc.k advanced, nor cover'd way was there, 
j- To Liiit at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 



XII. 



But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 

And walls as thick as most skulls bom a** yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
Case-mated one, and 'tother a "barbette, ' 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set. 

Rose o'er the to^vn's right side, in bristling tipr 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 
But from the river the town's open quite. 

Because the Turks could never be persuaded 
A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 
• And such their creed was, till they were invadwl 
When it grew rather late to set things right. 

But as the Danube could not vieW be waded, 
They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 
And' only shouted, " Allah !" and " Bis Millah ! " 

XIV. 

The Russians now wore ready to attack ; 

But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shall J spell the name of each Cossack 

"Who were immortal, could one tell their story f 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation. 
Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 

XV. 

Still I'll record a few, if but to increase [noff, 

Our euphony — there was Strongenoff, ^nd Stroko- 

Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arseniew of modern Greece, 
And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Choke- 

And others of twelve consonants apiece : [noiT, 

And more might be found out, if I could poke 
enough 

Into gazettes ; but Fame, (capricious strumpet!) 

It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 

XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme, 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
Of Londonderry, drawling against time. 

Ending in "ischskin," " ousckin," "iffskcty. 
" ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XVII. 

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff' d higt 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new sKiw 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown deaTi 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XVIII. 
Then there were foreigners of much renown. 

Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 
Not fighting for their country or its crown, 

But wishing to be one day brigadiers ; 
Also to have the sucking of a town — 

A pleasant thing to young men at thtir year» 
'Mongst them were several Fnglishmen of pith, 
' Sixteen call'd Thompson, and nineteen naxned Smith 



658 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIX. 



/ack Thompson and Bill Thompson ;— all the rest 
Had been call'd ''Jemmy,''' after the great bard; 

I don't know whether they had arms or crest, 
But such a godfather's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
Among them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 

Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 

At Halifax ; " but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills, and Wills and Bills ; 

But when I've added that the elder Jack Smith 
Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 
I've said all I know of a name that fills [smith," 

Three lines of theiiespatch in taking " Schmack- 
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 

I wonder (although Mars no dotiht's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
May make up for a bullet in his body ? 

I hope this little question is no sin. 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doating, 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and 

But I'm too great a patriot to record [gay: 

Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason : they betray 

Their country, and, as traitors are abhorr'd, 
Wlio name the French and English, save to show 
How peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's 
foe. 

XXIII. 
The Russians, having built two batteries on 

An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 
The first was to bombard it, and knock down 

The public buildings, and the private too. 
No matter what poor souls might be undone. 

The city's shape suggested this, 'tis true ; 
Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 
Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 
The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh, 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station* 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes wan-iors, 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers ; 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, which is 
That of despising those we combat with, 

l/ommon in many cases, was in this 
The cause of killing TchitchitzkofF and Smith, 

One of the valorous '• Smiths '' whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 

But 'tis aname 30 spread o'er "Sir" and "Madam," 

That one woiud think the first who bore it "Adam." 



XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 
Because they were constructed in a huiry. 

Thus, the same cause which makes a verse want io«l 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Mur 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet [ray 
As they who print them think is necessary, 

May like'^ise put off for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory.* 

XXVII. 

W nether it was their engineers' stupidity, 

Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, 
Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
. Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 
Of homicide ; but there was no solidity 

In the new batteries erected there ; 
They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd^ 
And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 

Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 
Three fire-ships lost their amiable existence, 

Before they reach'd a spot to take eff"ect : 
The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 

Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 
They blew up in the middle of the river, 
While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast 88 
ever. 

XXIX. 
At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 

The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
'Twas nine, when still advancing undismay'd. 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade. 

Which was ;:eturn'd with mterest, I may say. 
And by a fire of musquetry and grape. 
And shells and shot of every size and shape. 

XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish fii3; and, aided by their OAvn [sion 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great preci< 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up ; a second, near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks, 

XXXI. 

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and mea ; 

But when they saw the enemy retire. 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd agaic 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main ; 

But here the effect fell short of their desire 
Count Damas drove them back into the water 
PeU-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXIL 
" If," (says the historian here) "I could report 

All that Russians did upon this day, 
I think that several volumes Avould fall short. 

And I should still have many things to say ; 
And so he says no more — but pays his court 

To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray, 
The Prince de Ligne, and Ijangeron. and Darcaik 
Names great as any that the roll of fame han 



DON JUAN. 



659 



XXXIII. 
This being the case, may show us what fame is : 

Foi out of three *'preux Chevaliers," how 
Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed ? (and they may live now 
For aught we know.) Renown's all hit or miss ; 

There's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 
'Tis true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 
Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions — 

Their names are seldom found, nor often sought. 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguish'd sooner than she .ought: 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
Show'd th-dit somewhere, somehow, there was a fault; 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault ; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
"Which made a long debate : — but I must halt ; 

For if I wrote down every warrio«fs speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man, — 
Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 

For, had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
He died beneath a tree, as much unbless.'d on 

The soil of the green province he had Avasted, 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted ; — 

XXXVII. 

This was Poternkin— a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great, 

If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things wore in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering the matters after his own bent. 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In ttie mean time the batteries proceeded, 

A^nd fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 
Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all pantors for newspaper praise, 

A.8 well \s dilettanti in war's art, 
By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase, 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal UuvarofT. 



XL. 



The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a grod heart could be partial) 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause. 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

" You will take Ismail, at whatever price." 

XLI. 

"Let there be light!" said God, "and there wa« 
light!" 

" Let there be blood ! " says man, and there's a sea. 
The fiat of this spoil'd child of the night 

(For day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should be 
Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit-— 
For war cuts up not only branch but root. 

XLII. 
Our friends the Turks, who with loud " Allahs " now 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat. 
Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat ;) 
But here I say the Turks were much mistake*. 
Who, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacop 

XLIII. 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop drew 

In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossach< 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs. 

For there were but three shirts between the two , 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks. 

Till, in approaching, were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

XLIV. 

•♦ Great joy to London now 1 " says some great fooi 
When London had a grand illumination, 

Which, to that battle conjuror, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of color'd lamps are full, 
That sage {said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonseiWN 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 
'Tis strange that he should further '* damn his eyoft, 

For they are damn'd : that once all-famous oath 
Is to the devil now no further prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes paradise; 

And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 
Which stares him in the face, ho won't examine. 
Or swear that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLVI. 

But to the talc. Great joy unto the ramp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossao* 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or, like a wisp along the marsh so damp. 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
He flitted to and fro, a dancing light. 
Which all who saw it foUoM^'d, wrong or riffht. 



f56C 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLVIl. 

But certes matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
The fleet and camp saluted mth great grace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIII. 
"Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction. 
As loll the waters to the breathing wind, 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection : 
Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bellwether form the flock's connection 
By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual: 
Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 
The whole camp rung with joy; you would have 

That they were going to a marriage-feast, [thought 
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught. 

Since there is discord after both at least:) 
There was not now a luggage-boy but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardor much increased ; 
And why ? because a little, odd, old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was ; and every preparation 
Was made with all alacrity ; the first 

Detachment of three columns took its station. 
And waited but for the signal's voice to burst 

Upon the foe ; the second's ordination 
Was also in three columns, with a thirst 

For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 

The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 

LI. 

New batteries were erected ; and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity. 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd. 
As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 

And every difficulty being dispell'd, 
Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 

While Suvaroff, determined to obtain it. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.^ 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander- 
in-chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squandei 
His time, a corporal's duties to fulfil : 

/ isv. as you'd break a sucking salamander 
A.C swallow flame, and never take it ill ; 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which. 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

LIII. 
Abo he dress'd up, for the noiice, fascines 

Like men, with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 
A.nd made them charge with bayonets these machines, 

By way of lesson against actual Turks ; 
/!lud, when well practised in these mimic scenes, 

He judged them proper to assail the works ; 
At which your wise men sneer'd, in phrases witty : — 
fie made no answer : but he took the city. 



LIV. 



Most things were in this posti.rt »n the errQ 
Of the assault, and all the camp was in 

A stern repose : which you would scarce concer e 
Yet men, resolved to dash through thick and thjl 

Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled : — there was little din. 

For some were thinking of their home and friends, 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert. 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half dirt. 

Praying, instructing, desolating, blundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to stonn 
A fortress. Harlequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill — 

For this great conqueror play'd the corporal- 
Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 

Had met a party, towards the twilight's fall. 
One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or ill, 

'Twas much that he was understood at all ; 
But whether from hi# voice, or speech, or manner, 
They found that he had fought beneath their bannei 

LYII. 
Whereon, immediately at his request, [ters j 

They brought him and his comrades to head-quar- 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashioned vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; who sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 

LYIII. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt. 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing,— 

For, deeming human clay but common dirt. 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which, to martial comprehension, 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacks and their prey, tum'd round and cast 

Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — [last, 

^'"Whence come ye?" — "From Constantinople 

Captives just now escaped," was the reply. [past 

" What are ye ? " — " What you see us." Biiefliy 
This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 
" Your names ? " — *' Mine's Johnson, and my com- 
rade's Juan ; 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said: "I have 
Yaur name before, the second is a new one ; [heard 

To bring the other three here was absurd ; 
But let that pass ; — I think I've heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment ? " — " The same."— 



DON JUAN- 



66 



LXI. 

, You served at Widdin ? "— " Yes."—" You led 

the attack ? " [know." 

**l did."—" What next ? "— " I really hardly 

You were the first i' the breach ? " — " I was not 

slack, 
At least, to follow those who might be so." — 

• What follow'd ? " — " A shot laid me on my back. 
And I became a prisoner to the foe." — [rounded 

'♦ You shall have vengeance, for the town sur- 
Cs twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 

LXII. 

** WTiere will you sei-ve ? " — "Where'er you please." 
You like to be the hope of the forlorn, ["I know 

A"ad doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
After the hardships you've already borne. 

And this young fellow ? say, what can he do ? — 
He with the beardless chin, and garments torn ? " 

*• Why, general, if he hath Yio greater fault 

1t» war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

LXIII. 

*• He shall, if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 

Continued : " Your old regiment's allow' d, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow. 

Or il may be to-night, the assault : I've vow'd 
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosqtie. 

LXIV. 

'• So now, my lads, for glory ! " — Here he turn'd, 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth, (who nobly spurn 'd [on 
All earthly goods save tithes,) and bade them push 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXV. 

♦ ohnson, who knew by this long colloquy, 

Himself a favorite, ventured to address 
Buwarrow, though engaged with accents high 

In his resumed amusement. " I confess 
My debt, in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost ; but if you'd express 
Explicitly our several posts, my friend 
And self would know what duty to attend." — 

LXVI. 

" Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why you 

Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) — 

ills post, I meant the regiment Nikolaiew. 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

lie's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 
But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 
To be disposed of in a way so new, 

Although their haram education led 
Doubt.ess to that of doctrines the most true, 

Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 
With flashing eyes an 1 starting tears, and flung 
Their arms, a> hens tlieir wiugu about their young, 



LXVIII. 
O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honor'd by the greatest chief 
That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 

Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
Oh, foolish mortals ! always taught in vain ! 

Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 
Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea . 

LXIX. 
Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears. 

And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 
The women with their hair about their ears, 

And natural agonies, with a slight shade 
Of feeling ; for, however habit sears [trade 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when theil 
Is butchery, sometimes a single sonow 
Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwartow 

LXX. 

He said — and in the kindest Calmuc tone — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you meap 

By bringing women here ? They shall be showu 
All the attention possible, and seen 

In safety to the wagons, where alone 

In fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with Avives." 

LXXI. 

"May it please your excellency," thus replied 
Our British friend, " these are the wives of othert 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers. 

To break the rules by bringing one's o\vn bride 
Into a camp ; I know that nought so bothen 

The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXIL 
" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 

With their attendant aided our escape, 
And afterwards accompanied us through 

A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 
To me this kind of life is not so new ; 

To them, poor things ! it is an awkward step \ 
I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely. 
Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime, these two poor girls, ^vith swmming eyw 
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 

Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 

To see an old man, rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmeared with dust, 

Stript to his waistcoat, and that iiOt too clean, 

More feor'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 
For every thing seem'd resting on his nod. 

As they could read in all eyes. Now, to them 
Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 

To see the sultan, rich in many a gem. 
Like an imjierial peacock stalk abr)ad, 

(That royal bird, whose tail's a (.ladtMTi,) 
With all the jjomp of power, it was a doubt 
' How power could condescend to do without 



662 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXV. 

John Jonnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings oriental, 

Buggested some slight comfort in his way. 
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental, 

Swore they should see him by the daAvn of day. 
Or that the Russian army should repent all : 

And, strange to say, they found some consolation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then, with tears, and sighs, and some slight 
kisses, 

They parted for the present — these to await,. 
According to the artillery's hits or misses. 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
While their beloved friends began to arm, 
1 ■) burn a town which never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 

Buwarrow, who but saw things in the gross- 
Being much too gross to see them in detail ; 

Who calculated life as so much dross. 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job ; — 

What was 't to him to hear two women sob ? 

LXXVIII. 

Nothing. The work of glory still went on. 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortar's ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade, [bullets, 

Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets. 
Hard words which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long— all ages, though so short. 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 
Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court. 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain, 

W .th deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign, 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow. 
To Tie with thee, would be about as vain 

A 3 for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood — 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act, 

There should be, ne'ertheless, a slight substratum. 
But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing— how shall I relate 'em ? 
3oul8 01 immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
J'o ccloi up hii rays from your despatchea. 



Lxxxn. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Buonaparte ! • 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and <Toixc.d«d 

Shade of Leonidas ! who fought so hearty, [rounded 
When my poor Greece was once, as now snr- 

Oh, Caesar's Commentaries ! now impart ye, 
Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 

A portion of your fading twilight hues, 

So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When I call ** fading " martial immortality, 
I mean, that every age and every year, 

And almost every day, in sad reality, 
Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 

Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
Of deeds to human happiness most dear. 

Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 

Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals, ranks, ribbands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 
Ai-e things immortal to immortal man, 

As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
An uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women : there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in glory's van. 

But glory's glory ; and if you would find 

What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 

At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 

Because he runs before it like a pig ; 
Or, if that simple t ^.ntence should displease. 

Say that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 

LXXXVL 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold dull nigh 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank. 

Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer' d wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
The stars peep through the vapors dim and dank 

Which curl in curious wreaths — How soon the smokf 

Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 
Here pause we for the present — as even then 

That awful pause, dividing life from death, " * 
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 

Thousands of whom were dravring their lastbiea A 
A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march ! the charge ! the shouts of either i»iih 
Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more~- 
The death-cry drowning in the battle's ixjar. 



DON JUAN. 



663 



CANTO VIII. 



VII. 



fjR tlood and thunder ! and oil blood and wounds ! 

These arf but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, 
Too gentle leader ! and most shocking sounds • 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as niy true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her theme, 
Bo be they the inspirers I Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will— th,ey mean but wars. 

ii; 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his den, 

March 'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,— 
A human Hydra, issuing from his fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain, 
Immed'ately in others grew ags.in. 

III. 

History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss. 

War's merit it by no means might enhance. 
To waste so much gold for a little dross. 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why ? because it brings self-approbation ; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Bhouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation — 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare — 
A higher title, or a loftier station, 

Though they may make Corruption gape or stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

V. 

And snch they are — and such they will be found. 

Not 80 Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground, [done. 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds un- 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! 

While the mere victors may appai or stun 
Ine servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 

VI. 
The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 

Nought to be seen, save the artillery's flame. 
Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 

And in the Danube's waters shone the same, 
A minf>r'd hell ! The volleying roar, and loud 

Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercamo 
The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes 
Bpare, or imite rarely — Man's make millions ashes 1 



The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 

When up the bristling Moslem rose at last. 
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices 

Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced 
Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty noises 

While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 

The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of " Allah !" rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 

Resounded " Allah ! " and the clouds, which close 
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er. 

Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark ! through 

All sounds it pierceth, " Allah ! Allah ! Hu ! "' 

IX. 

The columns were in movement, one and all : 
But, of the portion which attack'd by water. 

Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall, [ter, 
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slivgh- 

As brave as ever faced both boom and ball, 

" Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is Qod's 
daughter : "* 

If'ke speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 

Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 



The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap ; in fact the ball could metui 
No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
*' Ashes to ashes " — why not lead to lead ? 

XL 
Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince, 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,- 

All common fellows, who might ^rrithe and win Cw 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General Markow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XII. 
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 

And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 

Mortality ' thou hast thy monthly bills ; 
Thy plagiies, thy famines, thy physicians, ye^ ti k 

Like the death-watch, within our cars the ills 
Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 
To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIIL 
There the still varying pangs, which multiply 

Until their very number makes men hard 
By the infinities of agony. 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard 
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 

Turn'd back within its socket,— those reward 
Your rank and file by thousands, while tlie rest 
May win, perhaps, a ribband at the breast 1 



664 



BYRON'S WOllKS 



xrv. 

Yet 1 love giOry ; glory's a great thing ; 

Think what it s to be, in your old age, 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king ! 

A. moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 
Your wars eternally, besides, enjoying 
Half-pay for life, makes mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 

Tie troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 
•To take a battery on the right ; the others, 

Aho landed lower down, their landing done. 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers : 

iSeiiig grenadiers, they mounted, one by one, 
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers — 

O er the entrenchment and the palisade, 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
And shells, or hells, it could not more have goaded. 

Of officers, a third fell on the spot, 
A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are a#fault. 

XVII. 

But here I leave the general concern. 
To track our hero on his path of fame : 

He must his laurels separately earn ; 
For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 

Though all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory. 

And, what is worse still, a much longer story : 

XVIII. 

And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ; — 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 

In the despatch ; I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.^ 

XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, [ing 

And fought away with might and main^ not know- 

Ihe way which they had never trod before. 
And still less guessing wh6re they might be going ; 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 
Filing and thrusting, slashing, svvearing, glowing. 

But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 

To their itvo selves, 07ie whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloodv mire 
Of dead and dying thousands — sometimes gaining 

A yai 1 or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were straining ; 

^t other times, repulsed by the close fire, 
Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining, 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

& woutxded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 



XXI. 



Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and tb^u^a 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch. 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or threw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stifFen'd heaven) ss if he wish'd for day ;— 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? 

There have been and are heroes who begun 
With something not much better, or as bad ; 

Frederic the Great from Malwitz deign 'd tc run, 
For the first and last time ; for, like a pad 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals, after one 
Warm bout, are broken into their new tricks, 
And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic, 

(The antiquarians who can settle time. 
Which settles all things, Romans, Greek, or Runic, 

Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same cliuf 
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 

Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational 

As any other notion, and not national;)—^ 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy, 
A thing of impulse, and a child of song . 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy. 

Or the sensation, (if that phrase seem wrorg,) 

And afterwards, if he must needs destroy. 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 

But always •ndthout malice. If he warr'd 
Or loved, it was \vith what we call "the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump card, 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, la^v)'er — ward 
Ofi* each attack when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well ; 

'Tis pity " that such meaniiag should pave hell.* 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved — 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out. 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaveC 

And smooth'd the brimstone of tliat street of hell 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from wairior in their grim career. 

Like chastest Avives from constant husbands' side* 
Just at the close of the first bridal year. 

By one of those odd turns of fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here. 

When, after a good deal of hea^-j' firing. 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring 



1>UN JUAN. 



661 



XXVIIT 
I don't know how the thin^, octurr'd — it might 

lie that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 
And that the rest had faced unto the right 

About ; a circumstance which has confounded 
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much, abounded 
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield 
And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Xuan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought, 

fie knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ougnt 

For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 

(Start not, kind reader ; since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one :) — 

XXX. 

i'hen, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Ove> the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
lie stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A. path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Quite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (I can't 
Account for every thing which may look bad 

In history ; but we at least may grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 

In search of glory, should look on before, 

Nor care a pinch of snutf about bio corps :) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded. 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single-handed ; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake, 

A.n "ignis fatuus," or as sailors stranded. 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake. 

So Juan, following honor and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 

XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared. 
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 

Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 

A.ni, whcrs the hottest fire was seen and heard, 
And th'3 loud cannon pealed its hoarsest strains, 

He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 

By thy humane discovery, friar Bacon !" 

XXXIV. 
And, as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 

Fell in with what was late tlie second column, 
Under tlie orders of the General Lascy, 

But now reduced, as is a bulky volume. 
Into an elegant extract (much loss massy) 

Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 
\\T, .'mid the rest, who kept their valiant faces, 
And levell'd weapons, still against the glacis. 



XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too. 
Who had "retreated," as the phrase is, when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come again ^ 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying. 
Except Don Juan — a mere novice, whose 

More vii-gin valor never dreamt of flying. 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 

Its votaries, like innocence relying [thews,—" 

On its own strength, with careless nerves acj 

Johnson retired a little, just to rally 

Those who catch cold in "shadows of death's valley.** 

XXXVII. 

And there, a little shelter' d from the shot, 
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 

Hampart, wall, casement, house — for there was nol 
In this extensive city, sore beset 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot 
Which did not combat like the devil as yet, 

He found a number of chasseurs, all s.ititer'd 

By the resistance of the chase they batter 'd. 

XXXVIII 

And these he call'd on; and, ^uat's strange, they 
Unto his call, unlike " the spirits from [came 

The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home 

Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 

And that odd impulse, which, in wars or creeds, 

Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble feHow, Johnson, 
And though his name than Ajax or Achilles 

Sounds less harmonious, untJerneath the sun soou 
We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 

Her steady breath, (which some mtnths the samt 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or mns.'le [sifa/iit;) 

And could be very busy with(i]ut bustle : 

XL. 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
Upon reflection, knowing that behind 

He would find others who would fain be riA tl3 
Of idle apprehensions, which, like wind, 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
Oft ar^ coon closed, all heroes are not blind, 

But whei? they light upon immediate death, 

Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 
But Johnsrn only ran off to return 

With many other warriors, ns we said. 
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 

VV'hich Hamlet tel's us is a pass cf dread; 
To Jack, howe'cr, this gave but slight concern 

His soul (like galvauipui 'ipon the dei.d) 
Acted upon the living as on wire. 
And led them buck into the hckviost fire. 



666 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 

The hrsrt time thought quite terrible enough 
To fly from, malgre all which people say 

Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 
Which fills a regiment, (besides their pay, 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)— 
They found on their return the self-same welcome, 
Which made some think, and others know, a. hell 
come. 

XLIII. 
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 

Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle. 
Proving tha.t trite old truth, that life's as frail 

As any other boon for which men stickle. 
The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 

Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle. 
Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 
Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks. 
So order'd it, amid these sulphury revels. 

That Johnson, and some few who had not scamper'd. 

Reach' d the interior talus of the rampart. 

XLV. 

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen. 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 
Flame was shower'd forth abov*e as well's below, 

Bo that you scarce could say who best had chosen,- - 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet, 

Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XLVI. 
But those who scaled found out that their advance 

Was favor'd by an accident or blunder : 
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 

Hacl palisadoed in a way you'd wonder 
To see in forts of Netherlands or France, 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under,) 
Right in the middle of the parapet 
Just named, these palisades were primly set : 

XLVII. 
Bo that on either side some nine or ten 

Faces were left, whereon you could contrive 
To maich ; a great convenience to our men. 

At least to all those who were left alive. 
Who thus could form a line and fight again : 

And that which further aided them to strive 
Wr9, that they could kick down the palisades, 
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.' 

XLVIII. 

Among the first, — I will not say the^rs^. 
For such precedence ivpon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations ; 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

^s say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ;— 



XLIX 
And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau 

And God knows who besides in " au " and * ow,' 
Had not come up in time to cast an awe 

Into the hearts of those who fought till now 
As tigers combat with an empty craw, 

The Duk^of Wellington had ceased to show 
His orders, also to receive his pensions^ 
Which are the heaviest that our history m&s.ticaa. 

L. 

But never mind ; — '< God save the king !'* aad kings 
For if he don't, I doubt if me/i will longer. 

I think I hear a little bird, who sings. 
The people by and by will be the stronger : 

The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 
So much into the raw as quite to WTOng ho 

Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 

At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then 
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant 

At last it takes to weapons, such as men [pliant J 
Snatch when despair makes human hearts lesi 

Then " comes the tug of war ; " — '.twill come again, 
I rather doubt ; and I would fain say, ** fie on't," 

If I had not perceived that revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue : — I say not the first. 

But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed Tone 
Amid such scenes — though this was quite a ne^ 

To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one. 

Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIII. 

And here he was — who, upon woman's breast 
Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confess'd. 
To him it was Elysium to be there ; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ; " 

But Juan never left them while they'd charms, 

LIV. 

Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind> 
Or near relations, who are much the saire 

But here he was ! — where each tie that can biii 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame: 

And he, whose very body was all mind, — 

Flung here by fate or circumstance, which t&nit 

The loftiest, — hurried by the time and place,— 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood horse in a race 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he founJ resistance^ 
As is the hunter's at the five-bar t?;ite, 

Or double post and rail, where tht (^vistt'nce 
Of Britain's youth depends upc>« their weight, 

The lightest being the safest , at a distance 
He hated cruelty, as all men hate 

Blood, until heated — and even there his own 

At times would curdle o'er some heavy groMU 



DON JUA>. 



661 



LVI 

rhe General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
A.S were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon. 
Not reckoning him to be a "base Bezonian," 
(Ai Pistol calls it,) but a young Livonian. 

LVII. 
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 

As n-.uch of German as of Sanscrit, and 
Id answei made an inclination to 

The genfc'-al who held him in command; 
For, seeing one with ribbons black and blue. 

Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand. 
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 
He recognized an of&cer of rank. 

LVIII. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language ; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a crime 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a shriek 

Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 

In, like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, 

There cannot be much conversation there, [prayer, 

LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 
Tv/o long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din. 
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet. 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human natJire's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

I'he town was enter'd. Oh eternity ! — 

♦• God made the country, and man made the to'wn," 

So Cowper says — and I begin to be 
Of his opinion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylo^, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh — 
All walls meuTcnow, and many never known ; 

And, pondering on the present and the past. 

To deem the woods shall be our home at last. 

LXI. 
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer. 

Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 
Of the great names, which in our faces stare. 

The General Boon, backwoodsman of Kentucky, 
Was haj)piost among mortals any where ; 

For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 
Enjoy 'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 

LXII. 

Crime came not near h'm — she is not the child 
Of solitude ; health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
13y habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

Cn citie* caged. The present case in point I 

Vite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety; 



LXIII. 

And what's still stranger, left behind i name-^ 
For which men vainly decimate the tlirong,-— 
Not only famous, but of that good fame 

Without which glory's but a tavern song- 
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame 

Which hat§ nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong 
An active hermit, even in age the child 
Of nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 
'Tis true he shrank from men, even of his nation. 

When they built up unto his darling trees,— 
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 

Where there were fewer houses and more ease — 
The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor pleana 
But, where \\e met the individual man, 
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can 

LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 

Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view, 
A frown on nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free. 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall and strong, and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dAvarfing city's pale abortions, 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
Of care or gain : the green woods were their por 

No sinking spirits told them they grew gray ; [tiona 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions \ 

Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers, 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil : 

The lust which stings, the splendor which enoum 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; [bei^ 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods 

LXVIII. 

So much for nature : — by way of variety. 
Now back to thy great joys, civilization . 

And the sweet consequence of large society,- 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 

The scenes like Catlierine's boudoir at threcscoii* 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 
The town was enter'd : first one column made 

Its sangiiinary way good — then another, 
The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 

Clatih'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mothPf 
With distant shrieks were heard heaven to upbraid 

Still ch)ser sulphury clouds begun to smother 
The breath of morn and n»an, where, foot by fooi 
The madden d Turks their city itiil dispute. 



068 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 

(With some assislance from the frost aui snow) 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 
It happen'd was himself beat back just now. 

He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
His jest alike in face of friend or foe, 

Though life, and death, and victory were at stake — 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 

LXXI. 

For, having thrown himself into a dHch, 
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 
He cliinb'd to where the parapet appears ; 

But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch — 
('Mong other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted) — for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again : 

LXXII. 

And, had it not been for some stray troops landing 
They knew not where, — being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream. 

Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 

T ie great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

Vnd, scrambling round the rampart, these same 
After the taking of the *' cavalier," [troops. 

Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes" 
Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 

Open'd the gate call'd " Kilia" to the groups 
Of ballled heroes who stood shj'ly near. 

Sliding knee-deep in lately-frozen mud, 

Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

' LXXIV. 

The Kozaks, or if so you please, Cossacks — 
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 

80 that I do not grossly err in facts, 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography)— 

Having been used to serve on horses' backs, 
And no great dilettanti in topography 

Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 

Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder' d 

Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart. 
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 

The city, without being further haraper'd ; 
But, as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd — 

The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd, 
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, 
jfrom whence they sallied on those Christian scorn- 
crs. 

LXXVI. 
Then being taken by the tail— a taking 

Fatal to bisliops as to soldiers — these 
Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking, 

And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
llax:h'd with the brave battalion of Polomtki*-* 



LXXVIl. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his t\irn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn 

'Twas b.ow for blow, disputing inch by inch. 

For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch. 

LXXVIII. 
Another column also suffer'd much : 

And here we may remark with the historian, 
You should but give few cartridges to such 

Troops as are meant to march with greatest ginry 
When matters must be carried by the touch 

Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, 
They sometimes, with a hankering for existeuce, 
Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) [climb 

Was made at length, with those who daied to 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 

And, though the Turks' resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers, 
Among the foieraost, offer'd him good quaitor , 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant T"^tar.<^ 

He died, deserving well his country's ^ars, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd. 

LXXXI. 

For all the answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead; 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steal and lead, — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions : not a singA head 

Was spared, — three thousand Moslems perish'd here 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

LXXXII. 

The city's taken — only part by part — 

And death is drunk with gore : there's not a streei 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more, destroying nature; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 
A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 'twere by the serpent's head. 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled 

And howl'd for help as wolves do for a mesJ- 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 



DON JUAN 



ee 



LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 

rhe very tendon which is most acute — 
(That which some ancient Muse or modem wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd heaa. 

LXXXV. 

However tnis may be, 'tis pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed, 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'mid the invalid and maim'd : 

The regimentel surgeon could not cure 
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inve^^i-ate foe, 

Mliich was cut off, and scarce even then let go 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and 'tis the patt 
Of a tr«e poet to escape from fiction 

Whene'ei he can ; for there is little art 
In leaving verse «nore free from the restriction 

Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 
For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction, 

And that outrageous appetite for lies 

Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies. 

I.XXXVII. 

The city's taken, but not render'd ! — ^No 
There's not a Moslem that hath jielded sword : 

The blood may gush out as the Danube's flow 
Rolls by the city wall ; nor deed nor word 

Acknowledge aught of dread or death of foe ; 
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 

By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 

Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish'd every where, 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves, 
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air. 

And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare ; 

But still it falls with vast and awful splinters, 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters. 

LXIX. 

It ia an awful topic — ^but 'tis not 

My cue for any time to be terriffic : 
For checker'd as it seems our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sk* tch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

^nd one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is "quite refreshing" — in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 
With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, — 

A.nd may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest an-d its consequences, which 

Blak; epio poesy so rare ^ad rich. 



XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 
Thousands of slaughter'd men, a y^t warm $ro*if 

Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 

And shudder; — while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 

And hide her little palpitating breast 

Amid the bodies lull'd in bloody rest. 

XCIl. 

Two villanous Cossacks pursued the child [them 
With flashing eyes and weapons : match 1 witk 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem,— 

The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild : 
And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 

Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 

XCIII. 
Their sahres glitter'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, 
Her hidden face was plunged amid the dead : 

When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight 
I shall not say exactly what he said, 

Because it might not solace " ears polite ; " 
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,— 
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 

XCJV. 
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shouldej 
• And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 

The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 
Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder, 

As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
Don Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 

For the same blow which laid her mother hero 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace 
As the last link with all she had held dear • 

But else unhurt, she opeu'd her large eyes. 

And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

XCVI. 
Just at this instant, while their eyes were flx'd 

Upon each other, with dilated glance, 
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 

With joy to save, and dread of some mischuiM 
Upon his protege; while hers, transfix'd 

With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 
Like to a lighted alabaster vase : — 

• XCVII. 

Up came John Johnson — (I will not say "/arA," 

For that were vulgar, cold, and commo- place 
On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath boon the present case)— 
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back 

Exclaiming, — "Juan ! Juan ! On boy ! brace 
Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to o dollar. 
That you and I will win St. Oeorge'e aollw * 



670 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCVIII. 

•Thfi Seraskier -s knock'd upon the head, 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old pacha sits among some hundreds dead 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly, 'mid the din 

Of our artillery and his ovm. ; 'tis said 
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 

Lie round the battery ; but still it batters, 

Ajid grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters, 

XCIX. 

Then up with me ! " — But Juan answer'd, " Look 

Upon this child — I sav'd her — must not leave 
Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 

Of safety, where she less may shriek and grieve. 
And I am with you." — "Whereon Johnson took 

A glance around — andshrugg'd — and twitch'dhis 

sleeve [right ; 

And black silk neckcloth — and replied, ** You're 

Poor thing ! what's to be done ? I'm puzzled quite." 

C. 

Said Juan, — "Whatsoever is to be 
Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure 

Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
Quoth Johnson, — " Neither will I quite insure ; 

But at the least you may die gloriously." 
Juan replied, — " At least I will endure 

Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 

This child, who's parentless, and therefore mine." 

CI. 

Johnson said, — " Juan, we've no time to lose ; 

The child's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity: 
Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 

Will serve when there is plunder in a city ; — 
I should be loth to march without you, but, 
By God ! we'll be too late for the first cut." 

CII. 
But Juan was immovable ; until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 
Pick'd out among his followers with some skill 

Such as he thought the least given up to prey : 
And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day, 
But if she were delivered safe and sound, 
They should at least have fifty roubles round, 

cm. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 
In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder. 
Which thinn'd, at every step, their ranks of men : 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder. 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens every where eaclx day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half-pay. % 

CIV. 
£jid such is victory ! and such is man ! 

At l3ast nine-tenths of what we call so;— Qod 
liay have another name for half we scaa 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject : a brave Tartar Khan, — 

Or • sultan,^* as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This thwftaiu — 8omehoi;» would not yield at all : 



CV. 



But flank'd by /,ve brave sons (such is polygamy, 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy) 
He never would believe the city won, 

While courage ching but to a single twig. — ^Am 1 
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 

Neither, — but a good, plain, old, temperate man, 

Who fought with his five children in the van, 

CVI. 

To take him was the point. The truly brare, 
When they behold the brave oppress'd with oddl) 

Are touch'd ^^dth a desire to shield or save ; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demigods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
Now moved with pity : even as sometimes nods 

The rugged tree unto the summer mnd. 

Compassion breathes along the savage mind 

CVII. 

But he would 7Wt be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians do^vn on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied : 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifling provocation* 

CVIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
. Expended all their Eastern phraseology 
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 

So much less fight as might form an apology 
For them in saving such a desperate foe — 

He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
When they dispute with skeptics ; and with curses 
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 

Nay, he had wounded, though but sligntiy, l wm 
Juan and Johnson, whereupon they leii — 

The first with sighs, the second with an oath— 
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 

And all around were grown exceeding wroth 
At such a pertinacious infidel. 

And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 

Which they resisted like a sandy plain, 

ex. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd • 
His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 

His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherijih'J 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 

The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 

Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom, 

To save a sire who blush'd that he begot hin» 

CXI. 
The eldest was a true and tameless Tarts rj 

As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, 
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; and, when once seen, 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features 



DON JUAN. 



671 



CXII. 

A.nd what tney pleased to do with the young Khan 
In heaven, I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To lough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

And that's the cause, no doubt, why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 

You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

CXIII. 
Your houris also have a natural pleasure 

In lopping off your lately married men 
Before the bridal hours have danced their measiire, 

And the sad second moon grows dim again, 
Or dull Repentance liath had dreary leisure 

To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

1 hus the young Khan, with houris in his sight, 
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides. 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er our better faith derides. 

These black-e"ed virgins "make the Moslems fight, 
As though "ihere were one heaven and none be- 

NVTiereas, if all be true we hear of heaven [sides : — 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

CX\ 

Ro fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 
That when the very lance was in his heart, 

He shouted " Allah ! " and saw Paradise 
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ce.iseless f unrise, dart, — 

With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 

In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died : 

CXVI. 
But, with a heavenly rapture on his face, 

The good old Khan — who long had ceased to see 
Houris, or aught except his florid race, 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree. 
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 
A glance on that slain son, his first and last. 

CXVII. 

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 

Quarter, in case he bade them not " aroynt ! " 
As he before had done. He did not heed 

1 heir pause nor signs : his heart was out of joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 

As he look'd down upon his children gone, 

And felt — though done with life — he was alose. 

CXVIII. 

But 'twas a transient tremor : — with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 

A.8 carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 

Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young ; 

^nd throwing back a dim look on his sons, 

Ix. oue wi4< wound pour'd forth his aoul at onoe. 



CXIX. 
'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, whi 

Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced thrcuglj, 

And lay before them with his children near, 
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew. 

Were melted for a moment ; though no teaj 
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strilia 
They honor'd such determined scorn of life 

cxx. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
Where the chief Pacha calmly held his post : 

Some twenty times he made the ^uss retire, 
And baffled the assaults of all their host ; 

At length he condescended to inquire 
If yet the city's rest were won or lost, 

And, being told the latter, sent a Bey 

To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet; — Troy, 

Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet, looking 

With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosophy : but gently stroking 

His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales. 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXXII. 

The town was taken — whether he might yieio 
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now ; 

His stubborn valor was no future shield, 
Ismail's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
But red with no redeemimj gore : the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water. 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaught<». 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses 
All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 

All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses 
All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 

All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 
All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 

As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse,— 

Was here (as heretofore a^d since) let loose. 

CXXIV. 

If here and there some transient trait of pity, 
Was shown, and some more noble heart broB> 
through 

Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty 
Child, or an aged, helpless man or two— 

What's this in one anniliilated city, 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties 

Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris 1 

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

CXXV. 

Think how the joys of reading a gazette 
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 

Or, if these do not move you, don't forget 
Such doom may be your own in after timet. 

Meantime the taxes, Castiercagh, and debt. 
Are hints as good as sermons, or^is rhymes. 

Head your own hearts and Ireland's ])^^•^*l•nt ^tory 

Then feed her famine fat with Wcllesluv's bIott 



872 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXXVI. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 
Which loves so well its country and its king, 

A. subject of sublimest exultation — 
Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 

iJowe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 
Strip your greer fields, and to your harvests cling. 

Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throne — 

Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty 
stone. 

CXXVII. 

But let mt put an end unto my theme : 
There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 

Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 

The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 

Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall. 

Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all ! 

CXXVTTI. 

In one thing, ne'ertheless, 'tis tit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

A virtue much in fashion now-a-days. 
And therefore worthy of commemoration : 

The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase-^ 

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 

In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual. 

Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd very little. 

CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line : — but not to such excess 
As w-hen the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration ; 

!:ut all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides, such things from 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark [haste 
Of light to save the venerably chaste : — 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years. 

Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But on the /Hole their continence was gjreat. 
So that some disappointment there ensued 

To those who had felt the inconvenient state 
Of '* single blessedness," and thought it good 

(Since it was not their fault, but only fate. 
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 

To make ;. Roman sort of Sabine wedding, 

Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

CXXXll. 

gome voices of the "i uxom micidle-aged 
Were also heard to wonder in the din, 

"Widows of forty were these birds long caged,) 
** Wherefore the ravishing did not begin ! " 

But, while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
Therf was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 

But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 

fn darkness— I can only hope they did. 



CXXXIIl. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 
For Timour or for Zinghis m his trade. [thatcb 

While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, lik€ 
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd* 

With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch, 
And here exactly follows what he said : — 

" Glory to God and to the Empress ! " (Powers 

Eternal! such names mingled!) " Ismail's ours ! *• 

CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
Since " Mene, Mene, Tekel," and " Upharsm,* 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophets wrote no farce OB 

The fate of nations ; — but this Russ, so witty, 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city 

cxxxv. 

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans. 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it— 
For I will teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 

But ye — our children's children ! think how we 

Show'd what things were before the world was free 

CXXXVI. 

That hour is not for us, but 'tis for you ; 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium. 
You hardly will believe such things wsre true 

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you f;m 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 

Yet, if perchance remember 'd, still disdain yoi. 'em 
More than you scorn the savages of yore. 
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 
And those that sate upon them, let it be 

As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones. 
And wonder what old world such things could see 

Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 
The pleasant riddles of futurity — 

Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 

As the real purpose of a pyramid. 

CXXXVIIl. 

Reader ! I have kept my word, — at least so far 
As the first canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war- 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
For I have drawn much less with a long bow 

Than my, forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 

But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I choose to break off in the middle. 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall. 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch 



liON JUAN 



678 



CXL. 

This special honor was confen'd, because 
He had behaved with courage and hximanity ;— 

Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little ''aptive gain'd him some applause, 
For saving her amid the wild insanity 

Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 

CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless : all 

Har friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall : 

Her very place of biith was but a spectre 
-Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 

And made i *¥ to shield her, which he kept. 



CANTO IX. 



I. 



Oh, Wellington ! (or " Villainton "—for fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

FraLce could not even conquer your great name. 
But punn'd i*, down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same) — 
Yon have obtain'd great pensions and much praise ; 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humar *v would rise, and thunder. " Nay ! "> 

n • 

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
Tn Marin<''t's affair — in fact 'twas shabby. 

And, like some other things, won't do to tell 
Upon your tomb in Westininster's old abbey. 

Upon tlie rest 'tis not worth wliile to dwrll, 
Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby; 

r'Uit though your j;cars as 7nan tend fast to zero, 

[n fact your gwice is still but a ycninrj hero. 

III. 

I'hongh Britain owes (and pays you too) so much. 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you grr-ntly more : 

Voti have repair'd legitimacy's cnitr-h— 
A prop not quite so ct-rtnin !is be«'ore : 

The Spanish, and the French, .-is well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore ; 

Vnd Waterloo has made the world your flebtor — 

I wish your bards would siuK it rutin r l)(»tter. y 

[V. 

Vou are " the best of cut-throats : " — do not stnrt ; 

The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied; 
^'ar's a brain-spjitteriug, wndpipe-slitting nrt, 

Unless her cause by right bo sanctified, 
if yoti have acted rmrr a f^fuerous pait, 

The world, nut the world's masters, will decide, 
And 1 shall he delighted to learn who, 
Havf you and yours, have guin'd b%' Waterloo? 
«6 



V. 



I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of flattery ; 

They say you like it too — 'tis no great wonder ; 
He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 

At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 
And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, h» 

May like being praised for every lucky blunder : 
Call'd " Saviour of the Nations " — not yet savea. 
And ♦' Europe's Liberator " — still enslaved 

VI. 

I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 

Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 
And send the sentinel before your gate, 2 

A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 
He fought, but has not fed so well of late, 

Some hunger, too, they say the people feels : 
There is no doubt that you deserve yoiir ration- 
But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 
I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 

You, my Lord Duke ! is far above reflection. 
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus 

"With modern history has but small connection; 
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 

You need not take them under your direction • 
And half a million for your Sabine farm 
Is rather dear ! — I'm sure I mean no harm. 

VIII. 

Great men have always scorn'd great recompense* , 
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 

Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 

George Washington had thanks and nought besldoi 

Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's Is) 
To free his country: Pitt, too, had his pride, 

And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is 

Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity. 
Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 

You might have freed fall'n Europe from tne unity 
Of tyrants, and been bless'c^ from shore to shore; 

And now — what is your fame ? Shall the Muse tune 
it ye } 
Now— that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? 

Go. hear it in your famish'd coimtry's cries ! 

Behold the world ! and curse your vieiorieH \ 



As these now cantos touch on warlike feats 

To ifou the imflattering Muse deigns to inset ibe 

•Truths that you will not read in the gazettes, 
P.ut which, 'tis time to teacn the hireling tribe 

Wbo fatten on their country's gore and ^ebts, 
Mvat be recited, and — withotjt a bribe. 

You did t/rt'ot things ; but, not being (jreat in min^ 

Have left undone the fjreafrs* — ^ ">-vkmd. 

XI 
Death lauehs — Go ponder o'or the skeleton 

With which men image out the r.nknown thing 
That hides the past wi»rld. like to a set sun 

"Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring 
Dciith l.iu"ghs at all you weep for ; — lo(^k tipon 

This bnurly dread of all whose threafrn'd sting 
Turns lift> to terror, even though in its sheath ! 
Mark ! howr its lipless mouth grins without brestK 



6*'4 



BYRON S TVORKS. 



XII. 



Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles ; and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle — (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's) — his incarnate skin, 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 

XIII. 

And thus Death laughs,— it is sad merriment, 
But still it w so • and with such example 

V?hy should not J/ife be equally content. 
With his superior, in a smile to trample 

Upon the nothiugs which are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns as rays— worlds like atoms — years like ours ? 

XIV. 

•*To be, or rot to be ! that is the question," 
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 

I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, 
Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion, 
Than Bonaparte's cancer: — could I dash on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach — what were a good name ? 

XV. 

" Oh, dura ilia messorum ! " — " Oh, 
Ye rigid guts of reapers ! " — I translate 

I jr the great benefit of those who know 
What indigestion is — that inward fate 

Which makes all Styx throiigh one small liver flow. 
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 

Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, — 

He who sleeps best may be the most content. 

XVI. 

•* To be, or not to be ! " — Ere I decide, 
I should be glad to know that which is hdng. 

'Tis true we speculate both far and wide. 
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing : 

For my part, I'll enlist on neither side. 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 

XVII. 

• Que scais-je r " was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians : 
That all is dubious which man may attain. 

Was one of their most favorite positions. 
1 hero's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 

As any of mortality's conditions : 
Bo little do we know what we're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XVIII. 
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 

Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation; 
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat ? 

Your wise men don't know much of navigation ; 
And swimming long in the abyss of thought 



XIX. 

"But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all,— 
No more of this then, — let us pray ! " We h»T» 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
Which tumbled all mankin I into the grave. 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fal 
Is special providence," though how it gave 

Offence, we know not ; probably it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 

Oh, ye immortal gods ! what is theogony ? 

Oh, thou ',00 mortal man ! what is philanthropy ! 
Oh, world, which was and is ! what is cosmogony ? 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
And yet I know no more than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean:'— i'j 
kanthropy 
I comprehend ; for, vdthout transformation, 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind. 
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 
And (though I could not now and then forbeai 

Following the bent of body or of mind) . 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — ' 

Why do they call me misanthrope ? Because 

They hate me, not I them : — And here we'll pause 

XXII. 
'Tis time wj should proceed with one good poem, 

For I maintain that it is really good. 
Not only in the body, but the proem. 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the truth will show 'en) 

Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 
Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours) — 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
Of the immortal Peter|s polish'd boors, [witty, 

Who still have shown themselves more brave than 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's a pitj. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 

XXIV. 

And I vdll war, at least in words (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds) with all who war 

With thought ; — and of thought's foes by far mcst 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. [rudf $ 

I know not who may conquer ; if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, do^vnright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people : 

Without me there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels to pull down every steeple. 
And set up in their stead some proper stuff 

Whether they may sow skepticism to reap hell 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough. 



Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station [gathers 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 
*'>ine pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. ; As much from mobs as kings — from you as me 



DON JUAN 



67^ 



XXVI. 

The consef^uence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties : — never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small art : he 
"Who ncith'^r wishes to bt bound nor bind 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

Thafs an appropriate simile, that jackal; 

I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 
By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 
A.nd scent the prey their masters would attack all. 

However, the poor jackals are less foul, 
(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 
Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm ! 'twill brush their web away. 
And without that, their poison and their claws 

Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — 
(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause ! 

The web of these tarantulas each day 
Increases, till you shall make common cause; 

None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 

As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
Was left upon his way with the despatch. 

Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the 

Between these nations as a main of cocks, [match 

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on, 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and there were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge. 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill, 
Who is no pavior, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes soa and land. 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

XXXII. 

A.t least he pays no rent, and has boat right 
To be the first of what we used to call 

'•Gentlemen farmers " — a race worn out quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all. 

And •'gentlemen" are in a piteous plight, • 
And " farmers " can't raise Ceres from her fall : 

She fell with Bonaparte : — what strai.gc thoughts 

Arifle, w.hier ir j see emperors fa-U with oats ! 



XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 

Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a tiopht 

Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To sooth his woes withal, was slain, the sintiet 

Because he could no more digest his dinnei --J* 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or she ! or he ! reflect. 
That one life saved, especially if young 

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels spning 

From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
With all the praises ever said or sung: 

Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 

Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous ! 

Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ' 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us 

Whether you're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's kibes *' 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvatiou. 

XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors ! — " Apropos des bottes"— 
I have forgotten what I meant to say. 

As sometimes have been greater sages' lots • 
'Twas something calculated to allay 

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 
Certes it would nave been but thrown away 

And that's one comfort for my lost advice, 

Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 

But let it go : it will one day be found 
With other relics of " a former world," 

Wl\en this world shall he former, undorgr*. v nd. 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'u, 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or diown'd. 
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 

First out of and then back again to chaos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVTIl. 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 

L'nto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient str&ui 

Of things dostroy'd and left in airj' doubt: 
Like to tlio notions we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say wiles. 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth shoiild be dug up 
How the new worldiugs of the then new FiRst 

Will wonder wliere such animals could stip ! 
(For they themsrlves will be but of the least: 

Even worlds nuscarry, when too oft they p\ip. 
And every new rreution hath deoreased 

In size, from overworking the mnterinl — 

Men are but maggots of some huge cartn's ourial. 



676 



BiKOW S WORKS. 



XL. 



Sow will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about, 
Eapecially of war and taxing — how, 

1 say, will the'e great relics, when they see 'em, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 

XLI. 

E-Jt I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 

: '' The tin.e is out of joint,'?— and so am I ; 
1 quite forget this poem's merely quizzical. 

And deviate into matters rather dry. 
I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 

Much too poetical : men should know why 
They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 
I never know the word which will come next. 

XLII. 
So on I ramble, now and then narrating. 

Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate : 
I left Don Juan vnih his horses baiting — 

Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. 
I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we've so many tours of late : 
Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 
That pleasant capital of painted snows : 

XLIII. 
Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm. 

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room. 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, 

Of yellow kerseymere we may prosiime. 
White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk. 

XLIV. 
Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, 

Made up by youth, fp^me, and an army tailor — 
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 

Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler, 
Seeing how art can make her work more grand, 

(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a 
Behold him placed as if upon apiiliir ! He [jailex) — 
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery. 

XLV. 
His bandage slipp'd down intc a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulets ! his quiver 
Shrunk to a sca])bard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever; 
His bow converted into a cork'd hat ; 

"But still so like, psyche were more clever 
\ Ian some wives (who make blunders no loss stupid) 
If she had not nastuken him for Cupid. 

XLVT. 
rh«5 courtiers stared, the ladies whisper 'd, and 

The empress smiled ; the reigning favorite frown 'd: 
I quite forgot whifh of them was in hand 

.Tust then, as they are rather numerous found. 
Who took by turns that difficult comiuand, 

Riucf first her niijesty w:is sint;ly crown'd: 
B\it thej were nuwtly nervours six-foot fellows. 



XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'erthelees 

There was a something in his turn of limb, 

And still more in his eye, which seem'd to exptesA 

That thougl he look'd one of the seraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress' 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy. 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi 

XL VIII. 

No wcnder then that YermolofF, or MomonoflF, 

Or ScherbatolT, or any other off, 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a tew flame ; a thought to cast off gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough. 
Of him who, in the language of his station. 
Then held that "high official situation." 

XLIX. 
Oh, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase, 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 

His parts of speech •,= and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of words all in a row, 

Which none divine, and every one obeys, 
Peii^aps you may pick out some queer wo-meaning, 
Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 

I think I caa explain myself without 
That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 

That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 

That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 

And here I must an anecdote relate, 

But luckily of no great length or weight. 

LI. 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing some women set a value ou, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Call'd " Cavalier Servente? " — a Pygmalion 
"Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 'ti») 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to diecioet 

Said — "Lady, I beseech you to sujypose them." [them 

LIL 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And mildest, -matron-like interpretation, 

Of the imerial favorite's condition. 

'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station, 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LIII. 

Juan I said, was a most beauteous boy, • 
And had retain' d his boyish look beyond 
I The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 

With beard and whiskers, and the like, the fond 

Parimav /ispect, which upset all Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons ; — I have cnnfin'tf 

The history of divorces, which, though checker' J, 

Calls Ilion's the first damages ou record 



DON JUAN. 



fi71 



LIV. 
A.nd Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much, 
A-dmirinp: those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 

Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
Was the lamented La«nskoi, who was such 
f A. lover as had cost her many a tear, 
— And yet but mr de a middling grenadier. 

LV. 

Oh, thou *' teterrima causa " of all "belli , " — 
Thou gate of life and death ! — thou nondescript ! 

Whence is our ex it and our entrance, — well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 

In thy perennial fountain ! — how man fell, I 
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches 
stripp'd 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 

Sincey thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 

LVI. 

Bome call thee *' the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the hest .-'for, after all, 

From thee we come, to thee we go ; and why, 
To get at thee, not batter down a wall. 

Or waste a world ? Since no one can deny 
Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land ! 

LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 

You please, (it causes all the things which be. 
So you may take your choice of this or that) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 
The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his desoatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole,) she tore 
The letter ojjen with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious. 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys ; the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quonch'd a moment her ambition's thirst^ 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain ' — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands ! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet, rather dull, 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things called sovereigns think it best 
Ti kill, and generals turn it into jest. 



LXI. 



The two first feelings ran their course complete. 
And lighted first her eye and then her mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet. 
Like flowers well water 'd after a long drouth :— 

But when on the lieutenant, at her feet, 
Her majesty — who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new despatch — 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
When wroth; wnilej9/e?asec?, she was as fine a figun 

As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent 
Would wish to look on, while they are in vigor 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest, and in turn was wont with rigor 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 

With her the latter, though at times convenient. 
Was not so necessary : for they tell [lenient. 

That she was handsome, and, though fierce, look'a 
And always used her favorites too well. 

If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 
Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 

A man," as Giles says ;6 for, though she would widom 

Nations, she liked man as an individual. [all 

LXIV. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman ! What a whirlwind is her head. 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her ! whether wed. 

Or ^vidow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind ; whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she'll say or do ;— 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXV. 
Oh, Catherine ! (for of all interjections 

To thee both oh .' and ah! belong of right 
In love and war) how odd are the connections 

Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 
Just now yours were cut out in diflerent sections : 

First, Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 
Ncj-t, of new knights the fresh and glorious batch 
And thirdly, he who brought you the despatch ! 

LXVL 

Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; " 

And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 
While her young herald knelt before her stiU. 

'Tis very true the hill soem'd rather high 

For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill [blessng 

Sniooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and, by God' 

With y^uth and health all kisses are *'hcaven-kis» 
ing." 

LXVII. 

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up— 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face, 

His grace, his Ood-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or "black drop," 

Which makes one drunk at once, without thebai»» 

Expedient of full humpora ; for the eye 

In love drinks all life's fountains (sare tears* dry. 



678 



H^ROH'S WORKS. 



LXVIII. 

He, on thf ether ha id, if not in love, 
Fell into thai no less imperious passion. 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion. 

Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove,"'' 
('Tis Pope's phrase,) a great longing, though a 

For one especial person out of many, [rash one. 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 
VVliich makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we may engage. 
As bold as Daniel in the lions' den, 

B"j that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in — -just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Catherine) 
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 
Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 

Made up upon an* amatory pattern — 
A royal husband in all save the ring — 

Which being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
-In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

Napoleon's, Mary's, (Queen of Scotland,) should 
Lend to that color a transcendent ray ; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue — 

Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 

LXXII. 
Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 

Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 
Her preference of a boy to men much bigger, 

(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension,) 
Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigor, 
. With other extras which we need not meution,— 
All these, or any one of these, explain 
Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that's enough, for love is vanity, 

Selfish in its beginning as its end. 
Except where 'tis a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
itsftlf with beauty's frail inanity. 

On which the passion's self seems to depend 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Wake lox* the mainspring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove. 
That good old steamboat which keeps verses mov- 

Gainstreason— reason ne'er was hand-and-glove [ing 
With rhyme, but always lean'd less to improving 

Fhe sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there arc those things which words jiame 
sensei ; 



LXX\. 

Those movements, those improvements in, otir bbd!o« 

Which make all bodies anxious to get but 
Of their own sandpits to mix with a goddess— 

For such all women are at first, no doubt. 
How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 

That fever which precedes the languid rout 
Of our sensations ! What a curious way 
The whoie thing is of clothing souls in clay . 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical. 

To end or to begin with ; the next grand 
Is that which may be christen'd love canonicul, 

Because the clergy take the thing in hand; 
The third sort to be noted in our chronicle. 

As flourishing in every Christian land. 
Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyze-!-our story must 
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, oi lust; — 
I cannot stop to alter words once written. 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust. 

That he who names 07ie, both perchance may hit OB 

But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress, 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court nkelted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 

The elder ladies' ^vrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smil'd as she talk'd the matter o'er ; but tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, who was this very new young man, 

Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
Which is full soon, (though life is but a span.) 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of roubles rain, as fast as specie can. 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of several ribbands and some thousand peasants. 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are ; 

Love, that great opener of the heart and all 
The ways that lead there, be they near or far r 

Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 
Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 

And was not the best wife, unless we call 
Such Clytemnestra ; though perhaps 'tis better 
That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 

LXXXI. 
Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortunei 

Unlike our own half chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disbursements did importune. 

If history, the grand liar, ever saith [shoiten. 
The truth ; and though grief "her old age mij?W 

Because she put a favorite to death. 
Her vile ambiguous method of flirtation, 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station 



liON JUAN. 



67fe 



LXXXII. 
But V7hen the le\ee rose, and all was bustle 

In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 
Ajnbassadors be'^an as 'twere to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratulations. 
Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 

Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 
It is to speculate on handsome faces, 
Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 
Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written " Gentleman." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 
Our yovsng lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in office : all the world look'd kind, 
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare. 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind ;) 
As also did Miss ProtasofF then there. 

Named, from her mystic office, ** I'Eprouveuse," 

A terra inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With her, then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a " heaven-kissing hill," 
Bo lofty that I feel my brain turn round. 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain 
To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



CANTO X. 



I. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that siight startle from his contemplation — 

lis Haid (for 1*11 not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 

A mole of proving that the earth turn round 
[n a most natural whirl, call'd '* gravitation ; " 

And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 

Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple. 



II. 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose, 
If this be trtie ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose. 
Through the then unpaved stars, the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes; 
For, ever since, immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Bteoni engines will conduct him to the moon. 



III. 



And wherefore this exordium ? — Why just now. 

In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow. 

And my internal spirit cut a caper : 
And though so much inferior, as I know, 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor. 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but foi 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 

But at the least I've shunn'd the common shore, 
And, leaving land far out of sight, would skim 

The ocean of eternity : the roar 
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 

But still sea-worthy skiff ; and she may float 

Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 

V. 

We left our hero, Juan, in the oloom 
Of favoritism, but not yet in the blush ; 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
It is enough that fortune found him flush 

Of youth and vigor, beauty, and those things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings 

VI. 

But soon tney groflr again, ana leave their nest. 

*' Oh ! " saith the Psalmist, " that 1 had a dove't 
Pinions, to flee away and be at rest ! " 

And who, that recollects young years and loves,-— 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves [rathei 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 

VII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widow's) shrink 
Like Arno, in the summer, to a shallow. 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 

Such difference doth a few months make. You'd think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 
But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 

And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 

Is ruilled by a wrinkle, or the sun 
Of life reach ten o'clock : and while a glow, 

Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
O'erspreads the check which seems too pure for "lay, 
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die — how happy they t - 

IX. 
But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favor of the moon, 

Or ladies* fancies — rather transit(^ry 
Perhaps : but who wotild scorn the mouth of Juns 

Because December, with his brcatli so hoiiry, 
Must ccmie ? Much rather should he court the ray 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry dav 



680 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young : [chicks 

The former know what's what ; while new fledg'd 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, or dream'd, (for fancy will play tricks,) 
In visions of those skies from whence love sprung. 

Some reckon women by their suns or years — 

I rather think the moon should date the dears. 

XI. 
And wn.y ? because she's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
duspicious people, who find fault in haste, 

May choose tc tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air ; 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself; — if not, I must 

XII. 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue — 'tis a point of honor ; 

And I know nothing which could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 
Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 

This were the worst desertion : renegadoes, 
Even shufiiing Southey — that incarnate lie — 

Would scarcely join again the "reformadoes,"* 
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty : 

And honest men, from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
WTiether in Caledon or Italy, 

Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize, 

To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 
f he lawyer and the critic- but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
A.nd nought remains unseen, but much untold. 

By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
Wliile common men grow ignorantly old. 

The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

XV. 

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
And that's the reason he himself's so airty ; 

The endless soot bestows a tint far deeper 
/Ihan can be hid by altering his shirt ;* he 

Ri tains the sable stains of the dark creeper — 
At least some twenty-nin. do out of thirty, 

In all their habits : not so you, I own ; 

As Casar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI. 
And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 

Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 
JAs far as rhyme and criticism combine 

Tc make such puppets of usthings below,) 
Are over : Here's a health to " Auld Lang Syne ! " 

I do not know you, and may never know 
your face — but you have acted on the whole 
Most no'tiiy, and I own it from my soul. 



XVIL 

And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang Syne t 
*Tis not address'd to you — the more's the pity 

For me, for I would rather take mj* wine [city 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud 

But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine. 
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head - — 

XVIII. 

As " Auld Lang Syne " brings Scotland one and all, 
Scotch plaid, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, aai 
clear streams. 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's Brig's black wall} 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring — floating past me seemp 

My childhood in this childishness of mine : 

I care not — 'tis a glimpse of •' Auld Lang Syne.'' 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 

I rail'd at Scots to show my >vrath and wit, 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit — 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early ; 

I " scotched, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood, 

And love the land of "mountain and of flood." 

XX. 

Don Juan, who was real or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real, 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink, 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 'tis very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare. 
And know no more of what is here than there :— 

XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish' d Russian — 
How we won't mention, why we need not say 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way ; 

But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honor : gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, ^ 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 
The favor of the empress was agreeable ; 

And thovgh the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be abl« 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 
About this time, as might have been anticipated, 

Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 
Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 

Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 
On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 

With all kinds of incorrigible samples 
Of frail humanity — must make us selfish,. 
And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 



DON JOAN. 



681 



XXIV. 
rUis we pass over. We will also pass 

7 he- usual progress of intrigues between 
Unequal uiatohes, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 
But one who is not so youthful as she was 

In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 
Sovereigns may sway materialsj but not matter, 
And wrinkles (the d d democrats) won't flatter. 

XXV. 

^nd Death, the sovereigns' sovereign, though the 
Gracchus of all mortality, who levels [great 

With his Agrarian laws, the high estate 
Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels. 

To 01 small grass-grown patch (which must await 
Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 

Tfho never had a foot of land till now, — 

Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry [glitter. 
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, 
Through all *he " purple and fine linen," fitter 

For Babylon's han Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralize aer outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII 

And this same state we won't describe : we could 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood," 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, 'that rude 
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspec- 

Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier [tion 

Of age, aad, looking back to youth, give one tear ; — 

XXVIII. 
1 won't describe — that is, if I can help 

Description : and I won't reflect — that is. 
If I can stave off thought, which^— as a whelp 

Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 
Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 

Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 
Drains its fiist draught of lips : but, as I said, 
1 won't philosophize, and will be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, 
A thing which happens rarely ; this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valor ; much also to the blood he show'd. 

Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
Wliich set the beauty off in wliich he glow'd, 

/Is purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 

llff owed to an old woman and his post. 



XXX. 

He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relationi, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 

Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For couHJuH also, answer'd the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emiijrations ; 
And, eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 

Ihat witli th'- addition of a slight pelisse, 

Madrid's and Moscow's climes wore of a piece. 
86 



XXXI. 

His mother. Donna Inez, findiLg, too, 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, [choT 
He had brought his spending to a handsome an 

Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasure after which wild youth will hanker 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce hie past expenses. 

XXXII, 

" She also recommended him to God, 
And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks uddl 
In Catholic eyes ; but told him too to smother 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 

Born ill a second wedlock ; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 

" She could not too much give her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 

Whose age, and, what was better still, whose nation 
And climate, stopp'd all scandal, (now and thex :\ 

At home it might have given her some vexation : 
But where thermometers sunk down to ten, ^ 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river '' 

XXXIV. 

Oh, for a. forty-parson powe^"^ to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt. 
Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim • 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
Who, thoxigh her spectacles at last grew dim. 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite, at least, poor soul ! 

But went to heaven in as sincere a way 
As any body on the elected roll. 

Which portions out upon the judgment d&y 
Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday Sirroll^ 

Such as the Conqueror William dia repay 
His knights with, lotting others' properties 
Into some sixtv thousand new knichts' fees. 

XXXVI. 

1 can't complain, whose ancestors aie tht 
Erneis, lladulphus — eight-and-forty manots 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
Were their reward for following Billy's banne 

And, though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce fjJt 
To strip the Saxons of their hi/dei,^ like tanners, 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 

You'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 



XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants — call'd sensitive, 

Wliich shrink from touch, as monarchs do from 
Save such as Southey can afford to give, [rhyme* 

Pcrhajis he long'd, in bitter frosts, for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to live 

Before Mny-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 
*ln loyalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beautv : 



682 



BYRON'S ^ORKS 



XXXVIII. 

Perhaps,- -but, satis perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fan est, freshest cheek. 
As well as further drain the wither'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills iu, and, however we may storm, 

rhey must I e paid : though six days smoothly run, 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

( don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The .empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled. 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumors : 
Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkin; 

Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumors. 
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 

Some said 'twas a concoction of the humors. 

Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 

Others again were ready to maintain, 

*' 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
" Sodse sulphat. 3vj. 3 fs. Mannee optim. 

Aq. fervent, f. Jifs. 5ij- tinct. Sennae [him) 

Haustus " (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd 

"R. Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanhae " 
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em.) 

* Bolus Potassoe Sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die capiendus.'' 

XLII. 
This is the way physicians mend or end us, 

Secundum artem : but although we sneer 
In health— when ill, we call them to attend us, 

Without the least propensity to jeer: 
VVliile that " hiatus maxime deflendus," 

To be fiU'd up by spade or mattock, 's near, 
Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 
We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 

XLIII. 
Juan demurr'd at this first notice to [tion, 

Quit ; and, though death had threaten'd an ejec- 
His youth and constitution bore him through, 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 
The climate was too cold, they said, for him. 

Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 
Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim. 

Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 
But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, 

And drooping like an eagle's with clipp'd pinion, 
8he then resolved to send him on a mission, 
But in a style beo Muing his condition. 



XLV. 

There was just tnei. a kind of a discussiou 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication [*>u 
With which great states such things are apt to pus! 

Something about the Baltic's navigation. 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetin 
Which Britons deem their "uti possidetis." 

XLVI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 
Of fitting out her favorites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendor, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 
Received instructions how to play his card, 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors, 
Which show'd what great discernment was tLe 
donor's. 

XLVII. 
{But she was lucky, and luck's all. Your queenp 

Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
I Which puzzles us to know what fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were waning 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 

And fom-and-twenty hours, and twice thatiiumbei 
Of candidates requesting to be placed, 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste. 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But, always choosing with deliberation. 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honor's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You'll mount with.our young hero the conveyanct 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh ; the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair Czarina's autocratic crest, 

(When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris,) 

Was given to her favorite,^ and now bore his. 

L. 

A bull-dog, and a bull-finch, and an ermine. 
All private favorites of Don Juan ; for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem n: ere vermia— 
Live animals : — an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display' 1 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid. 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; biit at his side 

Sat little Leila, who sxirvived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossack sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse variet 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl 



DON JUAX. 



683 



LII. 



Poor little thing . She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character, 

h.o rare ii. living beings as a fossil [Cuvier ! " 

Man, 'mid thy moaldy mammoths, " grand 

111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle 
With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore. 

LIIL 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor br?ther, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot teil exactly what it was ; 
He was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, 
Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom — for he never had a sister : 

A.h ' if he had how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIV. 
a.nd still less was it sensual ; for besides 

That he was not an ancient debauchee, 
(Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides, 

As acids rouse* a dormant alkali,) 
Although ('twill happen as our planet guides) 

His youth was not the chastest that might be, 
There was the purest Platonism at bottom 
Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 
Just now there v as no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the it fant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride too felt that she was not enslaved. 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation, [paved. 

Through his means and the church's, might be 
But one thing's odd, which here must be inserted — 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LVI. 
"Twas strange enough she should retain the im- 
pression [slaughter ; 
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
But, though three bishops told her the transgression, 

.She show'd a great dislike to holy water : 
She also had no passion for confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter 
Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
8he still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LVII. 
In fact, the only Christian she could bear 

Was Juan, whom she seem'd to have selected 
In place of what her ho'ne and friends once were. 

He naturally loved what he protected ; 
And thus they form'd a rather curious pair : 

A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender ; 
A.nd yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 

LVIII. 
They joirney'd on through Poland and through 
Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous farce saw 
Which gave her dukes ' the graceless name of 
" Birou." • [saw, 

Tis the same landscape which the modern Mjuts 
Who marched to Moscow, led by fame, the syren ! 
To lose, by one month's frost, some twenty yuuis 
'J( cui q lent, and his guard uf grenadiers. 



LIX. 

Let not this seem an anti-climax : — " Oi ! clay— 
My guard ! my old guard ! " exclaim'd tnat gad a 

Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 
Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 

Ala? i that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 
Bu ; should we wish to warm us on our way 

Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 

Might scatter fire through ice, like ILecla's flame. 

LX. 
From Poland they came on th^ agh Prussia proper 

And Konigsberg the capital, whose vaunt. 
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 

Has lately been the great Professor Kant. 
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 

About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
Have princes who spur more than their postillions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like 
Until he reached the castellated Khine : — 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine : 

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre 

Of the go\^l feudal limes for ever gone, 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 

The greatest number flesh hath ever known.8 

LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's fiague and Helvoetaluys 
That water land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 

Where Juniper expresses its best juice — 

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn 'd its use- 
But to deny the mob a cordial which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LXIV. 
Here he embark'd, and, with a flowing sail. 

Went bounding for the isUnd of the free, 
Towards which the impatient wind blew half a geie 

High dash'd the spray, the bows di])p'd in the sea 
And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale : 

But Juan, season'd, as he well might bo 
By former voyages, stood to watch the skitfs 
Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffi 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue seu's border ; and Don Juan felt— 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 

Those haughty shopkeepers, who strrnly dcall 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to polo, 

And made the very billows pay theiu tu'l 



684 



BYRON S WORKS. 



LXVI. 

I've no great cause to love that spot of earth, 
Which holds what titighi have been the noblest 

But though I owe it little but my birth, [nation ; 
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 
Seren years (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 

When a man's country's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 
Alas ! could she but fully, truly know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd; 
How eager all the earth is for tlie blow 

"Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 

That worse than worst of foes, the once adored 
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 
And now would chain them, to the very mind : — 

LXVIII. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves ? The nations are 

In prison, — ^but the jailer, what is he ? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar 

Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom ? He's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 
Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties, 

Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbor, and hotel ; 
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties ; 

Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 

To those who upon land or water dwell ; 
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed. 
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique. 
And rich in roubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
Yet stared at Ihis a little, though he paid it — 

(His maggior duomo, a smart subtle Greek, 
Rcfore him summ'd the awful scroll and read it:) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration's worth the money. 

LXXI. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash 
through puddle ; 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause, besides, to fuddle 
With " schnapps "—sad dogs ! whom •* Hundsfot " 

or Ferflucter " 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 

NoWj there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as Cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, 

&.nd merely ^r the sake of its own merits : 
For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

\ X the great ena of travel — which is driving. 



LXXIII. 
They saw at Canterbury the Cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm, and Becket's bloc dy stones. 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : , 
There's glory again for you, gentle reader ! all 

Ends in a rasty casque and dubious bone. 
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias, 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species.. 

LXXIV. 

The effect on 'Juan was of course suMime : 
He breathed a thousand Cressays, as he saw 

That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who* now at least must talk of law, 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed. 

And asked why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 

And being told it was " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 

He sufFer'd infidels in his homestead, 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The true believers ; — and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXXVI. 

On, on ! through meadows, managed like a garden_ 
A paradise of hops and high production ; 

For, after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, 

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 

Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ices 

IXXVII. 
And when I think upon a pot of beer — 

But I won't weep ! — and so, drive on, postillions! 
As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 

Juan admired these highways of free millions ; 
A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones. 
Who "kick against the pricks" just at this junctuie 
And for their pains get only a fresh puncture 

LXXVIII 

What a delightful thing's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, sxich a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail ; — but, onward as we roll, 
" Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll ! 

LXXIX. 

Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! [purses. 
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men • 

As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment. 
Such is the shortest way to general curses. 

They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
On that sweet ore, which every body nurses •— 

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it — 

But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket 



DCN JUAN. 



»86 



LXXX. 

^o said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
- Tv. your instructor. Juan now was borne, 
Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high hill which looks with pride or scorn 
Toward the gret-t city : — ye who have a spark in 

Ycur veins of cockney spirit, smile or mourn, 
According as you take things well or ill — 
Bc^d Britons, tc are now on Shooter's Hill! 

LXXXI. 

The SUA went do^vn, the smoke rose up, as from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 

Which well beseem'd the "Devil's drawing-room," 
As 5;ome Ttave qualified that wondrous place. 

But Juan felt, though not approaching home. 
As one wK ^, though he were not of the race, 

Revered the loil, of those true sons the mother, 

Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other. 

LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Oould reach, with her(^ and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amid the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fooi's head — and there is London town ! 

LXXXIII. 

But Juan 5aw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appcar'd to him but as the magic vapor 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds, (a wsalth of tax and paper ;) 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper. 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere — 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so/vill I — as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will reneAv 
Our old acquaintance, and at least I'll try 

To tell you truths you will not take as true. 
Because they arc so, — a mule Mrs. Fry, 

With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, 

A.nd brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh, Mrs. Fry ! why go to Newgate ? Why 
Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 

With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imporiai sin. 

lo mend tlie people's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 

Unless you make thrir betters hotter : — Fie ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Poach them the decencies of good threescore: 
Cure them of tours. Hussar und Highland dresses: 

I ell them that youth once gone returns no more; 
That hired huzzas rcdcirm no land's distresses: 

Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, 
Too dull even for the dullest of excesses— 

The witless Falstf.ff of a hoary Hal, 

A. fool whose bells have ceased to ring ut all, — 



LXXXVII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps no late, 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated. 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'Tis not so to be good ; and be it stated. 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state j 
And tell them — but you won't, and 1 have prated 

Just now enough ; but by and by I'll prattle 

Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO XI. 



"When Bishop Berkley said " there was no matter," 
And proved it — 'twas no matter what he saii 

They say his system 'tis in vain to batter, 
Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter. 
Gladly, all matters down to stone or lead. 

Or adamant, to find the world a sjjirit. 

And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

II. ' 
What a sublime discovery 'twas, to make the 

Universe universal egotism ! 
That all's ideal — all ourselves f I'll stake the 

Wprld (be it what you will) that t/uit's no schism. 
Oh, doubtl — if thou be'st doubt, for which sometakfl 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole pri.sui fthee, 
Of the truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit 
Heaven's brandy — though our brain can hardly beaf 
it. 

III. 
For, ever and anon comes indigestion, 

(Not the most " dainty Ariel,") and perplexes 
Our soarings with another sort of question : 

And that which, after all, my spirit vexes 
Is, that i find'no spot whore man can rest eye on, 

Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 
Of beings, stars, and this \inriddlod wonder. 
The world, wliichat tlie worst's a glorious blunder— 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 

lo the old text, still better ! lest it should 

Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gaiiist the wordirg 
As several people think such hazards rude : 

They're right: our days are* too brief for ufforiiug 
Space to dispute what no one over could 

Decide, and even/ body oiw dai/ will 

Know vj ry clearly — or at least lie still. 



And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
DiscussiouB, which is neither here and there. 

If I 'agree that what is, is — tlien this 1 call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair. 

The trtith is, I'tc grown lately rather phthiaicai 
1 don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but a8 I suffer froni the shocks 

Of illness, I grow m\i'jh njore ortuoduJL. 



686 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



VI. 



The first attack at once proved the divinity, 
(But thct I never doubted, nor the devil ;) 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The thiid, the usual origin of evil ; 

The fourth at once established the whole Trinity 
On so incontrovertible a level, 

That 1 devoutly wished the three were four, 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme : — The man who has stood on the 
And look'd down over Attica ; or he [Acropolis 

Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 

In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 
Or sat amid the bricks of Nineveh, 

May not think much of London's first appearance — 

But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill- 
Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 

Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
Wliere London streets ferment in full activity. 

While every thing around was calm and still, [he 
Except the creak of wheels, w^ich on their pivot 

Heard— and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 

Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 

IX. 

I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 

And, lost in wonder of so great a nation. 
Gave way to't, since he could not overcome i^;. 

" And here," he cried, " is Freedom's chosen station ; 
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 

Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 

Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 



" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 

'Tis only that they love to throw away 
Their cash, to show how much they have a year. 

Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 
Traps for the traveller, every highway's clear : 

Here " he was interrupted by a knife, 

VVith "Damn your eyes ! your money or your life !" 

XL 

Thes-e frecbom sounds pioceeded from four pads, 
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 

Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
Had >:eizod the lucky hour to reconnoitre. 

In which ';he 'hoeJlefis gentleman who gads 
Upon ihe road, unless he prove a fighter, 

M ay fin i hij-aeelf, v/ithin that isle of riches. 

Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XII. 

ifuan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shiboleth, " God damn " 
And even that he had so rarely heard. 

He sometimes thcnght 'twas only their ** salam," 
Or "God be with you," — and 'tis not absurd 

To think so ; for, half English as I am, 
(To my misfortune,) never can I say 
I hewd them wish " Uod witl you," save that way : 



XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture. 

And, being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
Drew forth a pocket-pistol from his vesture, 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding— 
"Wlio fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native nud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
" Oh Jack ! I'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody Frescb 
man ! " 

XIV. 
On which Jack and his train set off at speed,' 

And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, 

And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 

As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
Stood calling out for bandages and lint, 
And wish'd he'd been less hasty with his flint. 

XV. 

*' Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
Differ, except in robbing with a bow. 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to be done ? I can't allow 

The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 

So take him up ; I'll help you vdth the load." 

XVI. 

But, ere they could perform this pious duty, 

The dying man cried, " Hold ! I've got my gruel ' 

Oh ! for a glass of nt-ax ' We've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am . '* And, as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drev> 

His breath, he from his swelling throat untied [iU 

A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that ! " — and died. 

XVII 

The cravat, stain 'd with bloody drops, fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 

Exactly v?hy it was before him thrown, 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewelL 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy upon town, 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell. 

Full flash, all fancy, until fairly diddled— 

His pockets first, and then his body riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, having done the best he cotild 

In all the circumstances of the case, 
As soon as "crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, a very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man. 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van. 
Booze in the ken, or at the spellken hustle ? 

Who queer a flat ? "Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice so flash the muzzle ? 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing \ 

So prime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowinfi; ?' 



DON JUAN.' 



687 



XX. 

But Tom s no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die; and by God's blessing, 'tis 
Not long before the most of them go home. 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
Fhat Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other *•' tons,'* 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; 

XXI. 

Through groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 
(Like iticus from no light;) through prospects 
named 

Mount I'leasant, as containing nought to please, 
Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
"With *' To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 

Through " rows " most modestly call'd '* Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; — 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a 
Of wheels, androarof voices, and confusion; [whirl 

Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl," 
There mails f;ist flying off like a delusion ; 

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
In windows ; here the lamp-lighter's infusion 

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, — 

(For in those days we had not got to gas:) 

XXIII. 
Through this, and much, and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
1 could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 

XXIV. 

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment too his stream — [mes" 

Though hardly hoard through multifarious "dam'- 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam 

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam [Fame is 

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 

Make this a s^red part of Albion's isle. 

XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better ; 

Stone-IIenge is not — but what the devil is it ? — 
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter. 

That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 
I'he Rcnch too seats or suits full many a debtor ; 

The mansion-house, too, (though some people quiz 
To me appears a stiff yet grand erection : [it,) 

But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights, too, up to Charing-Cross, 
Pail-Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation, 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 
Match'd with the continent's illumination, 

^Tiose cities night by no means deigns to gloss : 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation, 

And when they grew so — on their new-found lantern, 

ln"t'«tjd >f wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 



XXVII. 

A row of gentleman along the streets 
Suspended, may illuminate mankind. 

As also bonfires made ol country-seats , 
But the old way is best for the purblind 

The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
A sort of ignis-fatuus to the mind. 

Which, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten. 

Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 
But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 

Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 
And found him not amid the various progenies 

Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging hii 

Yet undiscover'd treasure. What / can, 
I've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 
But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pail-Mall, 
Through crowds and carriages — but waxing thinner 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinne"< 

Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 

Pursued'his path, and drove past some hotels, 

St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells."' 

XXX. 

They reach'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the h hH 
A tide of well-clad waiter!^ and around [d30» 

The mob stood, and as usual several score 
Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 

In decent London when the daylight's o'er ; 
Commodious but immoral, they are found 

Useful, like Malthus, in promoting marriage 

But Juan now is stepping from his carriage, 

XXXL 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 
Especially for foreigners — and mostly 

For those whom favor or whom -fortune swells. 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,) 

Until to some conspicuous square they pass. 

And blazon o'er the door their names in biASS 

XXXIL 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission. 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 
The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 

'Twas merely known that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 

Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was «aia 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head 

XXXIIL 
Some rumor also of some strange adventures 

Had gone before him, and his wars and loves. 
And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 

And above all, an English woman's roves 
Iiitv) the excursive, breaking the indentures 

Of sober reason, wheresoc'er it moves, 
V.e found himself extremely in the fashion, 
Which serves our thinking people for a pHUton 



688 



BYRON'S WORKS- 



XXXIV. 

1 don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 

The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head ; 
Yet, as the consequences are as bright 
. As if they acted with the heart instead, 
What after all can signify the site 

Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
In safety to the place for which you start, 
What matters if the road be head or heart ? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 
To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those Tho govern in the mood potential. 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face, 
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster. 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we'll talk of that ; and if we don't, 

'Twill be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double frpnt, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? 'Tis but 
The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 

The very shadow' of true truth would shut 
Up annals, revelations, poesy. 

And prophecy — except it should be dated 

Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 

Can tax my mild !?i!vise with misanthropy ? 
She rings the world's " Te Denm," and her brow 

Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 
Is idle ; let us, like most others, bow. 
Kiss hands, feet — any part of Majesty, 
\ After tlie good example of "Green Erin," 
\ Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wear- 

' "ig« 

XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration — 

I don't know which was more admired or less : 
One monstrous diamond drew much observation. 

Which Calhcrme, in a moment of " iva-esse," 
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation,) 

Bestow'd upon him as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and und ?rlings, 
Who m(i«t be courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings. 
Until their royal riddle's fully read. 

The very clerks — those somewhat dirty springg 
Of office, or the house of office, fed 

By foul corruption into streams — even they 

»Vei-e hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 



XLI. 

And insolence no doubt is what they are 
Employ'd for, since it is their daily labor, 

In the dear offices of peace or war ; [neighbu«> 

And should you doubt, pray ask of your neti 

When for a passport, or some other bar 

To freedom, he applied, (a grief and a bore,) 

If he found not this spawn of tax -bom riches 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b o . 

XLIL 

But Juan was received with much ** empressment ; 

These phrases of refinement I must borro"' [man, 
From our next neighbor's land, where, like a chesn- 

There is a move set down for joy or sorrow. 
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man, 

In islands, is, it seems, downright and thorough. 
More than on continents — as if the sea 
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free 

XLIII. 

And yet the British *' dam'me " 's rather Attic : 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things which no aristocratic [anen^ 
Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't 

This subject quote, as it would be schismatic 

In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't :— 

But "dam'me" 's quite ethereal, though too daring— • 

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 
For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home » 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Note) you may cross the blue deep and white foam- ■ 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine, 

XLV. 

In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, 

And about t\^'ice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty. 

But to sit up while others lie in bed. 

And look down on the -universe with pity 

Jiian, as an inveterate patrician, 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
Of import both to virgin and to bride, 

The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter- 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride> 

'Tis also of some moment to the latter : 
A rib's a thorn in a wed gullant's side, 

Requires decorum, and is apt to double 

The horrid sin — and, what's still worse, the trouble 

XLVII. 
But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, jnad 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of mclod'es ; and could be sad 
Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time ; and, though a lad. 
Had scan the world — which is a curious sight;, 
And very much unlike what people write. 



T)OJN JliAN. 



680 



XLVIII. 

i<"aiT virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 
Bloom 'd also in less transitory hues ; 

Kor both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 

Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims, 
Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 

Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 

/nquired h's income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish " drapery misses"* 
Thrvjughout the-season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 

Not to be overlook'd, and gave such credit. 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid 
it. 

L.* 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets. 
And with the pages of the last review 

Lme the interior of their heads or bonnets, 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: 

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian ? 

And whether in his travels he saw Ilion ? 

LI. 

Juan, who was a little superficial, 
And not ili literature a gri^at Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer : 

His duties warlike, loving, or official, 
His steady application as a dancer. 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green. 

LII. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 
A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith. 
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith, 

(Who at sixteen, translated •' Hercules Furens " 

Into as furious English,) with her best look, 

oet d'- jvn his sayings in her common-place book. 

LIII. 

Jnin knew several languages — as well 
He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 

To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 
Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 

There wanted but this requisite to swell 
His qualities (with them) into sublime: 

Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Meevia Mannish, 

Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

X^' LIV. 

^O^ However he did pretty well, and was 
^ Admitted as an aspirant to all 
' The coteries, and, as in Ban^uo's glass, 
At great assemblies orm parties small. 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

1 hat being abovt t>e'r average numeral ; 
\l8c the eighty '• greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 
87 



LV. 

In twice five years the ** greatest living poet** 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring. 

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it. 
Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure 1 did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be kin^— 

Was reckon'd, a considerable time, 

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
My Leipsic, and my Mont-Saint-Jean rfeenyj v'aiii 

** La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at i,ero. 
Now that the lion's fall'n, may rise again • 

But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reigr^ ; 

Or to some lonely isle of jailers go. 

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campoe' 
Before and a''ter ; but now, grown more holy, 

The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble • 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly ; 

And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 

Beneath the Very Reverend Rowley Powley, 

Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 

A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 

LVIII. 
Still he excels that artificial hard 

Laborer in the same vineyard, though the vine 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 

That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine ; 
That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard ; 

That ox of verse, vfho ploughs for every line > 
Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest.- ■ 

LIX. 
Then there's my gentle E iphues, who, they say, • 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 
He'll find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway 

And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian, "Savage Landor, 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 

John Keats — who was kill'd off by one critique 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the goas of late 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
Poor fellow ! his was an untoward fate : 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 

Should let itself be snutf'd out by an article 

LXI. 
The list grows long of live and dead pretender • 

To that which none ''•ill gain — or none will knv>« 
The couqiieror at least ; wno, ere Time renders 

His lust award, will have the long grass grow 
Aoove his burnt-out brain and sapless cinder* 

If I might augur, I should rate but low 
Their chances; they're too numerous, like the thirty 
Mock tyrants, when Rome's annuls wax'd but dirtr 



690 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXII. 

This is the literary lotoer empire, 

Wl.ere the Prsetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers sam- 

The insolent soldiery to sooth and flatter, [phire," 
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 

Now, ■'vere I once at home, and in good satire, 
['d try conclusions with those janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 
I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks ;— but it is hardly worth my while 
With such small gear to give myself concern : 

Indeed I've not the necessary bile ; 
My natural temper's really aught but stem. 

And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile ; 
And then she drops a brief and modest curtsy. 
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
Among live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 

With»some small profit through that field so sterile. 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 
And henceforth found himself more gaily class'd 

Among the higher spirits of the day, 

The sun's true son — no vapor, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His moms he pass'd in business — which, dissected, 
Was like all business, a laborious nothing. 

That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing. 

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 

Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should. 

LXVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
* Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 
Iji riding round those vegetable puncheons, [flower 
•Call'd •' Parks," where there is neither fruit nor 
Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 

But, after all, it is the only " bower" 
(In I»Ioore'8 phrase) where the fashionable fair 
Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the v/heels, 

then roar [hurl'd 

Through street and square fast-flashing chariots, 

Like hamess'd meteors ! then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons are twirl'd ; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens t? the thousand happy few 
An earthly paradise of "Or Molu." 

LXVIII. 
There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the 
waltz — 
The only dance which teaches girls to think — 

Makes one in love even with its very faults. 
Saloon, room, hall o'erflow beyond their brink, 

And long the latest of arrivals halts, 
Mid royal dukes and dames condemn'd to climb, 
Knd gain an inch :f staircase at a time. 



LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
Of the good company, can vnn a comer, 

A door that's in, or boudoir out of the way. 
Where he may fix himself, like small " Jact 

And let the Babel round run as it may, [Horner,* 
And look on as a mourner, or a scomer, 

Or an approver nr a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an 'active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering ce* 
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to whew 

He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air. 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill. 

Where Science marshals forth her OAvn quadrille. 

l!?lxi. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride. 

Let him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste : impatience is a blundering guide. 

Amongst a people famous for reflection. 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 
But, if you can contrive, get next at supper ; 

Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle.— 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle. 
Which sits forever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue ! Uf 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

LXXIII. 
But these precautionary hints can touch 

Only the common run, wl o must pursue, 
And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too muct 

Or little overturns ; and not the few 
Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
. Whom a good mien, especially if new, 
Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense 
Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since 

LXXIV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 

Like other slaves of course must pay his ran,s3m, 
Before he can escape from so much danger 

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ;— 

I wish they knew the life of a young noble 

LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is antici- 
pated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich vdthout a sous ; 
Their vigor in a thousand arras is dissipated ; [Jew ; 

Their cash comes /'row, their wealth goes ^o, f 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew , 
And, having voted, dined, drajik, gamed, and 
The family vault receives another lord. [w'lored 



DON JUAN. 



^59 1 



LXXVI. 

* Where is the -world?" cries Young, at eighty — 
"Where 
The world in which a man was born ? " Alas ! 
WThere is the world of eight years past ? ' Twos there — 

I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass ! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, "hiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXVII. 

t^^ere is Napoleon the Grand ? God knows : 
Where little Castlereagh ? The devil can tell : 

Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell ? 

WTiere is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes ? 
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved 
well? 

Where are those martyr'd saints, the Five per Cents ? 

And where — oh, where the devil are the Rents ? 

LXXVIII. 

Where's Brummel ? Dish'd. Where's Long Pole 
Wellesley? Diddled. [the Third ? 

Where's Whitbread ? Rommily ? Where's George 
Where is his will ? (That's not so soon unriddled.) 

And where is "Fum" the Fourth, our "royal bird ?" 
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : [ing 
"Caw me, caw thee," for six months hath been hatch- 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady That ? 

The Honorable Mistresses and Misses ? 
Some laid aside like an old opera hat, 

Married, unmarried, and remarried : (this is . 
An evolution oft perform'd of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses ? 
Where are the Grenvilles ? Turn'd as usual. WTiere 
My friends the Whigs ? Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 
Where the Lady Carolines and Franceses ? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is, — 

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in cannages, and all the phantasies [nols ? 

Of fashion, — say what streams now fill those chan- 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXL 
Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, 

Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 
Some heiresses have bit at sliarpers' hooks: [mothers; 

Some maids have been made wives — some merely 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks : 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. [is 

There's little strange in this, but something strange 
Ihe unusual quickness of these common changes. 

LXXXII. 
Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 

I have seen more changes, down from monarchsto 
The humblest individual under heaven. 

Than might sulKce a moderate century through. 
I knew that nought was lasting, but not even 

Change grows too changeal)le, without being new. 
Nought's permanent among the human race, 
Ex?eT>* *^p Whigs twt getting into place. 



LXXXIII. 
I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jiipiter 

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 
(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 

If that can well be, than his wqoden look. 
But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 

And sail for a new theme : I have seen — and shooi 
To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd; 
But don't pretend to settle which was best. 

LXXXIV. 

I have seen the landholders without a rap— 
I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap- 
I have seen that sad affair of the late queen 

I have seen crowns Avorn instead of a fool's cap- 
I have seen a Congress doing all that's mean— 

I have seen some nations, like o'erloaded asses. 

Kick off their burdens — meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land— 
I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers— 

I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquor! 

Exchang'd for " thin potations " by John Bull — 

I have seen John half detect himself a fool. 

LXXXVI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " cai-pe, carpe ; 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 

" Life's a poor player " — then " play out the pla^ 
Ye villains ! " and, above all, keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say ; 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what you see. 

LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero, in the land 
Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand— 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 'tis as well at once to understand, 
You are not a moral people, and you know 'K 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet 

Lxxxvin. 

"What Juan saw and underwent shall be 

My topic, with, of course, the due restrtction 

Which is required by proper oomtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 

Though every scribe, in some slight turn of diotioa 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

Thui— wh.cn 1 speak, I dvnt hint, but spea.'c out 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth [ess 
Offspring of some sage, husband-hunting couuf 

Or whether with st)me virgin of more worth 
(I mean in ftjrtunc's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth, 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount 'v 

Or whethtT he was taken in for dan\:»tfe.s, 

For beiug 1 5o exoumivt in his hnmances— 



692 



BYRON'S WORRh. 



XC. 



Is yet witbm the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 

For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
Bo much the better !— I may stand alone, 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



CANTO XII. 



Op all the barbarous middle ages, that 
Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man ; it is— I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

And don't know justly what we would be at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black-letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we were ; — 

II. 

Too old for youth— too young, at tnirty-five, 
To herd -with boys, or hoard Avith good threscore — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 
But, since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive ; 
And as for other love, the illusion's o'er; 

And money, that most pure imagination, 

31eams only through the dawn of its creation. 

III. 

Oh gold ! why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table, • 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing. 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese- 
paring. 

Y\ , 

liOve or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker ; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
Put making money, slowly first, then quicker, 

And adding still a little through each cross 
fWhich will come ovei things,) beats love or liquor. 

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
Jh gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper, 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapor. 



Vho hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
O'er Cc^igress, whether royalist or liberal ? 

^^ho rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain [her all ? 
That make old Europe's journals squeak and gib- 

''Tic keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
Or pleasure ? Who make politics run glibber all ? 

I \e shide of Bona])arte's noble darirg ? — 

' %«r Rothschild, and his fellow. Christian Baring. 



VI. 



'Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are th e true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 
But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit ; 
Colombia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VII. 

^Yhy call the miser miserable ? as 

I said before : the frugal life is his, 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause, 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austeritiea f 
Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial ;- 
Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 

VIII. 

He is your only poet ; — passion, pure 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays 

Possessed, the ore, of which'mere hopes allure 
Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 

Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure ; 
On hiin the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; 

While the mild emerald's beam shades dowoi the dyei 

Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 
The lands on either side are his : the ship 

From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 
For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 

Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 
And the vme blushes like Aurora's lip ; 

His very cellars might be kings' abodes; 
While he, despising every sensual call, 
Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 

X. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

A hospital, a church — and leave behind 
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
May be the hoarder's principle of action, 

The fool will call such mania a disease : — 

NVhat is his own 1 Go— look at each transaction 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
Than the mere plodding through each " vulgai 

Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! [fraction V 

Let spendthrift's heirs inquire of yours — who'l 
wiier ? 

XII. 

How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 

(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shineb 

But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 
Some likeness which the glittering cirque conftnoi 

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp :— 

Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 



DON JUAN. 



699 



XIII. 



•fiOre rules the camp, the court, the grove ;" for love 
Is heaven, and heaven is love :" — so sings the bard ; 

l^hich it were rather difficult to prove, 
(A thing with poetry in general hard.) 

Perhaps there maj' be something in " the grove," 
At least it rhymes to " love ; " but I'm prepared 

To doubt no less than landlords of their rental) 

If " courts " and " camps " be quite so sentimental. 

XIV. 

But if love don't, cash does, and cash alone : 
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides : 

Without cash, camps were thin and courts were none; 
"Without cash, Malthus tells you, "take no brides." 

80 cash rules love the ruler, on his own 
High ground, as Virgin Cynthia sways the tides ; 

And, as for " heaven " being " love," why not say 

Is wax ? Heaven is not love, 'tis matrimony, [honey 

XV. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt, 
After a sort : but somehow people never [out : 

With the same thought the two words have help'd 
Love may exist with marriage, and should ever, 

And man-iage also may exist without. 
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. ti 

Now if the " court " and " camp " and " grove " be 
Recruited all with constant married men, [not 

Who never coveted their neighbor's lot, 
I say that line's a lapsus of the pen : — 

Strange too in my " buon camerado " Scott, 
So celebrated for his morals, when 

My J effrey held him up as an example 

To me, — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded. 
And that's enough ; succeeded in my youth. 

The only time when much success is needed : 
And my success produced what I in sooth 

Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
Wliate'cr it was, 'twas mine ; I've paid, in truth. 

Of late, the penalty of such success. 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 
That suit in Chancery, — whicb some persons pleaded 

In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
In the faith of their procreative creed. 

Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 
To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 

To lean on for 8U])port in any way ; 
Since odds'arc that po.sterity will know 
No more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Wliy, I'm posterity — and so are yoii ; 

And whom do we remember ? Not a hundred. 
Were every memory wi-jtten down all triie, [der'd : 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blun- 
Bven Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few. 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thun- 
And Mitford, in the nineteenth century, fdor'd; 

Gives with Greek truth, the Rood old Greek thelie.* 



XX* 

Good people all, of every degree. 
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers 

In this twelfth canto 'tis ray wish to be 
As serious as if I had for inditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce : the last set free 
The negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 

While Wellington has but enslaved the whites, 

And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writea 

XXI. 

I'm serious — so are all men upon paper : 

And why sho>uld I not form my speculation, 

And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 

On constitutions and steamboats of vapor ; 
AVhile sages write against all procreation, 

Unless a man can calculate his means 

Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans 

XXIL 
That's noble ! that's romantic ! For my part, 

I think that " philo-genitiveness " is — 
(Now here's a word quite after my own heart. 

Though there's a shorter a good deal than thi% 
If that politeness set it not apart : 

But I'm resolved to say nought that's amiss)— 
I say, methinks, that "philo-genitiveness" 
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 

XXIII. • 

And now to business. Oh, my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place 
WTiere every kind of mischiefs daily brewing. 

Which can await warm youth in its wild racO. 
'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chaso 
Of early life ; but this is a new land. 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate. 
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, ' 

I could send forth my mandate like a primate. 
Upon the rest of Europe's social state , 

But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 
Great Britain, which the Muse may penctrjle 

All countries have their " lions," but in the? 

There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 

But 1 am sick of politics. Begin 

" Paulo majora." Juan, undecided 
Among the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like skater glided : 
AVlien tii-ed of play, he flirted without ain 

With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end they make 
Sonu; devilish escapade or stir, which shows 

That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primrose paths of snoWi 

And then men stare, as if a now ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'crflo'va 

Quicksilver small-talk, ending (if you note it) 

With the kind world's amen—' Who would bav» 
thought it ? " 



694 



BYRON'S WORKfcj 



XXVII. 

The little Leila, with her oiient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic dispostion, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise 

To the surprise of people of condition, 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
Her charming figure and romantic history, 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 

The women much divided — as is usual 

Among the sex in little things or great. [all — 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you 

I have always liked you better than I state, 
SiE ce I've grown moral : still I must accuse you all 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Among you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 

In one point only were you settled — and 
You had reason ; 'twas that a young child of gracej 

As beautiful as her own native land, 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 

Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 

Would be much better taught beneath the eye 

Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition, 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition. 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sagea, 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 

XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 

Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and " out" — 
For that's the phrase that settles all things now. 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 
And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money.) 

XXXII. 
How all the needy honorable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 
The watchful mothers and the careful sisters, 

(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 
At making matches, where •' 'tis gold that glisters," 

Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy. 
Buzz round " the Fortune " with their busy battery. 
Id turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 

XXXIII. 
iSach aunt, each cousin hath her speculation ; 

If ay, married dames will now and then discorer 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I've kno^\'n them court an heiress for their lover. 
•• Tantajne ! " Such the virtues of high station, 

Even in the hopeful isle, whose outlet 's " Dover ! " 
While the poi^r rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 



xxxrv 

Some are soon bagg'd, but some itject three loaeb 
'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 

And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 
(Friends of the party,) who begin accusals 

Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to haTi 
chosen 
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 

To his billets ? Why waltz with him ? Why, I pray 

Look yes last ni^ht, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

"Why ?— Why ?— Besides, Fred, really was attach d 
'Twas not her fortune — he has enough without ; • 

The time will come she'll wish that she had snatch d 
So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 

But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 
As I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 

And after all poor Frederick may do better--' 

Pray, did you see her answer to his letter ? " 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweep-stakes for substantial wives: 

And when at last the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman who fights, or writes, or drivel. 

It sooths the awkward squad of the dejecteil 

To find howjKry badly she selected. 

xxxvn. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer ^ 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower tum'd of forty's sure* 

(If 'tis not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
See nought more strange in this than t'other lottery 

XXXVIII. 
I, for my part — (one "modern instance" more,) 

"True, 'tis a pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true" — 
Was chosen from out an amatory score, 

Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 
But though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon were to be two, 
I'll not gainsay the generous public's voice- 
That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'Tis always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are. 

Not as they ought to be : for I avow, 

That till we see what's what in fact, we're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plougB 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its com at the old price. 



DQN JUAN. 



69/ 



XLI 



Bit first of little Leiia we'll dispose j 

For, like a day-dawn, she was young and pure, 

Or like the old comparison of snows 
Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 

Like many people every body knows, 
Don Juan wad delighted to secure 

A. goodly guardian for his infant charge. 

Who might not proftt much by being at large. 

XLII. 
BesideB, he had found out he was no tutor, 

(I wish that others would find out the same :) 
And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 

For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 
80, when he saw each ancient dame a suitor, 

To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 
Consulting the " Society for Vice 
Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden she was — ^but had been very young : 
Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe. 

Although the world has such an evil tongue 
That — but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that's wrong : 
In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve 

As that abominable tittle-tattle. 

Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIV. 
Moreover I've remark'd, (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way,) 
And so may every one except a dunce. 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray. 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the wo 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 
Or what's still worse, to put you out of fashion, — 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now, whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

1 think you'll find from many a family picture. 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture. 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield show 

Of vestals broup;ht into the marriage mart, 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLVIL 

said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about— 

As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 
But now no more the ghost of scandal stalk'd about ; 

She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 
A.nd several of her bcjjt bon-mots were hawk'd about ; 

Then she was given to charity and pity, 
And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
Coi being a most exemplary wife. 



XLVIII. 
High in high circles, gentle in her owU; 

She was the mild reprover of the youi g, 
Whenever — which means every day — they'd shown 

An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
The quantity of good she did's unknown. 

Or, at the least, would lengthen out my song:— 
In brief, the little orphan of the East 
Had raised an interest in her which increased. 

XLIX. 
Juan, too, was a sort of favorite with her, 

Because she thought him a good heaat at bottoia^ 
A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 

Which was a wonder, if you think who got him. 
And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither j 

Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 
At least entirely — for he had seen too raanv 
Changes in youth, to be surprised at any 

L. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 

For when they happen at a riper age. 
People are apt to blame the fates, forsooth. 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty. 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weightv 

LI. 

How far it profits is another matter, — 
Our hero gladly saw his little charge 

Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 
Being long married, and thus set at large. 

Had left all the accomplishments she taught ber 
To be transmitted, like the lord mayor's barge. 

To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 

More Muse-like — like Cytherea's shell. 

LII. 
I call such thijigs transmission ; for there i- 

A floating balance of accomplishment 
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 

According as their minds or backs are bent. 
Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 

Of metaphysics ; others are content 
With music ; the most moderate shine as wits, 
While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIII. 
But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays. 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days, 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same prai4« 
Of " elegant " et cetera, in fresh batches- 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 
But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 

Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 
That from the first of cantos up to this, 

've not begim what we have to go through. 
These first twelve books arc nuTcly flourishes 

Preludios, trying just a string or two 
Upon my lyre, or making the pigs stiro , 
And when so, you shall have the ovrrture 



696 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LV. 



My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
Ab lut what's call'd success, or not succeeding. 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they've 
chosen ; 
'Tis a " great moral lesson " they are reading. 

i thought, at setting off, about two docen 
Cantos would do ; but, at Apollo's pleading, 

(f thaLmy Pegasjis should not be founder'd, 

[ tbi«^k to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 

Yolept the great world ; for it is the least. 
Although the highest : but as swords have hilts 

By which their power of mischief is increased, 
When man in battle or in quarrel tilts. 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 
Must still obey the high — which is their handle. 
Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing 
ca.ndle. 

LVII. 
He had many friends who had many wives, and was 

"Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass ; 

In does nor good nor harm, being merely meant 
To keep the wheels going of the higher class. 

And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent : 
And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 
A young unmarried man, with a good name 

And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 
For sjood society is but a game, 

" The royal game of goose," as I may say, 
Where every body has some separate aim, 

An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 
The single ladies wishing to be double. 
The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 



LIX. 

I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits : 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 
" Fisheis for men," like sirens with soft lutes ; 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

And you may get the wedding-dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps, you'll have a letter from the mother, 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd; 

Perhaps you'll have a visit frem the brother. 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What " your intentions are ? " — One way or other 
It seems the \irgin's heart expects your hand; 

And between pity for her case and yours, 

you'll add to matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 
I've known a dozen weddings made even thus, 

i^nd some of them high names : I have also known 
Young men who — though they hated to discuss 

Protensions which they never dream'd to have 
Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, [shown — 

Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 
4.nd lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 
fn happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 



LXII. 

There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — ^not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated • 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
It adds an outward grace unto their carriage- 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 

** Couleur de rose," who's neither white nor scarlet 

LXIII. 

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say ** No," 
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and 

On a. lee-shore, till it begins to blow — [ofF-ir.g, 

Then sees your heart wreck 'd, with an inwar<J 

This works a world of sentimental wo, [scoffing ; 
And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

" Ye gods, I grow a talker ! " Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though L place it sternest, 
Is when, without regard to " Church or State," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou leamest)— 
But in old England, when a young bride errs. 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers : 

LXV. 

For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 
Country, where a young couple of the same agca 

Can't form a friendship but the world o'erawes it. 
Then there's the vulgar trick of those d— d 



A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it !— 

Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 
Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 
And evidences which regale all readers ! 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy. 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste— 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, h^.d one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick — no, 'twas not the word sick I meant 
But he had seen so much good love before. 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But this much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white cliff's, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stock 
ings, 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knockingfs 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for pas 

And passion's self must have a spice of frantic, [sion 
Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 

Secm'd to liim half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation : 

Besides, (alas ! h'<i taste — forgive and pity !) 

At first he did uo^ think the women pretty. 



DON JUAN. 



697 



LXIX. 

I say at Jirst — for he found out at last, 
But by degrees, that they were fairer far 

rhan the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
Beneath the influence of the Eastern star — 

A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 

To taste : — the truth is, if men would confess, 

That novelties jw/mie less than they impress. 

LXX 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 
Where geography finds no one to oblige her 

With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos piger : *' 

But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 

No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 

LXXL 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. Yoxx'U attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I'm right ; 

Or if I'm wrong, I'll not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I'm relapsing into metaphvsics, 
That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame ; 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame. 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those Polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

LXXIII. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere flshes ;— 

Not that there's not a quantity of those 

Who have a -due respect for theii- own wishes, 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows' 
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious : 

They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But this r.as nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

That storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
9he keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXV. 

Bhe cannot step as docs an Arab barb. 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb, 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glam-e is burning; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not 8>j fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily)— 
8S 



LXXVI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off"-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — so give the devil his due , 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview, 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil,' 

But though the soil may give you time and troub' 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

LXXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a "grande passion." 

It is a very serious thing indeed ; 
Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice or fashion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead. 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed ; 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado. 
For there's no saying what they will or may do. 

LXXVIII. 

The reason's obvious : if there's an eclat. 
They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias ; 

And when the delicacies of the law [various 

Have fill'd their papers with their comment* 

Society, that china without flaw, 

(The hypocrite !) will banish them like Manus, 

To sit amid the ruins of their guilt : 

For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt 

LXXIX 

Perhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more 

And be thy sins forgiven : " — but upon tnis 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss. 
An erring woman finds an opener doer 

For her return to virtue — as they call 

The lady who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 

For me, I leave the m-atter where I find it, 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 

And as for chastity, you'll never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads. 

But aggravate the crime you have not prevented 

By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
Upon the moral lessons of mankind: 

Besides, he had not seen, of several hundiea, 
A lady altogether to his mind. 

A little " blase " — 'tis not to be wonder'd 
At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 

And though not vainer from his past siiccess, 

No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 
He also had been busy seeing sights — 

The parliament and all the other houses; 
Had sate beneath the gallery at nights, 

To hear debates whose thunder roiiaed not {ro\t»m) 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights,* 

Which flash'd as far as where the musk-bull 
browses : 
He had also stood at times behind the throne- • 
But Grey was not aiTivcd. and Chatham pone. 



598 



BTRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIII. 

He saw, h owever, at the closing session, 
That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 
Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

"f is not mere splendor makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There too he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A prince, the prince of princes, at the time, 

With fascination in his very bow, 
And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow. 
He had then the grace too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 

And Juap was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occur'd what often happens, I'm afraid. 

However disciplined and debonnaire : 
The talent and good humor he display'd, 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and 
Is not to be put hastily together ; [why. 

And as my object is morality, 

(Whatever people say,) I don't know whether 

I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 
But harrow up his feelings till they wither, 

And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 

As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.* 

LXXXVII. 
Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 

Ends. When the body of the book's begun, 
You'll find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 'twill be when done : 
The plan at present's simply in concoction. 

I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 
That's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it; — 

LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader ! you have had before 

The worst ot tempests and the best of battles 
That e'er v/ere brew'd from elements of gore, 

Besides the most sublime of— Heaven knows what 
else: 
An Tivirer could scarce expect much more — 

But my bes' canto, save one on astronomy. 

Will turn upon *' political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

7^<i< ifi yopi' present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 

t grows an act of patriotic charity, 
To show the people the best way to break. 

Vy plan (but I, f but for singularity, 
Reserve it) wi^l be very sure to take. 

Meantime lead ail the national debt-sinkers, 

A.nd tell me what you think of our great thinkers. 



CANTO XIII. 



I. 

1 NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time, 
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd I 'O seiioiu 

A jest at vice by virtue's call'd a crime. 
And critically held as deleterious ; 

Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

IL 
The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will. 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 

I'll not gainsay them ; it is not my cue : 
I leave them to their taste, no doubt the best 

An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue. 
Is no great matter, so 'tis in request : 

'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 
The kindest may be taken as a test. 

The fair sex should be always fair; and no man 

Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain womau. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon's no more at full. 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways ; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 

V. 

I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line ; 
But then they have their claret and Madeira 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings and the Parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent, 

VI. 

And is there not religion and reform, [tion t 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call d the "n»- 

The £ truggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
The landed and the money'd speculation ? 

The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 
Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 

Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure 



-P^ 




LADY ADELINE. —Page 



DON jrAN. 



699 



VII. 

Bough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
flight honestly, <* he liked an honest hater — "• 

The only truth that yet has been conf^ss'd 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest ; — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ; 

VIII. 

But neither love, nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
tt is because I cannot well do less, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales, 'tis the saddest — and more sad. 
Because it makes us smile ; his hero's right, 

And still pursues the right; — to curb the bad. 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight, 

His guerdon, 'tis his virtue makes him mad ! 
But his adventures form a sorry sight : — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 
To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff; 

Opposing singly the united strong, 
From foreign yoke to free the helpless native ; — 

Alas . must noblest views, like an old song. 
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative ? 

A jest, a riddle, fame through thick thin and sought ? 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote ? 

XI. 

L'ervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 

A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
Of his own counti-y ; — seldom since that day [charm, 

Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory as a composition 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I'm "at my old Luncs "—digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
File fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Althougli she was not evil nor meant ill : 
But Destiny and Passion spread tbe net, 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will,) 
And caught them- what do they 7wt catch, methinks? 
But I'm not (Edipus, and life's a sphinx. 

XIII. 
I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : " Davus sum ! " 
^nd now 1 will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amid the gay world's h\im, 
•Vas the queen bee, the glass of all that's fair , 

Whose charms made ill men speak, and women 
The last's a miracle, and such was reokon'd, [dumb, 
^ud diiice that time there hiu} not been a second. 



XIV. 

Chaste was she to detraction's desperation, 
And wedded unto one she had loved well— 

A man known in the councils of the nation, 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 

Though apt to act with fire upon occasion. 

Proud of himself and her ; the world could tell 

Nought against either, and both seem'd secure 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations, 
Arising out of business, often brought 

Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 

Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caugl 

By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, 
And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 

And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 

In making men what courtesy calls frienda 

XVI. 

And Jhus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

In judging men— when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe. 

Had all the pertinacity pride has. 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Because its own good pleasm-e hath decided. 

XVII. 

His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 
Though oft well founded, which confirm'd bnl 

His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians [more 
And Medes, would ne'errevoke what went before. 

His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, 
Of common likings, which make some deplore 

Wliat they should laugh at — the mere ague st'i^ 

Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

'* 'Tis not in mortals to command success ; 

But do yoic more, Sempronius — don't deserve it ** 
And take my word, you won't have any less : 

Be waa-y, watch the time, and always serve it ; 
Give gently way, where there's too great a press ; 

And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it, - 
For, like a racer or a boxer training, 
'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without p&iniAg 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior. 
As most men do, the little or the great ; 

The very lowest find out an inferior, 
At least they think so, to exert their state 

Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
Than solitary pride's oppressive weight, 

Which mortals generously would divide. 

By bidding other* carrj' while they ride. 

XX. 

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O.'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

In years he hud the advantage of time's sequel ; 
And, as he thought, in country much the same 

Because hold Britons have a tongue and free quill* 
At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Henry was a groat debater, 

So that few members kept the Houbo up later. 



702 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLIX. 

£'ve dono ^vith my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand for whom earth was made 
\^ ne vanish 'd to be what they call alone, — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
Ab many guests or more ; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 



hzr'i Henry and the Lady Adeline 
Departed, like the rest of their compeers, 

J he peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 

The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
.None than themsel-^s could boast a longer line, 
Where time through heroes and through beauties 

And oaks, as olden as their pedigree, [steers ; 

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LT. 

A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modem fame : 

'Tis pity that it takes no further hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 

When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
The Morning Post was foremost to proclaim — 

*' Departure, for his country-seat to-day, 

Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LII. 
*' We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; [correct, 

'Mid whom, we have heard from sources quite 
The Duke of D the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd; 
Also a foreigner of high condition. 
The envoy of the'secret Russian mission." 

LIII. 
And thus we see — ^who doubts the Morning Post ? 

(Whose articles are like the •' thirty-nine," 
V^liich those most swear to who believe them most) — 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host, 

With those who. Pope says, "greatly daring dine." 
"Tis odd but true, — last war, the news abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded. 

LIV. 

As tnus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same [here 

Column: date, " Falmouth. Thorc has lately been 

The slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame : 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
Xhc vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazette." 

LV. 

To Norman AbUey whirl'd the noble pair, 
An old, old monastery once, and now 

Btill older mansion, of a rich and rare 
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 

Few specimens yet left us can compare 
Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, 

Because the mc nks preferr'd a hill behind, 

To shnltei Iheir devotion from the ^ind. 



LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
Stood like Car-ictacus in act to rally [stroke 

rlis host, y.nth broad arms 'gainst the thunder 
And from ben<?ath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters — as day awoke. 
The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 

To quaff a brook whicn murmur'd like a bird. 

LYII. 
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
By a river, which its soften 'd way did take 

In currents through the caliuer water spread 
Around : the wild fowl nestled in the brake 

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 
The v^oods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 
With their green faces fix'd upon the Hood 

LVIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade. 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsidinflf 

Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a ri^-ulet ; and, thus allay'd. 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 

Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue, 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 
A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile [apart 

(While yet the chiirch was Rome's) stood hall 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear'd — a loss to art: 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil. 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's 
In gazing on that venerable arch. [march, 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone : 
But these had fallen not, when the friars fell. 

But in the war which struck Charles from hif 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell [throne, 

The annals of full many a line undone,— 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
Tlie Virgin Mother of the God-born child. 

With her son in her blessed arms, look'd round. 
Spared by some chance when all beside WM 

She made the earth below seem holy ground, [spoil'dj 
This may be superstition, weak or wild, 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings, 

Through which the deepened glores once could enter 
Streaming fnmi off the sun like seraph's wings. 

Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft singi 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 




TUE LAKE. —Pago 70^ 



DON JUAN. 



/OS 



LXIII. 
Bat in th » noontide of the moon, and when 

The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 

Is musical — a dying accent driven 
Thro'.igh the huge arch, which soars and sinks again. 

Some deem it Itut the distant echo given 
Back to the night-wind by the waterfall. 
And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape or form. 
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 

Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 
St^d, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower: 

The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 

The fact : — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 

LXV. 

Amid the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 

Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint ; ' 

The spring gush'd through grim mouths, of granite 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent [made. 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : 

An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 

The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
. By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 
Might shock a connoisseur ; but, when combined, 

Form'd a whole which, irrcgutir in parts, 
Yet left a grand impression on the mitid, 

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 
We gaze upon a giant for his stature. 
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII. 
Bteel barona, molten the next generation 

To silken rows of gay and gartered carls, 
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation ; 

And Lady Maiys, bloouiiuR into girls, 
'^Vith fair long locks, had also kept their station ; 

And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
Wliose drapery hints we may admire them freely, 

LXIX. 

Judges, in veiy formidable ermine, 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right: 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys- general, awful to the sight, 
ti.9 hintintr nr:ore (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of thf " Sta- Chamber " tban of " Habeas Corpus ' 



LXX. 

Generals, some all in armor, of he old 

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed ; 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce coritain'd the steei 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 
But, ever and anon, to sooth your vision, 

Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 

Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's :* 
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shonc 

In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 
Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 
His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXII. 
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light, 
Or gloom Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite :— 
But lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
His bcll-mouth'd goblet makes mn feel quite Danish' 
Or Dutch with thirst — What ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

LXXIII. 
Oh, reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know 

'Tis not enough to spell, or even to read. 
To constitute a reader ; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 
Firstly, begin with the beginning, (though 

That clause is hard,) and set >ndly, proceed ; 
Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 
In this sort, end at least with the beginning 

LXXTV. 
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 

While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 

Dan Phrebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
That poets were 90 from their earliest date, 

By Homf^r's "C^te'ogue of Ships" is clear* 
But a mere modern must be moderate— 
I spare you, then, the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it crmc 
The proTuised party, to enjoy its swee'.js. 

The corn is cut, the manor full uf game; 
The pointer ranges, and ths sportsman bent* 

In riisset jacket : — lynx-like is his aim. 

Full grows his bag, and woudvvftd h\n feats. 

Ah, nut-brown partridges ! ah, brilliaiit pheasantt 

And ah, ye poachers ! — 'tis no sport for peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An FingHsh autumn, though it hnth no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the fair festoin entwines 
The red grape in th? sunny lands of song, 

Hath yet a purchased choice of ihoicest wn.M; 
The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 

V Britain mourn her bleakneisi, we cia: tol.' her 

The Tcrv best of vinovarda i* the celliU" 



704 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVII. 

Tlien, if she hath not that serene decline 
Wliich makes the southern autumn's day appear 

A.S if 'twould to a second spring resign 
The season, rather than to winter drear,— 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
The sea-coal fires, the earliest of the year ; 

Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

A.nd for the effeminate villeggiatura — fchase 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the 

So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,<» 
And wear the Melton jacket for a space : — 

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 

Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex thejoas — 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabbey 
The Ladies, Scilly, Busey; Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw: 

Also the Honorable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep. 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — ^but rank ; 

At once the " lie " and the " elite " of crowds ; 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank. 

All purged and pious from their native clouds ; 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The " pass'^e " and the past ; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety : 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station ; 

And so that no explosion cry " Aroint 
Thee, witch ! " or each Medea has her Jason ; 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 

♦* Omne tulit punctum, quae miscuit utile dulci." 

LXXXII. 
I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 

Which hath a little leaning to a ioUery ; 
I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 

By the mere combination of a coterie • 
Also a s«-so matron boldly fight 

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery. 
And shine the very Siria of the spheres, 
Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

Ive seen more than I'll say :— but we will see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
['ve named a few, not foremost in degree. 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd among these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 



LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bu ly, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly. 

He shows more apx^etite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who haJ 
newly 

Come oxkx and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star 
There was Lord Pyrrho, too. the great freethinker 
And Sir John Pcttledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a- -duke, 
" Ay, every inch a " duke ; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 
There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears 

All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVI. 

There were four Honorable Misters, whose 

Honor was more before their names than after; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, [heie, 
Whom France and fortune lately deign'd to waft 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
But the Clubs found it rather serious laiighter, 

Because- — such was his magic power to please,— 

The dice seem'd charm'd too Avith his repartees. 

LXXXVII. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician. 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ; 

Angle, the soi-distant mathematician ; 
Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner ; 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian ; 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner ; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 

LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd. 
There was ttie waggish Welsh Judge, JefFeries Hards 

In his grave office so completely skill'd, [majR, 
That when a culprit came for condemnation. 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX. 

Good company's a chess-board — there are kings. 
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; tb« 
world's a game ; 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings ; 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 

My Muse, the butterfly, hath but lier wings, 
Not stings, and flits through ether Avithoui aim, 

Alighting rarely : were she but a honiet. 

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

XC. 

I had forgotten — ^but must not fcrget — 

An orator, the latest of the session, 
Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly trangressioD 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With this debut, which made a strong impression, 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd— 
** The best first speech that ever yet waa made." 



DON JUAN. 



70 ft 



XCI. 



rtond of his " Hear hims ! " proud, too, of his rote, 

AnO lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of hip learning, (just enough to quote,) 

He revell'd in his Cicer mian glory : 
With memory excellent tj get by rote, 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
Graced with some merit and with more effrontery, 
* His country's pride," he came down to the country. 

XCII. 

There also were two wits by acclamation, 

Longbow from Ireland, Strongbowfrom the Tweed, 
Both la-w'yers, and both men of education ; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed : 
Longbow was rich in an imagination, 

As beautiful and bounding as a steed. 
But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — 
Vhile Strongbow's best things might have come 
from Cato. 

XCIIL 
Btrongbow was like a new tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an -^olian harp. 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp, 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word ; 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred. 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIV. 

U all these seem a heterogeneous mass, 

To be ap?embled at a country-seat, 
Yet think a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
The days of comedy are gone, alas ! \hHe ; 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Moli^re's 
Society is smooth'd to that excess, 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 

xcv. 

Our ridicules are kept in the background, 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions, too, are no more to be found 

Profesj \onal ; and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit; for though your fools abound, 

They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
•^orm'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

XCVI. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth ; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Further I'd quote, but Scripture, intervening, 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries 

•' That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies." 

XCVII. 

But what we can we glean in this vile age 
Of chaff, although our gleanings bo not grist. 

[ must not quite omit the talking snge, 
Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 

Who, in his common-place book had a page, [list 1 "■— - 
Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh 

•• Alas, poor ghost ! " — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 



XCVIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversaticn 
By many windings to their clever clinch ; 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch. 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talker puts them to the test. 

But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best 

XCIX. 
Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were- the guests : 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substanti il feasts 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner !— 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 

C. 

Witness the lands which "flow'd with milk and 
Held out unto the hungry Israelites : [honey," 

To this we've added since the love of money. 
The only sort of pleasure which requites. 

Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 
We tire of mistresses and parasites : 

But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah ! who would lose tnee * 

When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 

6i. 

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot. 

Or hunt ; the young because they liked the sport— 

The first thing boys like after play and fruit : 
The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 

For ennui is a growth of English root. 

Though nameless in our language ; we retort 

The-fact for words, and let the French translate 

That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate 

CII. 
The elderly walk'd through the library. 

And tumbled books, and criticised the pictures, 
Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously. 

And made upon the hot-house several strictoret, 
Or rode a nag which trotted not tro high. 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
Longing, at sixty, for the hour of six. 

cm. 

But none were " gi^n^ ; " the grt ^t ho'ir of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to hear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

When, where, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale- 
Met the morn ns they might. If fine, they roda 

Or walk'd ; If foul, they read, or told a tale, 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad: 

Discuss'd the fashion which mi^ht next prevail ; 
And settled bonnets by the newest code ; 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 

To make each correspondent a new debt 



706 



BYRON'S WOttJkS. 



CV. 



For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — ^because it never ends, 

I love the mystery of a female missal. 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
'fake care what you reply to such a letter. 

CVI. 

Then there were billiards ; cards too, but no dice ; 

Save in the Clubs no man of honor plays ; — 
Doata when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice, 

And the hard frosts destroy'd the scenting days: 
And angling, too, that solitary vice. 

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says : 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should havt a hook, and a small ti-out to pull it.* 

CVII. 
With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione ; the duet. 
Attuned by voices more or less divine, 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 

CVITI. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze : 
Thfn there was small-talk ready when required ; 
. ^ . Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 

. Of charms that should or should not be admired ; 

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 

CIX. 
The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres ; 
The wits watch'd every loop-hole for their art, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart — 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it. 
And then, even then, some bore may make them 
lose it. 

ex. 

but all was gentle and aristocratic 
In thii our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold, 

As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic, 
There now are no Squire Westerns, as of old ; 

And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. [Jones, 

We'\e no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom 

But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 
Ihey separated at an early hour ; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon: 
But in the country, ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true color soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters, 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 



CANTO XIV. 



I. 



If from great Nature's or our own abyss 
Of thought, we could but snatch a certainty. 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they misfl 
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophjf 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave hira stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 

But system doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 
After due search, your faith to any question ? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one 

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 

And yet what are your other evidences ? 

III. 
For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know you, 
Except perhaps that you were born to die .-' 

And both may, after all, turn out untrue. 
An age may come. Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep^ 
And yet a third of life is pass'd m ?leop. 

IV. 

A sleep -nithout dreams, after a rough day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay I 
The very suicide that pays his debt 

At once without instalments (an old way 
Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 

Lets out impatiently hi^ rushing breath. 

Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 



'Tis round him, near him, here, there, every where 
And there's a courage which grows out of fear. 

Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
The worst to know it: — when the mountains rear 

Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 

The gulf of rock yawns, — yon can't gaze a minute 

Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

YI. 
'Tis true, you don't — ^but, pale and struck with tcrroi, 

Retire • but look into your past impression ! 
And you will find, though shuddering at the mirroi 

Of your own thoughts, in all their self-confession 
The lurking bias, be it tnith or error. 

To the unknoton ; a secret preposession, [pot 
To plunge with all your fears — ^but where ? You ktk om 
And that's the reason why you do— or do not 



DON JUAN. 



in 



VII. 

Hut what's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
For which my sole excuse is — 'tis my way. 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
I write what's uppermost without delay ; 

This narrative is not meant for narration, 
"But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with common-places. 

^ VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
•' FHng up a straw, 'twill show the way the wind 
blows ; " 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath, 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which the onAvard soul behind throws, 

And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise. 

But just to play with, ra an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is al] before me — or behind; 

For I have seen a portion of that same. 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 

Of passions, too, I've proved enough to blame. 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 
' Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame : 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme; 



I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other : that's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no tneans a few, 

And yet I can't help sciibbling once a week. 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In youth I wrote because my mind is full, 

And now because 1 feel it growing dull. 

XI. 

But ** why then publish ? " — There are no rewards 
Of fame or profit, when the world grows weary. 

I ask in turn, — why do you play at curds ? [dreary. 
Why drink ? Why read ? — To make some hour less 

It occupies me to turn back regards 

On wbat I've seen or ponder'd sad or cheery ; 

And what I write I cast upon the stream. 

To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 

I think that were I certain of success, 
I hardly could compose another line : 

83 lone; I'ye battled either more or less, 

Ihat no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 

This feeling 'tis not easy to express, 
And yet 'tis not affected, I opine. 

In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— 

The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 
Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction : 

oiie gathers a repertory of facts. 
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 

But mostly «ings of human things and acts — 
And that's one cause she nu'cts with contradiction, 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attractH ; 
A.nd were lier object only what's call'd glory, 
^ith mere eaae too she'd tell a ditforent story. 



XIV. 



Love, war, a tempest, — surely there's • arfety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubratio.a ; 
A bird's-eye view too of that wild. Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station 
If you have nought else, here's at least satiety, 

Both in performance and in preparation ; [teaua 
And though these lines should only linip poi taan 
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon. 

Is one of which there's no description recent: 
The reason why is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine. 

A dull and family likeness through all ages, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 
With much to excite, there's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monoton'j 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade. 

They break their ranks and gladly leave the dril' 

But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, 
And they must be or seem what they were : still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; ' 

But when of the first sight you have had your fill 

It palls — at least it did so upon me. 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 
When we have made our love, and gamed out 
gaming, [more: 

Dress'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something 
With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 

Seen beauties brought to market by the score ; 
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 

There's little left but to be bored or bore. 
Witness those ^'' ci-devant jeune.s hommes" who stenj 
The stream, nor leave the world which Icaveth them 

XIX. 
'Tis said-r— indeed a general complaint — 

That no one has siuicoedcd in describing 
The moiide, exactly as they ought to paint. 

Some say, that autliors only snatch, by bribing 
The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint 

To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 
And that their books have but one style in common- 
My lady's prattle, Hltcr'd through her woman 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
Are grown of the beau inonde a part potential ; 

I've seen them balance even the scale with flghtera 
Especially when young, for that's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as inditors 

Of, what they d(MMn themselves most eonsfl 

The real portrait of tlie highest tril^e r jqM.M.i.*' 

•Ti« that, in fact, there's little to dcsuribo. 



708 



BYKON'S WOKKS. 



XXI. 

' Hand innara hquor .- " these are niif/a, " quarum 

Pars parva /we," but still art and part. 
N^ow T could much more easily sketch a haram, 

A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 
Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em 

For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 
' Vetaho Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit,'^ 
^rhich means, that vulgar people must not share it, 

XXII. 

A li therefore what I throw off is ideal — 
liO-wer'd, leaven'd like a history of Freemasons ; 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand Arcanum's not for men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons ; 

And there is much which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 
A.las ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 

The world, (as, since that history, less polite 
Than true, hath been a creed so strictly held,) 

Has not yet given up the practice quite. 
Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd. 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 
Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins, 
Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which, in the aggregate, 
May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can penetrate 
* The real sufferings of their she condition ? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness and more suspicion. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, 

But form good housekeepers to breed a nation. 

XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better ; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows, ! 
Bo many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction between friends and foes. 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 

That ^but ask any woman if she'd choose, 

(Take her at thirty, that is,) to have been 
Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queen ? 

XXVI. 

" Petticoat influence " is a great reproach, 
Whi^h even those who obey would fain be thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
But, since beneath it upon earth we are brought, 

By various joltings of life's hackney-coach, 
1 for one venerate a petticoat — 

k garment of a mystical sublimity, 

N matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 
Much I respect, and much I have adored. 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 
Wliich holds a treasure like a miser's hoard, 

And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 
k. golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 

A lovin;? letter with a mystic seal, 
\ cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 
0ef }re a petticoat and peeping ancle ? 



XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day, 
"With a Sirocco, for example, blowing,— 

When even the sea looks dim with all its sprtf, 
And sulkily the river's ripple's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
The sober sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, 

To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 

We left cur heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climaft 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 
Because the sun and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dim — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's, is all one. 

XXX. 

An in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out-of-door hath showers, anvi mists, and sleet. 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete. 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire and water. 

XXXI. 

Juan — in this respect at least like saints- 
Was all things unto people of all sorts, 
And lived contentedly, without complaints, 

In camps, in ships, in cott^iges, or courts- 
Bom with that happy soul which seldom faints, 

And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 
He likewise could be most things to all women, 
Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'Tis also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger 
But J"uan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack. 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause. 
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, andiul, 

And never craned, and made but few '■'■ faux pa*^*^ 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 

Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then. 

And ince o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But, on the whole, to general admiration 

He acquitted both himself and horse : the squire! 

Marvell'd at merit of another nation : [Siree^ 

The boors cried "Dangit ! who'd have though it ?* 

The Nestors of the sporting generation, 
Swore praises, and recall'd their former fire* 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin. 

And rated him almost a whipper-in. 



PON JUAN. 



701 



XXXV. 
Snch vteTH his trophies ; — not of spear and shield, 

But leaps and bursts, and sometimes foxes' 
Vet I must own, — although in this I yield [brushes; 

To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 
He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 

Who, after along chase o'er hills, dales, bushes^ 
And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 
Ask'd, next day, " if men ever hi;nted twice?" 

XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase, 
Who wake in winter ere the the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race,— 
A quality agreeable to woman. 

When her soft liquid words run on apace. 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner,— 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner. 

XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert. 
And shone in the best part of dialogue, 

By humoring always what they might assert. 
And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 

Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer ; 

In short, there nevov was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced; — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of Pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable : 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Not like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept ^vithin due bound, 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground. 
And rather held in than put forth his vigor ; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound. 
Which might defy a crochet-critic's rigor. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced lik6 a personified bolero ; 

XL, 

Or, like a flying hour before Aurora, 
In Guide's famous fresco, which alone 

Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 
Remnant were there of'the old world's sole throne. 

The " tout ensemble " of his movements wore a 
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown. 

And ne'er to be described ; for, to the dolor 

Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was a favorite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admiresl; 
A little spoil'd, but by no moans so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Buch was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspir'd. 
The DiU'h -■'ss of Fitz-F'iilke. who loved •7rr//-a,v.v«r/<?," 
Began to rosvt him with some small ** af/accrie." 



XLIl. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown bloiiic, 

Desirable, distinguished, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand nnande- 

I'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what's stated 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIIL 
This noble personage began to look 

A little black upon this new flirtation ; 
But such small licenses must lovers brook, 

Mere freedoms of the female corpora tion. 
Wo to the man who ventures a rebuke . 

'Twill but precipitate a situation , 

Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then sneer'd 
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 

Some hoped things might not turn out as they fear'd 
Some would not deem such women could be found 

Some ne'er believed one-half of what they heard , 
Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'dprofound 

And several pitied with sincere regret 

Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantageiiet 

XLV. 

But, what is odd, none ever named the duke. 
Who, one might think, was something in the afiiali 

True, he was absent, and 'twas rumor'd, took 
But small concern, about the when, or where. 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt. 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out 

XLVI. 
But, oh that I should ever pen so sad a line ! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the Duchess' conduct free ; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLVII. 

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 

'Tis so becoming to the soul and face ; 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels la'-e. 
Without a friend, what were humanity, 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
Consoling us with — "Would you had thought twie* 
Ah ! if you had but follow'd my advice ! " 

XLVIII. 
Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one's quite enougl 

Especially when we are ill at ease ; i 

They're but bad pilots when the weather's rough» 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees, 
let no man gnimble when his friends fall off, 

As they will do like Ic^es at the first breere 
When your affairs come round, one way or t'othei 
Go to the coflee house, and take rnother • 



710 

XLIX. 

But Hiis is not my maxim : had it been, 
Soite hear t aches had been spared me ; yet I care not, 
I would not be a tortoise in his screen [not : 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and weather wear 
Tis better on the whole to have felt and seen 

That which liumanity may bear, or bear not : 
Twill teach discernment to the sensitive, 
A.nd not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 



C f all the horrid, hideous notes of wo, 
Sadier than owl-songs, or the midnight blast, 

Im tl.at portentious phrase, " I told you so," 
T'tter'd bj' friends, those prophets of the past, 

^ho, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
Oi^n they foresaw that you would fall at last, 

A.nd solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonos mores-" 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 

V^ hose fame she rather doubted with posterity, 
Unless her habits should begin to mend. 

but Juan also shared in her austerity. 
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd: 

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LII. 

These forty days' advantage of her years — 
And hers were those which can face calculation, 

Boldly referring to the list of peers. 
And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
For a young gentleman's fit education. 

Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap 

In female dates, strikes time all of a heap. 

LIII. 

This may be fix'd somewhere before thirty — 
Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue 
Advance beyond, while they could pass for new. 

Oh, time ! why dost not pause ? Thy scythe, so dirty 
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 

Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 

If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

(Jut Adeline was far from that ripe age. 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best: 

Twas rather her experience that made her sage, 
For she had seen the world, and stood its test, 

As I have said in — I forget what page ; 
11 f Muse despises refereme, as you have guess'd 

Bj t is time: but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 

AnJ you will find her sum of years In plenty. 

LV. 

.At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted. 
She put all coronets into commotion : 

At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted 
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 

^ eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion. 

She had consented to create again 

That Adam, call'd " the happiest of men." 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



L^L 



Since then she had sparkled through Itiee glowm^ 
Admired, adored ! but also so correct, [imiteTS 

That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 
Without the apparel of being circumspect ; 

They could not even glean the slightest splinters 
From off the marble, which had no defect. 

She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriagl 

To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Those little glitterers of the London night ; 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her^ 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
But, whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A woman, so she's good, what does it signify ? 

LVIII. 

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle. 

Which Avith the landlord makes too long a stand 

Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
Especially with politics on hand ; 

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 
"Wlio whirl the dust as Simooms whirl the sand; 

I hate it, as I hate an argument, 

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's *' content." 

LIX. 

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, 
They are so much intertwisted with the eart}l> 

So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs 
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth : 

But this is not at present my concern. 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiem,' 

LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat, 
Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 

The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw 
That Juan was unlikely to resist — 

(For foreigners don't know that -a. fatix pa$ 
In England ranks quite on a different list 

From those of other lands, unbless'd with juries, 

Whose veudict for such sin a certain cure is)- 

LXL 

The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best imprv 
The farther progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed 
But innocence is bold even at the stake, — -^ 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use those palisades by dames erected, ' 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. / 

LXII 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
His grace was an enduring, married man. 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the client's clan 

Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
The magic of her grace's" talisman, 

,And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet 



DON JUAN. 



711 



LXtll. 

flff gt^ce, too pass'd for being an intrigante 
And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year ; 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go • 

LXIV. 
The sort of thing to turn a young man's head, 

Or make a Werter of him in the end. 
No wonder then a purer soul should dread 

This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 
It were much better to be wed or dead, 

Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 
'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 
If that 'a " I onne fortune" be really *^ bonne" 

LXV. 

Xnd first, in the overflowing of her heart, 
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 

She call'd her husband now and then apart, 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile, 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 
In any body's business but the king's : " 

Next, that " he never judged from what appear'd, 
Without strong reason, of those sorts of things.' 

Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than beard, 
And was not to be held in leading-strings ; " 

And fourthly, what need hardly to be said twee, 

" That good but rarely came from good advice." 

LXVII. 
And therefore, doubtless, to approve the truth 

Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 
To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth. 

At least as far as bietismnce allows : 
That time would temper Juan's faults of youth: 

That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 

That opposition only more attaches 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

LXVIII. 

And being of the council call'd "the privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 
A id if their full contents I do not give ye, 

[t i? becaiise 1 do not know them yet: 
But i/shall add them in a brief appendix. 
To come betwe(.n mine epic and its index. 

LXIX. 
But ere he went, he added a slight hint. 

Another gentle common-place or two, 
Buch as are coin'd in conversation's mint, 

And pass, for want of better, though not new: 
Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't. 

And having castuilly glanced it through, 
Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 
Ciesg like a ypuug wifr than an aged sister. 



LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honorable man. 
Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing, 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king ; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when 1 reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole— 
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul 
Certes it was not body ; he was well 

Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 

A handsome man, that human miracle ; 

And in each circumstance of love or war. 

Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I've said— 

That undefinable "je ne sais quoi" 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaus ; — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexea, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes : 

Neither can show quite how they would be loved 

The sensual for a short time but connects us — 
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur, 

Upon whose back 'tis better not to venture. 

LXXIV. 
A something all-sufficient for the heart 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking , 
But how to fill up that same vacant part — 

There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in 
Frail mariners afloat without a chart, [ing . 

They run before the wind through high seas break 
And when they have made the shore, through cverj 
*Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. [shock. 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd ** love in idleness," 
For which see Shakspcare's ever-blooming garden 

I will not make his great description less. 

And aeg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; 

But though the flower ie dillerent, with the FienOi 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, " voila la pervetu-hs / " 

LXXVI. 

Eureka ! I have found it ! ^^'T^at I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness, 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labor's an inditferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argc 
Convey 'd Medea as her supercargo. 



712 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVIf. 

♦ Beatus illeprocul ! " from " negotiis," 
Saith Horace ; the great little poet's wrong ; 

His other maxim, "Noscitur a sociis," 
Is mufh more to the purpose of his song ; 

Thoiigh even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company he kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 

A-dara exchanged his paradise for ploughing ; 

Eve made up millinery with fig-leaves — 
[ he earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 

As far as I know, that the church receives : 
And since tnat time, it need not cost much showing. 

That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 
And still more women, spring from not employing 
Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

1 soniething wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
Bards may sing what they please about content ; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment. 

Blue-devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it. 

Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen. 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXX I. 

* An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and why ? 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh. 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
And a-propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell; 
Those ves;etables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 

Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 
Thonj hast struck one immense colossus down, 

Thou moral Washington of Africa! 
But there's another little thing, I own, 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, 
And set the other half of earth to rights : 
Yea have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the 
whites. 

LXXXIII. 
Shut up the bald-cnot bully Alexander; 

Ship off the holy three to Senegal ; [der," 

Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for gan- 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall. 
Shut up each high heroic salamander. 

Who eats fire gratis, (since the pay's but small;) 
Shut up — no. not the king, but the pavilion. 
Or else 'twill cost us all another million. 



LXXXIV. ; 

Shut up the world at large ; let Bedlam out, 
And you will be perhaps surprised to find 

All things pursue exactly the same route, 
As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 

This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 
Were there a jot of sense among mankind • 

But till that point d' appui is found, alas ! 

Like Archimedes, 1 .eave earth as 'twab. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid m^msion 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen nought claiming its expanAion 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd. 

Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one 
But when the latter works its own undoing, 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that lovp * 
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 

The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 

She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil • 

Their union was a modA to behold, 

Serene and noble, — conjugal but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years. 

Though much in temper; but they never clasb'd 

They moved like stars united in their spheres. 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now, when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might fiatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best. 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'di 
And gather'd as they run, like growing water. 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen, 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women. 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tameJ :-• 

And 'twill perplex the casuists in morality, 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

XC. 

Had Bonaparte won at Waterloo, 
It had been firmness ; now 'tis pertinacity : 

Must the event decide between the two ? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false aud true, 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her w ly, too, was a heroine. 



DON JUAN. 



718 



XCI 

Sue knew not Ler ovm heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and s 
stranger. 

XCII. 
She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 

Without the farce of friendship, or romance 
Of Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 
0" Germany, where peoT^le jmrely kiss. 

'i.0 thus much Adeline would not advance ; 
But of such friendship as man's may to man be, 
She (?as as capable as woman can be. 

XCIII. 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 

Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
An innocent predominance annex, 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 

And your true feelings fully understood, 
No friend like to a woman earth discovers. 
So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 

* 

XCIV. 
Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change ; and how should this be otherwise ? 
That violent things more quickly find a term 

Is shown through Nature's whole analogies : 
And how should the most fierce of all be firm ? 

Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 
MethJnks love's very title says enough : 
How should " the tender passion" e'er be toiight 

xcv. 

Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet 

f I merely quote what I have heard from many) 
Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zany. 
I've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives. 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 
I've also seen some female friends ('tis odd. 

But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
Ihat faithful were, through thick and thin, abroad. 

At heme, far iriore than ever yet was love— 
WHio di'l not quit tne when oppression trod 

I'l on me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
Wl.T fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles. 
Despite tht; sn?.ke society's loud rattles. 

xcvn. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 
Grew friends in this or any other sense, 

Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 
At present I am glad of a pretence 

To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine. 
And keeps the atrooious reader in siisp.-nse ; 

The stirest way for ladies and for books 

io bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 
90 • 



XCVIII. 

Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 
To read Don Quixote in the original, 

A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 
Whether their talk was of the kind call'd "small," 

Or serious, are the topics I must banish 
To th^next canto ; where, perhaps, I shall 

Say something to the purpose, and display 

Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 

Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
Anticipating aught about the matter :. 

They'll only make mistakes about the fait 
And Juan, too, especially the latter. 

And I shall take a much more serious air 
Than I have yet done in this epic satiie. 

It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 

Will fall ; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 

c. 

But great things spring from little : would you think 
That, in our youth, as dangerous a passion 

As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 
Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion 

As few would ever dream could form the link 
Of such a sentimental situation ? 

You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, railliaids 

It all sprung from a harmless game of billiards 

CI. 

'Tis strange — but true ; for truth is alwpvs strange 
Stranger than fiction : if it could be told. 

How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 
How differently the world would men behold ! 

How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
The new world would be nothing to the old, 

If some Columbus of the moral seas 

Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

CIL 

What " antres vast and deserts idle " then 
Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 

What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men. 
With self-love in the centre as their f)ole ! 

What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control 

Were things but only call'd by their riglit name 

Csesar himself would be ashamed of fame 



CANTO XV. 



I. 



Ah ! what should follow slips from my reflectlo*. 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
As ii-propos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the 'urking thought had follow'd free 
All present life is but an interjection, 

An " Oh ! " or *' Ah ! " of joy or misery, 
Or a '* Ha! ha!" or •* Bah ! " — ayuwn, (T ' P<H>h 
Of which perhaps the latter is most tiu« 



714 



BYRON'S WORKS 



II. 



But, more or less, the whole's a syncope, 
Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 

The grand antithesis to great ennui. 
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the acean, 

That watery outline of eternity. 
Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 

WTiich ministers unto the soul's delight, 

£u seeing matters which are out of sip"ht. 

III. 

But all are better than the sigh supprest. 
Corroding in the cavern of the heart. 

Making the countenance a mask of rest. 
And turning human nature to an art. 

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best ; 
Dissimulation always sets apart 

A. comer fr.r herself ; and therefore fiction 

Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who cannot 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot. 
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seems to float, 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand. 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 

V. 

And as for Love — Oh, Love ! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would msh to read. 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There's music in the sighing of a reed ; 

There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There's music in all things, if men had ears: 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VI. 

The Lady Adeline, right honorable. 

And honor'd, ran a risk of growing less so : 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 
In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so : 

They differ as wine differs from its label. 

When once decanted ; — I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage. 
The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage. 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 

A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And icT which nature might forego her debt — 

BtlD creditor whose process doth involve in't 

The u.jk of finding every body solvent. 

VIII. 

Oh ! Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, ' 

Like a meek tradesman when approaching palely 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap. 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. 

On refcdy money, or " a draft on Ransom." 



IX. 



Whate'er thou takest, spare avhile pcor beauty 
She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 

What though she now and then may slip from duty 
The more's the reason why you ought to slay. 

Gaunt Gourmand ! with whole nations for your bootj 
You should be civil in a modest way : 

Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases. 

And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases 



Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested, (as was said,) 

Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — points we need not now discus*— 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent. 

For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XL 

Some parts of Juan's history, which rumor. 
That live gazette, had seatter'd to disfigure, 

She had heard ; but women hear with more good 
Such aberrations than we men of rigor, [humoi 

Besides his conduct, since in England, grew more 
Strict, and his niind assumed a manlier vigor ; 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

The art of living in all climes with ease. 

XII. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective. 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 

And seem to say, " resist us if you can "— 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIIL 

They are wrong — that's not the way to set about it} 
As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 

But, right or ^vrong, Don Juan was mthout it ; 
In fact, his manner was his own alone : 

Sincere he was — at least you could not doubt it, 
In listening merely to his voice's tone. 

The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 

An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 
By nature soft, his whole address held off 

Suspicion : though not timid, his regard 
Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof. 

To shield himself, than put you on your guard : 
Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured^enough. 

But modesty's at times its own reward. 
Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension. 
Will go much further than there's need .o mentiaaL 

XV. 

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful, but not loud 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation > 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs ; — without a struggle for priority. 
He neither brook'd nor claimed superiority. 



DON JUAN. 



711 



XVI. 

That is, with men : mth women, he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for ; Mid their 

Imagination's quite enough for that: 
So that the outline's tolerably fair, 

They fill the canvas up — and " verbura sat," 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful^ 

Ihey ca» transfigure brighter than a Raphael. 

XVII. 

A-delino, no deep judge of character, 
Wae apt to add a coloring from her own. 

Tis thus the good will amiably err, 
And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chiei* philosopher, 
But saddest when his science is well known : 

A.nd persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 

Great Socrates ? And Thou, Diviner still,' 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill ? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an humbler promontory. 

Amid life's infinite variety : 
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify ; 
I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
With any body in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there's a conversational facility, 
WlTich may round off an hour upon a time. 

Of this I'm bure fit least, there's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what's uppermost of new or hoary, 

Just as 1 feel the " improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

'* Omnia vult belle Matho diccre— die aliquando 
Et bene die netdru/n, die aliquando male." 

The first is rather more than nu)rtal can do ; 
The second may be sadly done or gayly ; 

The third is still more difiicult to stand to; 
The fourth we hear, and see, and say, too, diily : 

The whole together is what I could wish 

lo serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modi-sty's my forte. 
And i)ride my foil)lc : — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this pocin very short, 
liut now I can't tell whore it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to j)ay my couri 

To critics, or to hail the settiwf sun 
^ Jf tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

W«re more ; — but I was born for opposition. 



XXIII. 

But then 'tis mostly on the wea^cer side ; 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-bloAvn pi. le, 

Were shaken down, and "dogs had had the! 
Though at the first I might by chance deride [day,*' 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse. 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think I should have made monastic vows, 
But for my own peculiar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd my bro\m 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Prisciaa ; 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it. 

XXV. 

But " laissez aller " — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagp-ite : 

The difficulty lies in coloring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight "^ 

With nature manners which are artificial, 

And rendering general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 

Men made the manners ; manners now make men 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
At least nine, and a ninth besides of ten 

Now this at all events must render cold 
Your writers, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

The present, with their common-place costume. 

XXVII. 

We'll do our best to make the best on't : — March I 
March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter \ 

And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 
Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 

We surely may find something worth research 
Columbus found a new world in a cutter. 

Or brigantkie, or pink, of no great tonnage, 

While yet America was in her nonage. 

XXVIII. 

When Adeline, in all her gro\ving sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation, 
Felt on the whole an interest intense — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation. 
Or that he had an air of innocence, 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation,— 
As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratia, 

For which small thanks are still the market- prleO) 
Even where the article at highest rate is. 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice. 
And morally decided, the best state is, 

For morals, marriage; and, this question carried 

Bhe Berioualy advised him to get married 



7t6 



BYRON'S >\ORKS. 



XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 

He Lad a predilection for that tie ; 
But that at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstanoes, there might lie 
Bome difficulties, as in his own preference, 

Or that of her to wnom he might apply; 
That still he'd wed with such or such a lady, 
Jf that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matehes for herself, 
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
There's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general : 'tis no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

1 hat is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed. 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as sti'ictly both at board and bed, 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
■ They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son, 
Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sit John, [end 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might 

Aline, and leave posterity undone. 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals : and besides, 

They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they ^vill be careful to select. 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 

For one a songstress who hath no defect. 
For t'other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject, 
Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 

A second for her excellent connections ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage. 
Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 

^^"ithcut those sad expenses which disparage 
What nature naturally most encourages) — 

Why ca'.l'd he " Harmony " a state sans wedlock ? 

Now here I've got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapplearn'd this in Germany 
Or no, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly, 

Piou? and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection's to his title, not his ritual, 

t. t'aough I wonder how it grew habitual. 



XXXVII 
But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons. 

Who favor, malgr^ Malthus, generation- 
Professors of that genial art, and patrons 

Of all the modest part of propagation ; 
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs 

That half its produce tends to emigration, 
That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell ; [met* 
I wish she had : his book's the eleventh command 

Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," unless weit 
This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 

'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell, 
Nor canvass what so " eminent a hand" meant :' 

But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 

Or turning marriage into arithmetic 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 

That Juan had enough of maintenance. 
Or seperate maintenance, in case 'twas dooni'd — 

As on the whole it is an even chance 
That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd, 

May retrograde a little in the dance 
Of marriage — (which might form a painter's fame. 
Like Holbein's '* Dance of Death " — ^but 'tis the 
same :) 

XL. 
But Adeline determined Juan's wedding, 

In her own mind, and that's enough for woman. 
But then with whom ? There was the sage Miss 
Reading, [Miss KnoAvman, 

Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and 
And the two fair co-heiresses, Giltbedding. [mon , 

She deem'd his merits something more than corn- 
All these were unobjectionable matches, 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches, 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as STimmer's sea, 
That usual paragon, an only daughter, 

Whd seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 

With a slight shade of Blue too, it might be. 
Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter ? 

Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet. 

And, being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XLII. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 

Whose heart was fixed upon a star or bluestring ; 
But whether English dnkes grow rare of late, 

Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string. 
By which such sirens can attract our great. 

She took up with some foreign younger brother 

A Russ or Turk — the one's as good as t' otner. 

XLIII. 
And then there was — but why shouM I go on. 

Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 
Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 

Of the best class, and better than her class,— 
Aurora Raby. a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass 
A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded : 



DON JUAN 



711 



XI IV. 
Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

\Jhild to the care of guardians good and kind : 
But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 

Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 

By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLV. 
iSarJy in years, and yet more infantine 

In figure, she had something of sublime 
In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs shine. 

All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 
Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline : 

Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 
She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 
And griev'd for those who could return no more. 

XLVI. 
She was a Catholic too, sincere, austere, 

As far as her own gentle heart allow'd. 
And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear. 

Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires were proud 
Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear 

Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 
To novel power ; and as she was the last. 
She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XLVII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew. 
And kept her hear^ serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the sarrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so young. 

XL VIII. 
Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted. 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited : 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mentioned as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Df single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 
And this omission, like that of the bust 

Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he expiess'd half smiling and half serious; 
When Adeline replied with some disgust, 

And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 
Bhe marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 
As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby ? " 



Juan rejoln'd — *' SY ■; was a Catholic, 
And therefore fittt .st, as of his persuasion ; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick. 
And the Pope thunder excommunication, 

If" But here Adeline, who soem'd to piqu9 

Herself ('•tremcly on the inoculation 

Of otherfl witk her own opinions, stated — 

(i» uaual— the tame ronflon which she late did. 



1 LI. 

And wherefore not ? a reasonable reason 
If good, is none tne worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way's certainly to tease on 
And amplify : you lose much by concision : 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route? 

LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

A^pure as sanctity itself from vice, 
With all the added charm of form and fe&tnre. 

From me appears a question far too nice. 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 

But nature's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LIII. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 
With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, 

Which charm most people in their earlier day : 
For there are few things by mankind less ])ruoM'fi( 

And womankind too, if we so may say. 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked. 

Like " Antony's by Caesar," by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do 

LIV. 

It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her minu 
It was not scorn-rwhlch could not light on one 

Whose greatest fault was leaving few to find 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the " ignes fatui " of mankin«l 

It was not ^but 'tis easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not, than what it was. 

LY. 

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 
Of such discussion. She was there a guest, 

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the re«l, 

Which flow'd on a moment in the beam 
Thime sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest 

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled- 

She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glowworm shine, 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was 8(fmething she could not divine, 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways , 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor, 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame [kind, 
Which 'sometimes plays the deuce with woman- 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame, 

Half virtues and whole vices being combined; 

Faults which attract because they arc not tame; 
Follies trick 'd out so brightly that they blind: • 

These seals dpon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldi«ess or her self-posBession. 



718 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I.VTII. 

Juan knew nought of such a character- 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ; 
, Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
"Was nature's all : Aurora could not be 

Nor would be thus ; — the difference in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative. 
And, as my friend Scott says, "I sound my W^i- 
* Scott, the superlative of my comparative — [son : " 
Ecott, Avho can paint your Christian knight or 
Saracen, [share it, if 

Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would 
There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

1 say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the surface of humanity. 

I write the world, nor care if the world read, 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, 1 

Thought that it might turn out sO"— now I know it, 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 
As congresses of late do) of the Lady 

Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets^for she was heady ; 
. But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
The silvery bell rang, not for *• dinner ready," 

But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, 

Though ladies robes seem scant enough for less. 

LXII. 

xjrreat things were now to be achieved at table, 
With massy plate for armor, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 
Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks 

In so;ips or sauces, or a sole ragout. 

Than witches, b — ches, or physicians brew. 

LXIII. 

There was a goodly " soupe a la bonne femme," 
Though God icnows whence it came from ; there 

\ turbot for relief of those' who cram, [was too 

Relievjd with dindon a la Perigeux ; 

There also was — the sinner that T am ! * 
How shall I get this gourmand stanza through ? 

Soupe H la Beauveau, whose relief was dory, 

Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd all into one gran:? mess 
Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail. 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 
Than when some squeamish people deem her frail ; 

But, though a "bonne vivante," I must confess 
Her stomach's not her peccant part : this tale 

However doth require some slight refection, 

luHt to relieve her spirits from dejection. 



LXV. 

Fowls a la Conde, slices eke of salmon, 

With sauces Genevoises, and haunch of ^ snison ; 

Wines too which might again have slain young Am 
mon, 
A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon 

They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 

And then there was champagne with foaming whirls, 

As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows Avhat ** a I'Allemande,** 

" Al'Espagnole," "timballe," and "Salpicole"— 
With things I can't withstand or understand. 

Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole, 
And "entremets" to piddle with at hand. 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 
'Vvliile great Lucullus' robe triumphale muffies 
{There's fame) young partridge fillets, deck'd mth 
truffles.* 

LXYII. 
What are t\ieJlUets on the victor's brow [arch 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 

"V^Tiere the triumphal chariot's haughty march ? 
Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Further I shall not follow the research : 
But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When will your names lend lustre even to partridges r 

LXVIII. 

Those truffles, too, are no bad accessories, 
Follow'd by "petits puits d*amour," — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish. 

According to the best of dictionaries, 
Which encylopa;dise both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 

There's pretty picking in tht)se " petitd puits * 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expanded on two courses : 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond ray forces. 

Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources, 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature ? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; 

The diners of celebrity dined well; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
Also the younger men too ; for a springald 

Can't like ripe age in gounnandize excel. 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 
Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier. 

The salmi, the consomm^, the puree, 
All which I used to make my rhymes run glibber 

Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way 
I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

" Bubble and squeak " would spoil my liquid lay 
But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
The chaste description even of a "becasse," 



/)0N JUAN. 



719 



LXXII. 

^d fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the gout, — 

Taste or the ffout, — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach. Ere you dine, the French will do. 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it — 

But I uay have, and you too, reader, di-ead it. 

LXXITI. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine. 

Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favorite "plat" of mine 

Jr. Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where: 
On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my table cloth, in open air, 
Ob Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. 

LXXIV. 

Amid this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl. 

And vegetables, all in masquerade. 
The guests were placed according to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display'd : 
Don Juan sate next an " a I'Espagnole " — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 
But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest 
Superbly, and contain'd a worlf' of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance, too, he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
S. situation difftcult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine ; 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
W^ith two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through 
him. 

LXXVI. 
I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears ; 

This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 
Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, [springs ; 

Of which 1 can't tell whence their knowledge 
Like that same mystic music of the spheres. 

Which no one hears so loudly though it rings. 
'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 
Long dialogues which pass'd without a word ! 

LXXVIL 

Auiora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought: 
Of all offences that's the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thcught. 
Njw Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught, 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And af<"r so much excellent advice. 

LXXVIIL 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

ftequired. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride, 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicioiig eyes 

Sparkled with Lor aucoessful prophecies 



LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it ; "■ 
A kind of triumph I'll not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as I've seen or read it. 
Bo*h in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end ; 

For all men prophecy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pasSc 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 

That he would rather make them more than less 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions. 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison 

As once or tv/ice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering, she began to question : thia 
With her was rare : and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions went not much amiss. 
Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 
To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 

In motion ; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind 

LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be. 
Which show'd such deference to what females say 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay. 

And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out. 
Without their seeing what he was about 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud-* 
Commenced (from such slight things will great com- 
mence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 
Nem. con. atnong the women, which I grieve 

To say, leads oft to crim. con. with the marriod— 
A cas^which to the juries we may leave, 

Since with digressions we too long have tfcrried. 
Now though we know of old that looks dec«iTe» 

And always have done, somehow these good lookl 

Make more impression than the best of books 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage. 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
PNpecially upon a printed page. 

But virtuf^'s self with all her tightest laces, 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age, 

B t Socrates, that model of all duty, 

Own'd to u penchant, though discreet, for beaatf 



720 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates : 
A.nd really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way. 
Observe ; for that with me's a " sine qua."« 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that like the great Lord Coke, 
(See Littleton) whene'er I have express'd 
Opinions two, which at first sight may look 

ITwin opposites, the second is the best. 
Perhaps I have a third, too, in a nook, 
I Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest; 

I *But if a writer should be quite consistent, 
How could he possibly show things existent ? 

LXXXVIII. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 
Help contradicting them, and every body, 

Even my veracious self r — but that's a lie ; 
I never did so, never will — how should I ? 

He who doubts all things, nothing can deny ; 
Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are 
muddy, 

And cut through such canals of contradiction. 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 
Are false, but may be render'd also true 

By those who saw them in a land that's arable. 
'Tis wonderful what fable will not do ! 

'Tis said it makes reality more bearable : 
But what's reality ? Who has its clue ? 

Philosophy ? No ; she too much rejects. 

Religion ? Yes ; but which of all her sects ? 

XC. 
Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear ; 

Perhaps it may turn oiit that all were right. 
God help us ! Since we've need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'Tis time that some new prophet should appear 

Or old indulge man with a second-sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

XCI. 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics ? None can hate 

go much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
And yet such is my folly, or my fate, • 

1 always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, or future state ; 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For 1 was bred a moderate Presbyteiian. 

XCII. 
But though I am a temperate theologian. 

And also meek as a metaphysician, 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, 

As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 
In politics, my duty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, 
r.o see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 



XCIII. 

But politics, and policy, and piety. 
Are topics which I sometimes introduce^ 

Not only for the sake of their variety. 
But as subservient to a moral use ; 

Because my business is to dress society, 
And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 

And now, that we may furnish with some matter aJ 

Tastes, we are going to try the supeniatuial. 

XCIV. 

And now 1 will give up all argument : 
And positively henceforth no temptation 

Shall " fool me to the top of my bent ; " 
Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 

Indeed I never knew what people meant 
By deeming that my Muse's conversation 

Was dangerous ; — 1 think she is as harmless 

As some who labor more and yet may charm lest 

XCV. 
Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 

No ; but you've heard — I understand — be dumb . 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by a ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious :— 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious ? You laugh : — you may ; that will I not ; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where ? That shall I not recall, 
Because I'd rather it should be forgot. 

*' Shadows the soul of Richard " may appal: 
In short, upon that subject I've some qualttis, yerj 
Like those of the philosophy of Malmsbury.'^ 

. XCVII. 

The night (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim. 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl— 
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that 1 have sate up too late : 

XCVIII. 

And therefore, though 'tis by no means ray way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think, — I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudently postpone, until midday. 
Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XCIX. 
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's vergt 
How little do we know that which we are I 

How less what we may be ! The eternal surg« 
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 

Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the grarw 
Of empires teave but like some passing wave*. 



IJON JUAW. 



72^ 



CANTO X\I. 



I. 

Thb antique Persians taught three useful things,- 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. 

This was the mode of Cyrus — best of kings— 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now than ever 

II. 
The cause of this effect, or this defect, 

" For this effect defective comes by cause,"— 
Is what I have not leisure to. inspect ; 

But this I must say in my own applause. 
Of all the muses that I recollect, 

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 
In some things, mine's beyond all contradiction '' 
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 
And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 

From any thing, this Epic will contain 
A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 
*Tis true, there be* some bitters with the sweets, 

Yet mix'd so slightly that you can't complain. 
But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 
"De. rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis," 

IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What then ? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell ? 

'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle ; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with " quia impossibile." 

VI. 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not all ; 

Believe: — if 'tis improbable you muat ; 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
I Jd not speak profanely to recall 

Those holier mysteries, which the wise and just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
\.8 all tmths must, the more they are disputed. 



VII. 



I msrely mean to say what Johnson said, 
That in the course of some six thousand years. 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head. 
Is that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger stil 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

VIII. 
The dinner and the soirf^e too were lone. 

The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired 
The banqueters had dropp'd off one by one — 

The song was silent, and the dance expir«=d : 
The last thin petticoats were vanish 'd, gone, 

Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 
And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saj >ca 
Than dying tapers— and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda-bottle, when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spiret out , 
Or like a billow left by storms behind. 
Without the animation of the wind ; 



Or like an opiate which brings troubled rest. 
Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 

Except itself ; — such is the human breast ; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness,— like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how. 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.^ 

So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal 

XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball. 
Undressing is a wo ; our robe-de-chambre 

May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 
Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than aml«f 

Titus exclaim'd, " I've lost a day ! " Of all 
The nights and days most people can remember, 

(I have had of both some not to be disdain'd,) 

I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 
And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

Felt restless and perplex'd, and compromised; 
He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 

Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; 
If he had known exactly his own plight. 

He probably would have pliilosophized; 
A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 
Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd ; — rhe next resource is the full moon. 

Where all sighs are deposited ; and now. 
It huppen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 

As clear as such a climate will allow ; 
And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — " Oh, vhCQ ' * 
Of amatory egotism the tuism, 
Which further to explain would be a truiim. 



722 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



XIV. 
But IcvtT, poet, OT astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 
Feol some abstraction when they gaze on her : [cold 

Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a 
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err;) 

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, 
A.nd also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 
Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 

For contemplation rather than his pillow; 
The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 

Le* in the rippling sonnd of the lake's billow, 
With all the mystery by midnight caused ; 

Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 
And he stood gazing out on the cascade 
That flash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 



i XVI. 

Upon his table or his toilet — which 
Of these is not exactly ascertain'd — 

(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
O^ nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd) 

A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 
Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd, 

[n chisell'd stone, and painted glass, and all 

That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then as the night was clear though cold, he threw 
His chamber-door ^vide open — and went forth 

Into a gallery of a sombre hue, 
Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should he people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

XVIII. 

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 
Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 

Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
Start from the frames which fence their aspects 

As if to ask how you can dare to keep [stern, 

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the gi-ave. 
The charms of other days, in starlight gleams 

Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A pict'Ji'e is the past ; even ere its frame 

B* yilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juac mused on mutability. 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous- 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house, 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
_WTioBe little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
i1 plays aloncr the arrass. 



XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
In cowl and beads and dusky garb, appear'd. 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shado, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weirdy 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juau by. 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 
Juan was petrified; he had heard a hirA 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
But thought, like most men, there was nothita 5a' 1 

Beyond the rumor which such cpots unfold. 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency likr gold. 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? . 



xxin. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t* other nlace ; 

And .Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its case 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
Twine like a lot of snakes around his face; 

,He tax'd his tongue for words which were not granted 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 

The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the lawi 
Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 

Might come or go ; but Juan eould not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

XXV. 

He stood, how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gloam'dl 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies. 

And would have pass'd the whole otf as a dream, 
But could not wake ; he was, he did sunnise, 

Waking already, and return'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

XXVI. 

All there was as he left it ; still his taper 
Burnt, and not bate, as modern taper's use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor ; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuf3e 

Their office ; he took up an old newspaper ; 
The paper was right easy to peruse : 

He read an article the king attacking, 

And a long eulogy of *' Patent Blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savor'd of this world ; but his hand shook- ■ 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he'd seen his phantasy he fed, 

And though it was no opiate, slumber ciopt 



Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 



T)OIS tDAK 



721 



Ue wcke betimes ; and, as iray b •» suy 

1 <>nder'd upon his visitant or sision, 
A.nd whethei it ougiit not to 'le disclosed, 

At risk of being quizz'd fo • superstition. 
The more he thowght, tbe m-ire his mind was posed ; 

In the mean time, his va?et, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brook 'd no less, 
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He d^css'd ; and, like young people he was wont . 

To take some trouble with his toilet, but 
This morning rather spent less time upon't ; 

Aside bis very mirror soon was put ; 
His curls fell negligently o'er his front, 

His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut ; 
His \ery neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 
Almost a haii breadth too much on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
He sate bin pensive o'er a dish of tea, 

Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 

Which made him bave recourse unto his spoon ; 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something 70ns the matter — Adeline 

The first — but what she could not well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'd and saw him pale, and turq'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd down and mutter'd 

Something, but wbat's not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said bis muffin was ill butter'd ; 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 

Aurora Raby, with her large dark eyes, 

Burvey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still, 
And every body wondering more or less. 

Fair Adeline inquired if he were ill ? 
He started', and said, "Yes — no — rather — yes." 

The family physician had great skill, 
And, being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse, and toll 

The cause, but Juan said " he was quite well." 

XXXIII. 
"Quite well; yes, no." — These answers were mys- 
terious, 

And yet his looks appeared to sanction both, 
However they might savor of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a stidden growth 
Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means serious: 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
T.1 state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

.^rd Henry, w>') had now diseuss'd his chocalate, 
Also the muffin, whereof he complain'd, 

Bald, Juan had not f?ot his tisual look elate, 
At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 

I'hen ask'd her grace what news wore of the duke of 
Her grace replied, A/.v grace was ra I her pain'd I Uite ? 

With 8(>me slight, light, hereditary twinges 

Of gout, vhich rusts aristocratic hinges. 



XXXV. 

Then Henry tum'd to Juan, and ,vddress'(1 
A few words of condolence on his state : 

" You look," quoth he, " as if you'd had ycti: rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late.' 

" "V^Tiat friar ? " said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless, but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXYI. 

" Oh ! have you not heard of the Black Fiiar ? 

The spirit of these walls ? " — " In truth DOt I." 
Why fame — but fame yoti know sometims's a liar^— 

Tells an odd story, of whirb by and by: 
Whether with time the spertre has grown shy ir 

Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, thoug'n the tale is half believed, 
The friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

" The last time was " " I pray," said Adeline— 

(^^Tio watch'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connexions stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend, ^ — '' if you but design 
To jest, you'll choose some other theme jxist noTW 

Because the present tale has oft been told. 

And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 
" Jest ! " quoth Milor, " "\Vhy, Adeline, you kno?» 

That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey-moon — 
Saw " '« "Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago ; 

But come, I'll set your story to a tune." 
Graceful as Dian when she draws her bow, [soon 

She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled 
As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
The air of *' 'Twas a Friar of Orders Grav." 

XXXIX. 

"But add the words." cried Henry, "which you 
For Adeline is halj" a poetess, [made ; 

Turning round \o the rest, he smiling said. 
Of course Ibe others could not but express 

In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

Bv one (/rrce talents, for there were no less— 

The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at mce 

Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

• XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation, — 

The charming of these charmers, who ?eem bcncd 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation— 

F"air Adoliiu\ with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into aninu^tion. 

Added her sweet voice to the lyrio sound. 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, tliat we seldom hear it. 

1. 
Bewarr ! heware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who rfitteth oy Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in tlie midixight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone 
Wh(>n the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville. 

Made Norman Church his prey. 
And expellM the friars, one friiu still 

Would not be driven aw.».\ 



724 



BYROis ii WORKS. 



2. 



rhoug), he came in his might, with King Henry's 

To turn church lands to lay, [right, 

With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay, 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 

And >ie did not seem form'd of clay, [church, 

Foi he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the 

liiougL he is not seen by day. 



Ar. i whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say; 
But still vnth. the house of Amundeville, 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said. 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes — ^but not to grieve. 

4. 

When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'Tis shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 



But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar. 

He still retains his sway. 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day. 

Bat the monk is lord by night, 
I Nor wine nor wassil could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall. 

And he'll say nought to you :* 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul. 
An i whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

1 ,et ours be for his soul. 

XLI. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound, 
* Aid the pause follow'd, which, when song expires. 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 

And then, of course, the circle much admires, 
N:)r less applauds, as in politeness bound, 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution, 

To the perfoiTuer's diffident confusion. 

XLII. 
Fair Adeline, though in a careless way. 

As if she rated such accomplishment. 
As the mere pastime of an idle day, 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 
Would now and then as 'twere without display, 

Yet with display in fact, at times relent 
To such performances with haughty smile, 
To »bow she could, if it were wc^h her while. 



XI II. 

Now this (but we will whisper it \side) 

Was — pardon the pedantic illustration- 
Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pri Je^ 

As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 
Deeming the sage would be much mortified 

Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 
For a spoil'd carpet — but the "Attic Bee" 
Was much consoled by his own repartee.' 

XLIV. 
Thus Adeline would throw into the shade, 

(By doing easily, whate'er she chose. 
What dilettanti do with vast parade,) 

Their sort of half prof ession : for it grows 
To something like this when too oft di splay 'd, 

And that it is so every body knows 
Who've heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other 
Show off— to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 

Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and the speculations ; 
The " Mamma Mias ! " and the " Amor Mio*g!** 

The " Tanti Palpitis " on such occasions : 
The " Lasciamis," and quavering " Addios ! " 

Among our o^vn most musical of nations; 
With " Tu mi chamas's " from Pontingale, 
To sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail.* 

XLVI. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands. 
The calentures of music which o'ercome [lands 

All mountaineers with dreams that they a/e nigl 
No more to be beheld but in such visions,— 
Was Adeline well versed as compositions. 

XLVII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue" [wrote 
Could write rhymes, and compose more than sIu 

Made epigrams occasionally too 
Upon her friends, as every body ought. 

But still from that sublimer azure hue, 
So much the present dye, she was remote ; 

Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 

And, what was worse, was not ashamed to sho^ it; 

XLVIII. 
Aurora — since we are touching upon teste. 

Which now-a-days is the thermometer 
By whose degrees all characters are class'd— 

Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 
The worlds beyond this world's perplexing WMte 

Had more of her existence, for in her 
There was a depth of feeling to embrace 
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as spaof 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mini 

If she had any, was upon her fS-ce, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 
Also thereon. — but that's not much ; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven. 

For fear we nhould suppose us quite in heaven. 



DON JUAN 



725 



I have not heaid she was at all poetic, [Guide, 
Though once she was seen reading tlie " Bath 

A7id " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd pa 
thetic 
Because, she said, her temper had been tried 

Bo much, the bard had really been prophetic 
Of what she had gone thro-'agh with — since a bride. 

But of all verse what rr.ost insured her praise 

Were sonnets to herself, or <' bouts rimes." 

LI. 

'Twere difficult to say what was the object 
Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 

To bear on what appear 'd to her tbe subject 
Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 

Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 

Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 

Though why I cannot say — at least this minute. 

LII. 

But so *\x the immediate effect 
Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 

A thing quite necessary to the elect, 
"Who wish to take the tone of their society ; 

In which you cannot be too circumspect, 
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety, 

But wear the newest mantle of h3'pocrisy. 

On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 
His spirits, and, without more explanation, 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her grace, ton, also seized the same occasion, 

With various similar remarks to tally, 
But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings. 

About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

LIV. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd, as snob things do, for superstition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition, 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that bead ; 

But Juan, when cross-question 'd on the vision. 
Which some supposed ('though he had not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

Ai.d then, the midday having worn to one. 

The company prepared to sep.arate : 
gome to their several pastimes, or to none; 

Some wondoring 'twas so early, some so late. 
Ihere was a goodly match, too, to be run 

Between some grayluuinds on my lord's estate, 
k\u\ a young rarehorsc of uld pedigree, 
Mutch'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

1,VI. 

1 ere was a picture-dealer, who had brought 

A special Titian, warranted original, 
iBo precious that it was not to be boiight. 

Though princes the possessor were besiojjing all. 
The king himself had chfapen'd it, but thought 

The civil list (he deigns to accept, obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 
Too ajanty, in these times of low taxation. 



LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseui , — 
The friend of artists, if not arts, — the or«ntr, 

With motives the most classical and pure, 
So that he would have been the very donor 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer. 
So much he deem'd his patronage an honoi 

Had brought the capo d'opcra, not for sale, 

But for his judgment, — never known to fail. 

LVIII. 
There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, [so thick 
Brought to survey these gray walls, which, though 

Might have from time acquired some slight defe-ct , 
Who, after rumaging the Abbey through thick 

And thin, produced a plan, whereby to erect 
New buildings of coi-rectest conformation. 
And throw down old — which he call'd restoration, 

LIX. 
The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 

Set to some thousands, ('tis the usual burden 
Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 

The price would speedily repay its worth in 
An edifice no less sublime than strong, [in 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth 
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny. 
For Gothic daring shown in English money.* 

LX. 

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage. 

And one on tithes which sure are discord's torches, 

Kindling Religion till she throws do^^^l her gage, 
" Untying " squires " to fight against the 
churches ; "^ 

There was a prize ox, prize pig, and ploughman. 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 

There were two poncbers caught in a steel trap. 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence; 

There was a cf)iintry girl in a close cap 

And scarlet cloak, (I hate the sight to see, since— 

Since — since — in youth I had the sad mishap— 
But luckily I've paid few parish fees since.) 

That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigor. 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

LXII. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or on*. 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt,, 

And merely state, though not for tl.e consistory, 
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 

The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 

Had bagg'd this poacher ujjon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the countryfroni caprices 
Of those who've not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leaHet, 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 

Preserving partridges and petty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious bench^ 



'26 



BYRON'S WORKS, f 



LXIV. 

rho ] restnt culprit was extremeij pale, 
Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

B)-^ nature, as in higher dames less hale 
'Tis white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeuiing frail, 
Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than Ic va* white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXV. 

li er black, blight, downcast, yet espiegle eye, 
Had gathei'd a large tear into its corner, 

W^hich the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner 

Parading all her sensibility, 
!Nor insolent enough to scorn the scomer, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, , 

To be call'd up J or her examination. 

LXVI. 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and therC; 

Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in the study ; and in air 

Yhe prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 
From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent 
Writing despatches) in their several stations, 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXVIL 

But this poor girl was left in the grest hall. 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale. 

She waited until justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 

LXVIII. 

You see here was enough of occupation 
For the Lord Henry, link'd vdxh dogs and horses. 

There was much bustle too and preperation 
Below stairs on the score of second com'ses, 

Because, as suits their rank and situation, 
Those who in counties have great land resources, 

Ki've *' public days " when all men may carouse. 

Though not exactly what's call'd " open house." — 

LXIX. 

But onco a week or fortnight, tminvited, 
(Thus we translate s. general mvitation,) 

,4 U country gentleman, esquired or knighted, 
May drop in without cards, and take their station 

iV t the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation, 

A.nd. as the isthmus of the grand connexion, 

XtM. :)'er themselves, the past and next election. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 
B^jrrowing for boroughs likt a rat or rabbit, 

But county contests cost him i ither dearer, [bit 
Because the neighboring Scotch Earl of Giftgab- 

Had English influence in the self-same sphere here ; 
His son, the Honorable Dick Dice-drabbit, 

Was member for " the other interest," (mean'ng 

rhr saiae self-interest, with a different leaning.) 



Courteous and cautious ther<^f ^rr in lis county 
He was all things to all men, ^nd cdspensed, 

To some civility, to others bounty, 
And promises to all — which last coL-ioe ice«l 

To gather to a somawhat large amourrt, h"? 
Not calculating how much they cond'^^nse^ 

But, what with keeping some and breaking ovhf'* 

His word had )he same value as another's. 

LXXII. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held 

That he exactly the just medium hit 

'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd. 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd. 

But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 

LXXIII. 

He was "free to confess," (whence comes this phrase < 
Is't English ? No — 'tis only parliamentary) 

That innovation's spirit now-a^days 

Had made more progress than for the last century 

He would not tread a factious path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to ventur* 

As for his place, he could but say this of it, [high , 

That the fatigue was greater than the profit 

LXXIV. 

Heaven and his friends knew that a private life 
Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife [tioni 
Which threaten'd the whole country with perdi 

When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
Cut through and through (oh, damnable incision ' 

The Gordian or the Geordian knot, whose strings 

Have tied together Commons, Lords, and Kings. 

LXXV. 
Sooner " come place into the civil list, [it, 

And champion him to the utmost" — he would kc' / 
Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 

Profit he cared not for, let other reap it ; 
But should the day come when place ceased to exist 

The country would have far mare cause to weep it ; 
For how could it go on } Explain who can ! 
He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXVI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more- 

Than those who were not paid for independenP i 

As common soldiers, or a common shore 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore 
Who do not give professional attendance 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVIL 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 

And thought. I say no more — I'vesaidtoomv B 

For all of us have either heard or read 

Off — or zipon the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the official candidate. Fll touch 

No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung. 

And grace is said; the grace I shculd Lave awn^ 



DON JUAN 



727 



LXXVIIL 

But I'm too late, and therefore must make play> 
'Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old 

Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 
"Were something very glorious to behold. 

But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 
Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 

Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 

And every ::''>dy out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

Ihe squiTes familiarly formal, and 
My loiis and ladies proudly condescending ; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand [ing 

Their plates — without it might be too much bend- 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending; 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both men and masters too — theirplaces. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
"Whose hounds ne'er eiT'd, nor greyhounds deign'd 

Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [to lufch; 
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
There were some massy members of the church. 

Takers of tythes, and makers of good matches. 

And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXX I. 

There were some country wags, too, — and, alas ! 

Some exiles from the town, who had been driyen 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 

And rise at nine, in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhelming sol. of heaven, 
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen' d with. 

LXXXII. 
I knew him in his livelier London days, 

A brilliant dinner-out, though but a curate ; 
And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 
Oh, Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways ! 
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate ?) 
Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 
A fat fen 7i:H.rage, and nought to think on. 

LXXXIIL 
His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 

But both were thrown away among the feus ; 
Tor wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longei ready ears and short-hand pens 
In-.bibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 

TLo poor priest was reduced to common seAe, 
Or tt coarse elibrts very loud and long, 
r » nammer a h >urse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, •* between 
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we're seen — 
But we'll say notliing of affairs of state) — 

h. difference " 'twixt a bisliop und a duan," 
A difference botween rrockery-ware and plate, 

A.i) between Fuglish beef and Spartan broth— 

Ind yet gi ml heroes have been bred by both. 



LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the differenct 

Beheld between the country and the town. 
Of which the latter merits every preferen<;e 

From those who've few resources of their own. 
And only think, or act, or feel with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition— 

Both which are limited to ne conuition. 

LXXXVL 

But " en avant I " The light loves languisn o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know. 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and trufflea 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles 

LXXXVII. 
Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place he knew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait ; 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chaii ; 
Though knives and forks clang'd round as in a fray 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there. 
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXVIIL 

On which, at the tki7'd asking of the bans, 
He started ; and, perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he colored more than once. 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce- 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wourd, 

And with such hurry that, ere he could curb it, 

He'd paid his neighbor's prayer with. half a turbot 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd. 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third. 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure. 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last maiket, cost his host three votes. 

XC. 
They little knew, or might have sympathized, 

That he the night before had scon a ghost; 
A prologue, which but slightly hanuouized 

With the substantial company ongross'd 
By matter, and so much materialized. 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel TiOit 
Of two things — how (the question rather oil is; 
Such bodies could have souls, or souls sucii bodieti 

XCI. 
But what confused him more than smile or stare 

From all the 'squires and 's(niires.si-s around, 
^V^lo wonder'd at the abstraction of his air. 

Especially as he had been rcnown'd 
For some vivacity among the fair, 

Even in tl\e country circle's narrow l)ound— 
(For little tfiings upon my lord's estate 
Were good small-talk for others still leM gre«U>- 



''28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XCII 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss : 
In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 
Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique, 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wi^es 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 

IVus a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 
Indicative cf some surprise and pity ; 

And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 
Whicn wa« not /ery wise and still less witty, 

Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 
A most important outwork of the city — 

As Juan should have known, had not his senses 

By last night's ghost been driven from their defences. 

XCIV. 
But, what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 

Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary : 
Her aspect was, as usual, still — not stern — 

And she withdrew, but cast not down her eye, 
Yet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 

I know not ; but her color ne'er was high — 
Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But Adeline' was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game. 

And dignity with courtesy so blending. 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, and similar connexions' 
Safe conduct through the rocks of reelections. 

XCVI. 

Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

Jn Adeline, while playing her grand role. 
Which she went through as though it were a dance, 

^i3etraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce perceptible askance. 

Of weariness or scorn,) began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real ; 

xcyii. 

t5o well she acted all and every part 

By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 
Vrhich many people tf»ke for want of heart : 

They err — 'tis merely what is call'd mobility ,8 
A thing of temperament, and not of art, 

Tliough seeming so, from its supposed facility: 
And false- -tliough true; for surely they're sincerest 

Who're st'^ngly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVIII. 
This mak(;s your actors, artists, and romancers, 

Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never ., 
Etnt speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers. 

Little that's great, but much of what is clever ; 
Most orators, but very few financiers, 

Though all Exchequer Chancellors endeavor, 
Uf late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigors. 
And grow quite f gurative with their figures. 



XCIX. 
The poets of arithmetic are they, 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they would do in a modest' way, 

Have plainly made it out that four are three* 
Judging by what they take and what they pay. 

The sinking Fund's unfathomable sea. 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; 

Though too well-bred to quiz men to their faces. 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 

The ridicules of people in all peaces — 
That honey of your fashionable bees — 

And store it up for mischievous enjoyment; 

And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close ;;. 

The evening also waned — and coffee came, 
Ea6h carriage was announced, and ladies rose. 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
Retired : with most unfashionable bows, 

Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Delighted with the dinner and their host, 
But with the lady Adeline the most. 

CII. 

Some praised her beauty ; others her great grace , 
The warmth of her politeues, whose sincerity 

Was obvious in each feature of her face, 
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of rerity 

Yes : she was truly worthy her high place ! 
No one could envy her deserved prosperity : 

And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 

Draperied her form with curious felicity ! ' 

cm. 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertions and soft phrases. 

In a most edifying conversation. 
Which turn'dupon their late guests' miens and faces 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dressef 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

CIV. 

True, she said little — 'twas the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram : 
But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke 

Like Addison's " faint praise " so wont to laam 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend ! 
I ask but this of mine, to — not defend. 

CV. 

There were but two exceptions jto this keen 
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one, 

Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
And Juan too, in general behind none 

In gay remark on what he'd heard or seen, 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone • 

In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 
'He would not join them in a single sfcUy 



DON JUAN. 



729 



CVI. 

Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 
She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 

Its motive for that charity we owe 
But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Further ; ''t might or it might not be so : 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his reverie, 

Yet saw this much which he was glad to see. 

CVII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good, 

It making him as silent as a ghost. 
If m the circumstances which ensued 

lie gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings which he had lately lost 
Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal. 
Are so divi v, that I mnst deem them real : — 

CVIII. 

The love o'' higher things and better days ; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

"Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
Vhe heart in an existence of its own, 
Of wliich another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 

Who would not sigh At ai rav Kvdcpeiap 
That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 

Alas her star must wane like that of Dian, 
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 

Anacreon only hck^ the soul to tie on 
Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 

Of Eros; but, though thou hast play'd us many tricks, 

Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Geuetrix ! " 

ex. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 

Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
"Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 

And make the wordling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before : he was undrest. 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress : 

Corripletely "sans culotte," and without vest; 
III short, he hardly could be clothed with less : 

But apirehnnsive of his spectral guest, 
He sate with feelings awkward to express, 

'By those who have net had such visitations,) 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 
ind not in va'n listcn'd ; — Hush ! what's that ? 

I see — I see — Ah, no ! — 'tis not — yet 'tis — 
ife powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat I 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of bis I 
Bo like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 

Or tiptoe of an aimutory Miss, 
liliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her sht* 
02 



CXIII. 

Again — ^what is't ? The vrind ? No, uo,— this tim€ 

It is the sable friar as before 
"With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, - 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again through shadows of the night sublime. 

When deep sleep fell on laen, and the world wora 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood 
curdle. 

CXIV. 
A noise like to wet fingers dravm on glass, 8 

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter 
Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass 

Sounding like very supernatural water, — 
Came over Juan's ear, which throbbd, alas ! 

P'or immaterialism's a serious matter : 
So that even those whose faith is the most great 
In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 

cxv. 

"Were his eyes open ?— Yes ! and his moum voo. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb. 
Yet leave the gate* which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. "What open'd next ?— the doo» 

CXVI. 

It open'd with a most infernal creak. 

Like that of hell. " Lasciate Jgni speranza, 

Vio che entrate ! " The hinge seem'd to speak. 
Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; 

Or — but all words upon such themes are weak • 
A single shade's sufHcient to entrance a 

Hero — for what is substance to a spirit ? 

Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it > 

CXVIl. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly — but, as fiy 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then swung back ; nor close — but stood awry 
Half letting in long shadows on the light 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high. 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, — 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

CXVIII. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he haH. been shaken 
The night before ; but, being sick of shaking. 

He ftrst inclined to think he had been mistaken, 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking i 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 
Within liim, and to quell his corporeal quakinfl^ 

Hinting, that soul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath flcrof 
And he arose — advanced — the shade retreated; 

But Juan, eagi>r now the truth to pierce, 
l''nllo\v'd ; his veins no longer cold, but heated 

Resolved to thrust the mystery cart and tierce, 
At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 

The ghost 8top|)'d, menaced, then retired, until 

He reuch'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still 



730 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CXX. 

Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 

It touch'd nor soul, nor body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 

Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
He shudder'd as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. 
How cdd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
She aid faiise more fear than than a whole host's 
ideniity.9 

CXXI. 

But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared, 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Vet one thing rather good the grave had spared, 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
The •'ioon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 



CXXIl. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder . 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust. 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart undfii 

He found, as people on most trials must, 
That he had made at first a silly blunder, 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 

CXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, jtole 

Forth into something much like flesh and Wood 

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 

And they reveal'd — alas 1 that e'er they shocud I 

In full, voluptuous, but not o'e*•gro^^•n bulk. 

The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz- Falke ' 



ll 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



CANTO I. 



Brave men were living before Agamemnon. 

Stanza v. 

"Vixere fortes ante Agamemnoua," 4c. — Horace, 



Save thine " incomparable oil,' 



Macassar ! 
Stanza xvii. 



"Description des verUis incomparables d.e Vhyxile 
de Macassar." — See the advertisement. 

3. 

Althotigh Longinus tells tis there is no hymn 
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample. 

Stanza s.iii. 
See Longinus, Section 10, iva i^fi Iv n iripi avrfiv 

rdd'Ji aivrjTai, nad(Zv 61 cnvoSos- 



They only add them all in an appendix. 

Stanza xliv. 
Fact. There is, or was, such an edition, with all 
the obnoxious epigrams of Martial placed by them- 
sehes at the end. 

5. 
Ihe bard I quote from does not sing amiss. 

Stanza Ixxxviii. 
Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming ; (I think) the 
opening of Canto II., but quote from memory. 



Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers, declares I vised him vilely? 

Stanza cxMii. 
Donna Julia here made a mistake. Jount 
O'Reilly did not take Algiers — but Algiers very 
nearly took him ; he and his army and fleet re- 
treated with great loss, and not much cedit, from 
ef« e hat city, in the yeai 17 — . 



7. . ' 

My days of love are over, me no more. 

Stanza ccsvi 

" Me nee fcemiiia, nee puer 

Jain, nee sjk-s animi credula mutui ; 
Nee cenare juvat inero, 
Nee vineiie novis tenipora floribut." 



CANTO III. 



For none likes more to hear himself' cohvene 

Stanza xl\ 

Rispose allor Margulte : a dirtel toeto, 
lo non credo piu al nero, eh' a I'azzuiro; 
Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arroslo j 
E credo alcuiia voltu anco nel burro, 
Ne la eervogia, e quando' io n' ho nel mosto; 
E molio piu ne 1' aspro che il inangurro; 
Ma »opra luttu nel luion vino ho fade ; 
E credo che eia salvo chi g\\ ererte. 

PULCl, MorganU Mufgior; 

Canto xviii., Stanza IV ». 



That e'er by precioiis metal zoas held in. 

Stanza Ixxi. 
This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar 
are worn in the manner described. The reader will 
perceive hereafter, that, as the mother of Haidee 
was of Fea, her daughter wore the garb of the 
country. 

3. 
A like gold bar, above her instep rolVd. 

Stanza Ixxi. 
The bar of gold above the instep is a murK of 
sovereign rank in the women of the families of the 
Deys, and is worn as such by their female relathe* 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



731 



HerptrscHy if allowed at large to run. 

Stanza Ixxiil. 

This is no exaggeration ; there were four women 
whom I remember to have seen, who possessed their 
txair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, 
the other was a Levai^tine. Their hair was of that 
length and ouantity that, when let down, it almost 
eniirely shaded the person, to as nearly to render 
dress a superfluity. Of these, only one had dark 
bair ; the Oriental's had, perhaps, the lightest 
color of the four. 

5. 
Oh Hesperus ! thou brinffest all good things. 
Stanza cvii. 
'Eo-ir£p£, iravra (>)ep£ts, 
Qepeis oivovy (bepeis aiya, 
Qspeii u'iTtfii rraiSa. 

Fragment of Swppho. 



jM>/t hour I which wakes the wish and melts the heart. 

Stanza cviii. 

" Era gA V ora che viilge M disio, 
A' navigiinti e 'ntenerisce il cuore 
tiO di ch' ban ileilo a' dolci amici addio, 

E clie lo nuovo peregrin d' amo-8 
Punge, se ode Squilia di loiiuirio 
Che pa;i 'I git>rii> piangcr die si muore." 

DANTE'S Purgatory, Canto Tiii. 

This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken 
hy him without acknowledgment. 

7. 
Some hands unseen strewed flowers upon his tomb. 

Stanza cix. 
See Suetonius for this fact. 



UANTO IV. 



' WTiom the gods love die young" was said of yore. 

Stanza xii. 
See Herodotus. 

2. 
A vein had burst. 

Stanza lix. 
This is no very uncommon effect of the violence 
of conflicting and dirferont passions. The Doge 
Francis Foscari, on his deposition, in 14o7, hearing 
the bell of St. Mark announce the election of his 
successor, " mourut subitement d'une hcmorrhagie 
caus'e par une vcine qui s'' data dans sa poitrine," 
(see Sismcndi and Daru, vols. i. and ii.) at the age 
of eighty yeilrs, when " who would hace thowjlU 
the old man had so much blood in hinif " Before 1 
was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a melan- 
choly instance of the same effect of mixed passions 
upon a young person ; who, nowcver, did not die in 
3>nsequeuce, at that time, but fell a victim some 
years afterwards to a seizure of the same kind, 
arising from causes intimately connected with 
agitation of mind. 

3. 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 

Stanza Ixxx. 
This is a fact. A few ycurs ago, a man engaged 
a company for some foreign theatre ; emiiarkod 
them at an Italian p<trt, and, carrying tlwrn to 
Algiers, sold them all. One of the wuiiien, returned 
from her captivity, I heard sing, by a slrunge coimi- 
dencc, in llossini s opera of " L'ltaliana iu Algieri," 



li Venice, in the begiuuiu;; nf lUI^ 



From all the Pope makes yearly, 'twould perplex^ 
To find three jjerfect pipes of the third stx. 

Stanza Ixxx^n. 
It is strange that it should be the jiope and the 
sultan who are the chief encouragers of this branch 
of trade — women being prohibited as singers at St. 
Peter's, and not deemed tru&two-thy as guardians 
of the haram. 

5. 
While weeds and ordure ratikle rcund the base. 

Stanza ciii. 
The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna, 
is about two miles from the city, on the opposite 
side of the river to the road towards Forli. Gaston 
de Foix, who gained the battle, was killed in it; 
there fell on both sides twenty thousand men. The 
present state of the pillar and its site is described 
in the text. 



CANTO V. 



The ocean stream. 

Stanza iii. 
This expression of Homer has been much criti 
cised. It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of 
the ocean, but is sufficiently applicable to the Hel- 
lespont, and the Bosphorus, with the JEgean inter 
sected with islands. 

2. 
" The Giant's Grave.'* 

Stanza v. 
'The Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic 
shore of the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday 
parties ; like Harrow and Highgate. 

3. 

And running out as fast as I was able. 

Stanza xxxili. 
The assassination alluded to took place on the 
eighth of December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, 
not a hundred paces from the residence of the 
writer. The circumstances were as described. 



Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
Stanza xxxiv 
There was found close by him an old gun-barrel, 
sawn half otf: it had just been discharged, and waa 
still warm. 

5. 
Prepared for suppei' with a glass of rum. 

Stanza liii. 
In Turkey, nothing is more common, than for 
the Mussulmans to t;ike several glasses i)f strong 
spirits by w;iy of ajjpeti/.er. 1 have seen them take 
as many as six of raki before dinner, iind swear that 
they diiied the better for it ; I tried tlio experiment, 
iHit was like the Scotchman, wlu) havui-; lieard that 
the' birds called kiltiewiaks were admuuble whets, 
ate si.x of tliem, and complained that '* he u\is NO 
hungrier than when he began." 



Spletidid but silent, save in one, where drooping, 
A marble fniintniu cchovs. Stanza Iv. 

A common furniture. — I recollect being receivwl 
by Ali l'a(!ha, in a room containing a miuble buain 
and fountain, cVc, &{i., &c. * 



The gate so splendid was in all its fcature$. 

Stanza IxxxviL 
Features qf a gate — a ministerial metaphor ; **tbl 



732 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



feature upon which this question hinaes." — See the 
* Fudge Family," or hear Castlereagh. 



Though on more thorough-bred or fairer finger*. 

Stanza cvi 

There is perhaps nothing more distinctive of birth 
khan the hand : it is almost the only sign of blood 
vhich aristocracy can generate. 

9. 
S^ive Solyman, the glory of their line. 

Stanza cxlvii. 

It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in 
his essay on "Empire," hints that Solyman was 
the last of his line ; on what authority, 1 know not 
These are his wor.^.s : " The destruction of Mustapha 
was so fatal to Solyman 's line, as the succession of 
the Turks from Solyman, until this day, is sus- 
pected to be untrue, and of strange blood; for that 
Uolynms the Second was thought to be supposi- 
tions." But Bacon, in his historical authorities, is 
often inaccurate. I could give half a dozen instances 
from his apophthegms only. 

Being in the humor of criticism, I shall proceed, 
after having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to 
touch on one or two as trifling in the edition of the 
British Poets, by the justly celebrated Campbell: — 
But I do this in good will, and trust it will be so 
taken. — If any thing could add to my opinion of 
the talents and true febling of that gentleman, it 
would be his classical, honest, and triumphant 
defence of Pope, against the vulgar cant of the day, 
and its existing Grub street. 

The inadvertencies to which I allude, are, — 

Firstly, in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses 
of having taken " his leading characters from 
Smollett.'' Anstey's Bath Guide was published in 
176^. Smollett's Humphry Clinker (the only work 
of Smollett's from which Tabitha, &c., c&c., could 
have been taken) was written during Smollett's last 
residctice at Leghorn, in 1770. — '-Argal," if there 
has been any borrowing, Anstey must be the 
creditor, and not the debtor. I refer Mr. Campbell 
to his oivn data in his lives of Smollett and Anstey. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says, in the life of Cow- 
per, (note to page 3o8, vol. 7,) that ''he knows not 
to whom Cowper alludes in these lines : " 

" Nor he who, for the bane of thoiis^inds bom, 

Built God a church, and laugli'd his name to scorn." 

The Calvanist meant Voltaire, and the church of 
Ferney, with its inscription, " Deo erexit Voltaire." 

Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. C. quotes 
Bhakspeare thus, — 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the ro*e, 
Or add freak perfume to the Tioiel." 

This version by no means improves the original, 
which is as follows : 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 
To Ihrov a perfume on the violet," &c. 

King John. 

A great poet, quoting another, should be correct; 
he should also be accurate when he accuses a Par- 
nassian brother of that dangerous charge "borrow- 
ing : " a poet had better borrow any thing (excepting 
money) than the thoughts of another — they are 
always sure to be reclaimed ; but it is very hard, 
having been the lender, to be denounced as the 
iebtor, as is the case of Anstey versus Smollett. 

As there is " honor among thieves," let the^e be 
some among poets, and give each his due, — none can 
afford to give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, 
who, ^^ith a high reputation for originality, and a 
fame which cannot be shaken, is the only poet of 
Ibe times (except Rogers) who can be reproached 
(and in htm it is indeed a reproach) with having 
v:itte& too little. 



CANTO VI. 



A '*V30oa obscure, ' like that where Dante founcL 

Stan« lxx7 

" Nel mezzo del caimnm' di nostra vita 

Mi ritrovai per luia aelva occura," &A,, tU,, ftc 



CANTO VII. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. 

Stanza U. 
Fact : Souvaroff did this in person. 



CANTO VIII. 



1. 



All sounds itpierceth, *' Allah ! Allah ! Hu ! ** 

Stanza viii. 

'• Allah ! Hu ! " is properly the war-cry of the 
Mussulmans, and they dwell long on the last sylla- 
ble, which gives it a very wild and peculiar effect. 



■ Carnage (so Wordsworth tells you) is God'f \ 
daughter." Stanza ix. 

" But thy most dreaded initrument 

In working out a pure intent. 
Is man array 'd for mutual slaughter; 
Yea, Carnage is thy daughter I " 

WORUSW ORTH'S Thanktgimng Ode. 

To wit, the Deity's. This is perhaps as pretty a 
pedigree for murder as ever was found out by Garter 
King-at-arms. — What would have been said, had 
any free-spoken people discovered such a lineage ? 



Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. 

Stanza xviii. 
A fact : see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect 
remarking at the time to a friend : — " There ia 
fame! a man is killed — his name is Grose, and 
they print it Grove." I was at college with the 
deceased, who was a very amiable and clever man, 
and his society in great request for his wit, gayety, 
and " chansons a boire." 

4. 
As any other notion, a7id not national. 

Stanza xxiii. 
See Major Valiancy and Sir Lawrence ParsonSk 

5. 

'Tis pity " that such meanings should pave hell.** 
\ ' Stanza xxT. 

The Portugese proverb says that " Hell is pared 
with good intentions." 

6. 
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon ! 

Stanza xxxiii. 
Gunpowder is said to have been discovered bj 
this friar. 

7. 
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades, 

Stanza xlvlL 
They were but two feet high above the level. 



That you and I will win Saint George^ s colkir. 
Stanza xovii. 
The Russian military crdf^r. 



NOTES TO DON JX3AN, 



733 



9. 

(Powers 
Sterna! ! ftucn names mingled !) " Ismail's ours ! ' 

Stanza cxxxiiL 
In the original Russian — 

" Slava bogu I ilava vam I 
Krepo«t Vzala, y la tam." 

A kitid of couplet ; for he was a poet. 



CANTO IX. 
1. 

Humanity would rise and thunder " Nay ! " 

Stanza i. 
Query, Ney ? — Printer's Devil. 

2. 

And send the sentinel befoi'e your gate. 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals. 

Stanza vi. 

" I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with 
four others. — We were sent to break biscuit, and 
make a mess for Lord Wellington's hounds. I was 
very hungry, and thought it a good job at the time, 
AS we got our own fill while we broke the biscuit. — a 
thing I had not got for some days. When thus 
pngaged, the Prodigal Son was never once out of 
my mind ; and I sighed, as I fed the dogs, over my 
humble situation ,and my ruined hopes." — Journal 
of a Soldicrof the list Regt. during the war in Spain. 

3. 

Because he could no more digest his dinner. 

Stanza xxxiii. 

He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper 
had been exasperated, by his extreme costivitv, to 
a degree of insanity. 

4. 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. 
Stanza xlvii. 

He was the *' grande passion " of the grande 
Catherine. — See her Lives, under the head of 
" Lanskoi." 

6. 
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess show 
His parts of speech. Stanza xlix. 

This was written long before the suicide of that 
person. / 

6. 

Your ** fortune" was in a fair way " to swell 

A man,'' as Giles says. Stanza Ixiii. 

" His fortune swells him, it is rank, he's married." 

i^ir Giles Overreach ; Ma88INOKr. — See *'A New 

Way to Pay Old Debts" 



CANTO X. 
1. 

Would scarcely Join again the " reformadoes." 

Stania xiii. 

«' Reformers," or rather ♦* Reformed." The Bar- 
•n Bradwardine, in Waverly, is authority for thi 
I? 3rd 

2. 

The eruiless soot bestows a cintfar deeper 
Than can be hid by altering hu shirt. 

Stanza xT. 
Query, «MiYf— Peintbe 9 Dbvil. 



Balgi.tx.ine a Brig's black wall. 

Stanea xviil. 
The brig of Don, near the "auld toun " of Aber- 
deen, with its one arch and its blacK deep salmon 
stream below, is in my memory as yesterday. 1 
still remember, though perhaps I may misquote, 
the awful proverb which made me pause to cross it, 
and yet lean over it with a childish delight, being 
an only son, at least by the mother's side. Tu« 
saying, as recollected by me, was this — but I hi»<rii 
never heard or seen it since I was nine years ^{ age . 

" Brig of Balgonnie, black't your va' ; 
Wi' a wife's ae ton and a mear'» a«fnal, 
Down ye ehall fa' I " 



Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant 
Thy praise, hypocrisy ! Stanza xxxiv. 

A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power" 
of a steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend 
Sidney Smith, sitting by a brother-clergyman at din- 
ner, observed afterwards that his dull neighbor had 
a ** twelve-parson power" of conversation. 

5. 

To strip the Saxons of their hydes like tanners. 
Stanza xxxvi. 
"Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legiti- 
mate word, and as such subject to the tax of a quib 
ble. 

6. 
Was given to her favorite, and now bore his. 
Stanza xlix. 

The Empress went to the Crimea, accompanied 
by the Emperor Joseph, in the year — I forget which 



Which gave her dukes the graceless name of ' ' Biron." 

Stanza Iviii. 

In the Empress Anne's time, Biren her favorite 
assumed the name and arms of the " Birot.>s " ol 
France, which families are yet extant with that ol 
England. There are still the daugliteru of Cour- 
land of that name; one of them I remember seeing 
in England in the blessed year of the Allies — the 
Duchess of S. — to whom the English Duchesa ol 
Somerset presented me as a namesaka. 



Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone 
The greatest number Jlesh hath ever known. 

Stan/a Ixii 
St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins we^^v 
still extant in 1816, and may be so yet us much as 
ever. 

9. 
Who butcher' d half the earth, and bullied t'other 

Stanza Ixxju. 
India. America. 



CANTO XI. 
1. 

Who on a lark, with black-eyed Sal (his blowing) 
So '//rime, so swell, so nutty, and so knowing f 

Stany.a six. 
The advance of science and of language has ren- 
dered it unnecessary to translate the above good 
and true English, spoken in its original nurity by 
the select iu)l>ility and their patrons. The hdlowmg 
is a stanza of a song whicn was very popular, at 
least in my early days — 



734 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



• On the Wgh toby-spice flash the muate, 

in spite of each ^llows old scout; 
U you nt the spellken aan't hustle, 

You'll be hobbled in making a Clout. 

" Then your blowing will wax gfallo a s haughty, 
♦ When she hears of yo-jr scaly mistake, 

She'll surely turn snitch for the forty, 
That her Jack may be reafiilar weight." 

If thi;re be any gera'man so isrnorant as to require 
a traduction, I refer him to my old friend and cor- 
poreal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Pro- 
fessor of Pugilism ; who I trust still retains the 
strength and symmetry of his modej of a form, 
together with his good humor, and atnletic as well 
as mental ancomj Mshmcnts. 



Sf. James's Palace and St. Jameses " Hells." 
Stanza xxix. 
"Hells," gaming-houses. What their. number 
may now be in tliis life, I know not. Before I was 
of age, I knew them pretty accurately, both " gold " 
and *' silver." I was once nearly called out by an 
acquaintance, because when he asked me where 
1 thought his soul would be found hereafter, I 
answered, " In Silver Hell." 



and therefore even 1 won't anent 

This subject qtiote. Stanza xliii. 

"Anent," was a Scotch phrase, meaning "con- 
cerning," — "with regard to." It has been made 
English by the Scotch Novels ; and, as the French- 
man said—"" If it be not, ovAjht to be English." 



The milliners who furnish 



drapery misses." 
Stanza xlix. 



" Drapery misses " — This term is probably any 
thing now but a mystery. It was, however, almost 
80 to me when I first returned from the East in 
1811-1812. It means a pretty, a high-born, a fash- 
ionable young female, well instructed by her friends, 
and furnished by her milliner with a wardrobe upon 
credit, to be repaid, when married^ by the husband. 
The riddle was first read to me by a youtag and 
pretty heiress, on my praising the " drapery " of an 
^'tmiochered" but "pretty virginities" (like Mrs. 
Anne Page) of the then day, which has now been 
some years yesterday :— she assured me that the 
thing Avas common in London ; and as her own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity 
of array, put any suspicion in her own case out of 
the question, I confess I gave some credit to the 
allegation. If necessary, authorities might be cited, 
in which case I could quote both " drapeiy " and 
the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it is now 
obsolete. 

5. 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle. 
Should let itself be snuff' d out by an article. 

Stanza Ix. 

" nivinse particulam aurae." 



CANTO XII. 
I. 

Gives. 7cifh Greek truth, the gooi old Greek the lie. 

Stanza xix. 

See MiTFORn's Greece. " Graecia Verax." His 

great pk asure consists in praising tyrants, abusing 

Plutarch, spelling oddly, and writing quaintly ; and, 

wha; is strange af-er all, his is the best modem his- 



tory of Greece in iny lanp-uage, and he is perhaps ' latter chapters 



the best of all modtrn historians whatsover. Hav- 
ing named his sins, it is bu4; fair to state his virtuei 
— learning, labor, research, wrath, and partiality 
I call the latter virtues in a writer, because thej 
make him write in earnest. 



A hazy widoxoer tiirn'd of forty's sure. 

Stanza xxxvii 
This line may puzzle the commentators more than 
the present generation, 

3. 
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to ^nov)S. 

Stanza Ixxiii. 
The Russians, as is well known, nm out from 
their hot baths to plunge into the Neva : a pleasant 
practical antithesis, which it seems does them no 
harm. 

4. 
The world to gaze upon those noj-fhem lights. 
Stimza Ixxxii. 
For a description and print of this inhabitant c( 
the polar region and native country of the aurcra 
borealis, see pAiinY'sVoyagein Search of the Nort\- 
West Passage. 

5. 
As Philip's son pj-oposed to do with Athos. 

Stanza Ixxxvi. 
A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a 
statue of Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, 
I believe, a river in his pocket, with various other 
similar devices. But Alexander's gorie, and Athoi 
remains, I trust, ere long, to look over a nation of 
freemen. 



CANTO XIII. 

1. 

Right honestly, " he liked an honest hater.** ^ 

Stanza vii. 

" Sir, I like a good hater."— See the Life of Dr 
Johnson, &c. 

2. 
Also there bin another pious reason. 

Stanza xxvi 
"With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet arise." — Shakspeare. 



They and their bills " Arcadians both," are lefl. 

Stanza xfy. 
" Arcades ambo." 

4. 
Or wilder groups of savage Salvatore*s. 

Stanza lixi. 
Salvator Rosa. 

6. 
His bell-mouth' d goblet makes me feel quite Vanish. 

Stanza Ixxii. 

If I err not, " Your Dane " is one of lago's cat 
alogue of nations " exquisite in their drinking,*' 



£r«n Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura. 

Stanza IxxviiL 
In Assyria. 

7. 
' That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies** 

Stanza xcvi. 

" Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it wag 

blasphemous to talk of Scripture out of church." 

This dogma was broached to her husband — the best 

Christian in any book. Sep Joseph Andrews, 'va tb€ 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



735 



8. 

Th<f qtiaint, old, crtiel coxcomb, in his gullet 

Should have a hook and a small trout to pull it. 

Stanza cvi. 

It would have taught him humanity at least. 
This sentimental savage, vrhom it is a mode to 
^uote (among the novelists) to show their sympathy 
for innocent sports and old songs, teaches how to 
sew up frogs, and break their legs by way of experi- 
ment, in addition to the art of angling, the cruelest, 
the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. 
They may talk about the beauties of nature, but 
the angler merely thinks of his dish of fish ; he has 
uo leisure to take his eyes from offthe streams, and 
a single bite is worth to him more than all the 
scenery around. Besides, some fish bite best on a 
rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny 
fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in 
them ; even net-fishing, trawling, <^c., are more hu- 
mane and useful — but angling ! — No angler can be 
a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew — as humane, 
delicate-minded, generous, and excellent creature 
as any in the world — was an angler : true, he angled 
with painted flies, and would have been incapable 
of the extravagances of I. Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in read- 
ing over the MS. — " Audi alteram partem " — I leave 
5t fco counterbalance my own observation. 



CANTO XIV. 



1. 



<nrf ne"*^ craned, and made but few " faux pas." 

Stanza xxxiii. 

Craning. — "To crane" is, or was, an expression 
used to (leuote a gentleman's stretching out his 
neck over a hedge, "to look before he leaped:" — 
a j'ause in his "vaulting ambition," which in the 
field doth occasion some delay and execration in 
those wVio may be immediately behind the eques- 
trian skeptic. "Sir, if you don't choose to take 
the leap, let me" was a phrase which generally 
eent the aspirant on again ; and to good purpose: 
for tlio igh "the horse and rider" might fall, they 
raade a gap, through which, and over him and hie 
fcV-ed the field might follow. 



fro to the coffee-house, and take another. 

Stanza xlviii. 
In Swift's or Horace WalpoIe's Letters, I 
think it is menticned that somebody regretting the 
loss of a friend, was answered by a universal Py- 
lades : " When I lose one, I go to the Saint James's 
roffee- house, and take another." 

I recollect having heard an anecdote of the same 
Iti i. Sir W. I), was a great uamcster. Coming 
In 3ne day to the club of whicu i.e vvtio a inouiber, 
he was observed to look melancholy. " What is 
the matter, Sir William ? " cried Hare, of facetious 
memory. " Ah ! " replied Sir W. "I have just lost 
poor Lady D." '* Lost ! What! at — Qiiiiize or 
Jiazurdf" was the consolatory rejoinder of the 
querist. 

o. 
And I refer yoic to wise Oxenstiem. 

Stanza lix. 
The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his 
j<on, on the latter expressing his surprise upon the 
^rcat effects arising from potty causes in the pre- 
•nmed^mystery of politics : " You see by this, my 
ion, wfth how little wisdom the kingdoms of the 
up'.ld are governed." 



CANTO XV. 



Afid Thxnt, diciner still. 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

Stanza xdii. 

As it is necessary in these times to avoid am- 
biguity, I say, that 1 mean, by "Dinner still," 
CHityoT. If ever God was Man — or Man God- -he 
was botJi. I never arraigned his creed, but the use 
— or abuse — made of it. Mr. Canning one ixy 
quoted Christianity to barction Negro Slaier^ , and 
Mr. Wilberforce had little to say in reply.' And 
was Christ crucified, that black men niigbt be 
scourged? If so. he had better been born a JNJu' 
latto, to give both colors an equal chance of free 
dom, or at least salvation. 



When Rapp the Harmonist embargoed marriage 

In his harmonioius settlement. 

Stanza xxxv. 

This extraordinary and flourishing German colony 
in America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as 
the " Shakers " do ; but lays such restricticms upon 
it as prevent more than a certain quantum of births 
within a certain number of years ; which tirths (as 
Mr. Huime observes) generally arrive "in a little 
flock like those of a farmer's lambs, all within the 
same month perhaps." These Harmonists (so 
called from the name of their settlement) are 
represented as a remarkably flouri hing, pious, and 
quiet people. See the various r<. ;ent writers on 
America. 

3. 

Nor canvass ichat *^ so eminent a. iand" meant. 
S :anza xxxviii. 

Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. 1 ope, was accus 
tomed to call his writers " able pens " — " personw 
of honor" and especially " eminent hands." Vidp 
correspondence, &c., &c. 



MHule great Lucullus" robe triumphale muffles — 
r There's fame) — young partridge ^fillets, deck'd toith 
truffles. Stanza Ixvi. 

A dish "a la Lucullus." This horo, who con- 
quered the East, has left his more extended celeb- 
rity to the transplantation of cherries (which he 
first brought into Europe) and the nomenclature of 
some very good dishes ; — and I am not sure that 
(barring indigestion) he has not done more service 
to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests 
A fherry-tree may weigh against a bloody laurel, 
tiest'.es, ue has contrived to earn celebrity from 
both. 

6. 

But even sans " conjrtures," it no less trtie ij, 

There' s pretty picking in those '^petits pn.'ts." 

Stanza Ixviil. 

" Pctits puits d'amour garnis de confitures," « 
classical and well-known dish for part of the flimk 
of a second course. 



For that trith me's a 



" sine qua." 

Stan/a lxicx>-i. 



Subauditur '*Non," omitted for the sake of euphony 

7. 
In short, upon that subject I've some nwthns very 
Like those of the PhUusupher of Mn inshttrg. 

Stanza xcvL 
Hohbrs ; who doubtina; of his own soul, paid thkl 
compliment to the souls of other people as to d«> 
c'ine their visits, of which he had some ap^irehen 



786 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAKTO XVI. 



1} from a sJiell-Jish or from cochineal. 

Stanza x. 

The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whe- 
ther from a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from 
kermes, is still an article of dispute; and even its 
olor— some say purple, others scarlet : I say 
nothitg. 

2. 
For a spoiVd carpet — btit the " Attic Bee" 
Was much consoled by his own repartee. 

Stanza xliii. 

I think that it was a carpet on which Diogenes 
trod, with — " Thus I trample on the pride of 
riato ! " — "With greater pride," as the other re- 
plied. But as carpets are meant to be trodden upon, 
my memory probably misgives me ; and it might be 
a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other 
expensive and uncynical piece of furniture. 

3. 

With ♦* Tu mi chamas's " from Portingale, 
Tu sooth our ears, lest Italy should fail. 

Stanza xlv. 
T remember that the mayoress of a provincial 
town, somewhat surfeited with a similar display 
fjm foreign parts, did rather indecorously break 
through the applauses of an intelligent audience — 
intelligent, I mean, as to music, — for the words, be- 
sides being in recondite languages (it was some 
y<-r»r3 before the peace, ere all the world had trav- 
elled, and while I was a collegian) — were sorely 
disguised by the performers ; — thiu mayoress, I say, 
broke out with "Rot your Italianos ! for my part, 
I loves a simple ballat ! " Rossini will go a good 
way to biing most people to the same opinion some 
day. Who would imagine that he was to be the 
successor of Mozart ? However, I state this with 
diffidence, as a liege and loyal admirer of Italian 
music in general, and of much of Rossini's : but 
we may say, as the connisseur did of painting, in 
the Vicar of Wakefield, " that the picture would 
be better painted, if the paivtx>«: ha^ taken mo*^ 
pains." 



4. 



For Gothic daring tkinon in Englith mcnev- 

Stansa ux. 
'♦ Ausu Romano, aere Veneto" it *he intcriptioQ 
(and well inscribed in this instance) on the seat 
walls between the Adriatic and Venice. The walls 
were a republican work of the Venetians: the in- 
scription, I believe, imperial, and inscribed by Na 
poleon. 

&. 
''Untying " squires ** to fight against the churchei ** 

Stanza Ix. 

•' Though ye unit* the w<nd», and Ud them figat 
Against the church**." — MacbttK. 



They err — 'tis merely what is caP'^i mobility. 
Stanza xcviu 
In French "mobilite." I am not sure th^".! mo- 
bility is English ; but it is expressive of a quality 
which rather belongs to other climates, though it is 
sometimes seen to great extent in our own. It 
may be defined as an excessive susceptibility of im ■ 
mediate impressions — at the same time without 
losing the past — and is, though sometimes appa- 
rently useful to the possessor, a most painful and 
unhappy attribute. 

7. 
Draperied her form with curious felicity. 

Stanza ciL 
" Curiosa felicitas." — PEXRONirs Arbiteb 



A rufise like to wet fingers drawn on glass. 
Stanza cxir. 
See the account of the ghost of the uncle cf 
Prince Charles of Saxony, raised by Schioepter'-^ 
" Karl-Karl — ^was — wait wolt mich ? " 

9. 
How odd a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
ijhculd cause more fear than a whole host's identity 

Stanza cxt 

" ShadtnB* to-night 
BaTO atrock raoie tenor to the toul of Richant 
TtMB out ti» ftibiftJMM of tea tbouw M eoidieta, Jte., *&' 



^^».^--^.>,^w p 



<ygTrtltl 



i.-.:v-.^^...^-x^->,. — . -^ m i -rinrn i -if 



LETTERS. 



LETTERS, 



liETTER I 

TO MlflS PIGOT OF SOUTHWELL. 

" Burgage Manor, August 29, 1804. 

•♦1 received the arms, my dear Miss Piu;ot, and 
im ver)' muck obliged to you for the trouble you 
have taken. It is impossible I should have any 
fault to find with them. The sight of the drawings 
Kves me great pleasure for a doul)le reason, — in the 
Erst place, they will ornament my books; in the 
next, they convince me that t/ou have r\ot foryottm. 
me. I ara, however, sorry you do not retur i soojier 
—you have already been gone an age. 7 perhaps 
may have taken my departure for London before 
you come back ; but, however, I will hope not. Do 
not overlook my watch-ribbon and purse, as I wish 
to carry them with me. Your note was given me 
by Harry, at the play, whither lattended Miss Lyon 

and Dr. S ; and noAV I have sat down to answer 

it before I go to bed. If I- am at Southwell when 

Jou return,- — and I sincerely hope you will soon-, for 
very much regret your absence, — I shall be happy 
to hear you sing my favorite, 'The Maid of L'hU.' 
My mother, together with myself, desires to be 
affectionately remembered to Mrs. Pigot, and be- 
lieve me, my iear Miss Pigot, I remain your affec- 
tionate friend, '* Byron. 

" P.S. If you think proper to send me any an- 
swer to this, I shall be extremely happy to receive 
It. Adieu. 

*' P.S. 2d. As you say you are a novice in the art 
of knitting, I hope it don't give you too muph 
trf;uble. Go on slowly, but surely. Once more, 
1(3 J eu" 



LETTER XL 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

•• 16 Picca<lilly, Aiii^t 9, 1810. 

"Mt Dear PiGOT, 

** Many thanks for your amusing narrative of the 
la.st proceedings of my amiahh Alccto,* who now 
begins to feel the effects of her folly. I have Just 
received a penitential epistle, to which, apprehen- 
sive of pursuit, 1 have despatched a moderate an- 
swer, with a kind of ])r()iiiise to return in a fort- 
night ; — this, however, feiitrc tiou^,) 1 never mean 
to fulfil. Her soft wurblnii/s must have delighted 
her auditors, her higher notes being particularly 
mvsic.iU, and on a calm moonlight evening would be 
heard to great advantage. Had I been present as a 
•pectator, nothing would have pleased me more ; 
but to hive come forward as one of the ' drnmatis 



• Hi* vie wr 

UiyliMi 



Hw raeciit »>!•■ 



'-•r h>«l eonipelloil Win to Ay lo 



personae,' — St. Dominie defend .ne from such & 
scene ! Seriously, your mother has laid me undei 
great obligations, and you, with the rest of you? 
family, merit my 'v.armest thanks for your kind con 
trivance at my escape from ' Mrs. Byron furiosa.' - i 

" Oh ! for the pen of Ariosto to rehearse, in epic, 
the scolding of that momentous eve, — or rather, let 
me invoke the shade of Dante to inspire me, for 
none but the author of the '^ Inferno ' could properly 
preside over such an attempt.' But, perhaps, where 
the pen might fail, the pencil would succeed. What 
a group ! — Mrs. B. the principal figure; you cram- 
ming your ears with cotton, as the only antitode to 

total deafness ; Mrs. in vain endeavoring to 

mitigate the wrath of the lioness robbed of her 
whelp ; and last, though not least, Elizabeth and 
Wouski/, — wonderful to relate ! — both deprived oi 
their parts of speech, and bringing up the rear in 
mute astonishment. How did S. B. receive the in- 
telligence ? How many pun^ did he utter on so fa- 
cetious an event ? In your next inform me on this 
point, and what excuse you made to A. You are 
probably by this time t;ired of deciphering rhis hie- 
roglyphical letter; — like Tonv Lumpkin, you will 

pronounce mine to be a d d. up and down hand. 

All Southwell, without doubt, is involved in amaze- 
ment. Apropos, how does my blue-eyed nun, the 
fair * * .? is she ' robed in sable garb of wo f ' 

"Here I remain at least a week or ten days; 
previov.s to my departure you shall recei\e my ad- 
dress, but what it will be I have not determined. 
My lodgings must be kept secret from Mrs. B. ; you 
may present my compliments to her, and say any 
attem])t to pursue me will fail, as 1 have t;iken 
measures to retreat immediately to Portf.mnuth. on 
the first intimation of her removal from Southwell 
You may add, I have now proceeded to a .friend's 
house in the ccmntry, there to remain a fortnight. 

•• I have now blotted (1 must not say written) i 
complete double letter, and in return shall e.\pcet a 
monstrous budget. Without doubt, the dames of 
Southwell reprobate the pernicious example I have 
shown, and tremble lest their babes should disol)cy 
their mandates, and quit in dudgeon their mammas 
on any grievance. Adieu. Wlu'ii you begin your 
next, drop the 'lordship,' and put 'Byron' in ita 
place. Believe me yours, iKro. •• Byuon." 



LETTER III. 

TO MI8S ritH)T. 

•< UhwIou, Aiiioiat to. IW* 

"My Dr.kr Buidort, 

"Ah I have already troubled your brother vntb 
more than he will find pleasure in dec.pheiiug, yov 



740 



BYRON'S WORKS 



aT« the next to -whom I shall assign the difficult 
employment of perusing this second epistle. You 
will perceive from my first, that no idea of Mrs. B.' 
arrival had disturbed me at the time it was written 
nt)t so the present, since the appearance of a note 
from the illustrious cause of my sudden decampment 
has driven the ' natural ruby from my cheeks,' and 
completely blanched my wo-begone countenance 
This gunpowder intimation of her arrival, (confound 
her activity !) breathes less of terror and dismay than 
you will probably imagine from the volcanic tempera- 
ment of her ladyship, and concludes with the com- 
fortable assurance of all present motion being pre- 
vented by the fatigue of her journey, for which my 
blessings are due to the rough roads and restive 
quadrupeds of his majesty's highways. As I have 
not the smallest inclination to be chased round bhe 
country, I shall e'en make a virtue cf necessity 
and, since, like Macbeth, ' They've tied me to the 
stake, I cannot fly,' I shall imitate that valorous 
tyrant, and ' bear -like fight the course,' all escape 
being precluded. I can now engage with less disad- 
vantage, having drawn the enemy from her en- 
trenchments, though, like the prototype to whom I 
have compared myself, with an excellent chance of 
being knocked on the head. However, ' lay on, 

Macduff, and d d be he who first cries, hold, 

eno\!gh.' 

" I shall remain in town for, at least, a ^A'eek, and 
expect to hear from you before its expiration. I 
presume the printer has brought you the offspring 
of my j)oetic mania. Remember, in the first line, 
to read loud the winds whistle,' * instead of 
'round,' which that blockhead Ridge has inserted 
by mistake, and makes nonsense of the whole 
itanza. Addio! — Now to encounter my Hydra. 
Yours ever." 



LETTER IV. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

» " London, Sunday, midnight. August 10, 1806. 

•iJEAK PlOOT, 

'• This astonishing packet will, doubtless, amaze 
jou, but having an idle hour this evening, I wrote 
the enclosed stanzas, which I request you to deliver 
to Ridge, to be printed separate from my other com- 
positions, as yon will perceive them to be improper 
for the perusal of ladies ; of course, none of the fe- 
males of your family must see them. I offer a 
thousand apologies for the trouble I have given you 
in this and other instances. Yours truly." 



LETTER V. 



TO MR. PIGOT 



" Piccadilly, August 16, 1806. 

*'■ I cannot exactly say with Cajsar, ' Veni, vidi, 
dci : ' however, the most important part of his la- 
conic account of success applies to my present situ- 
ation ; for, though Mrs. Byron took the trovMe of 
' cominp ' and ' seeinr/,' yet your humble servant 
proved the victor. After an obstinate engagement 
of some hours, in which we suffered considerable 
damage, from the quickness of the enemy's fire, 
they at length retired in confusion, leaving behind 
the artillery, field equipage, and some prisoners : 
th ^ir defeat is de..>"ve of the present campaign. To 
speak more intelligibly, Mrs. B. returns immedi- 
acoly, hut I proceed, with* all my laurels, to Worth- 
ing, on tlie Sussex coast; to which place you will 
iddress (to be left at the post-ofiice) your next epis- 



See Houn -/ Idleiicu, pat^e 413. 



tie. . By the enclosure of a second Jir^^le of rhymv, 
you will probably conceive my muse ' to be va^ly 
prolific ; her inserted production was brought forth 
a few years ago, and found bv accident on Thursday 
among some old papers. I have recopied it, and, 
adding the proper date, request it may be prihtei 
with the rest of the family. I thought your senti- 
ments on the last bantling would coincide with 
mine, but it was impossible to give it any othei 
garb, being founded ow facts. My stay at Worthing 
will not exceed three weeks, and you may joossiWj 
behold me again at Southwell the middle of Sep- 
tember. ***** 

" Will you desire Ridge to suspend the printing 
of my poems till he hears further from me, as I 
have determined to give them a new form entirely. 
This prohibition does not extend to the last two 
pieces I have sent with my letters to you. Yuu will 
excuse the dull vanity of this epistle, as my brain ia 
a chaos of absurd images, and full of business, 
preparations, and projects. 

" I shall expect an answer with impatience ; — be- 
lieve me, there is nothing at this moment could 
give me greater delight than your letter." 



LETTER VI. 



TO MR. PIGOT. 



" London, August 18, ISOb 

" I am just on the point of setting off for Worth- 
ing, and write merely to request you will send that 
id,le scoundrel Charles, [his groom,] with my horses 
immediately ; tell him I am excessively provoked 
he has not made his appearance before, or written 
to inform me of the cause of his delay, particularly 
as I supplied him with money for his journey. Oa 
no pretext is he to postpone his march one day 
longer, and if, in obedience to the caprices of Mrs. 
B., (who I presume is again spreading desolation 
through her little monarchy,) he thinks proper to 
disregard my positive orders, I shall not, in future, 
consider him as my servant. He must bring the 
surgeon's bill with him, which I will discharge im- 
mediately on receiving it. Nor can I conceive the 
reason. of his not acquainting Frank, [his valet,] 
with the state of my unfortunate quadrupeds. Dear 
Pigot, forgive this petulant effusion, and attribute 
it to the idle conduct of that j^ecious rascal, who, 
instead of obeying my injunctions, is sauntering 
through the streets of that political Pandemonium, 
Nottingham. Present my remembrances to youi 
family and the Leacrofts, and believe me, &c. 

" P.S. I delegate to you the unpleasant task )i 
despatching him on his journey — Mrs. B.'s orders 
to the contrary are not to be attended to ; he is to 
proceed first to London, and then to Worthing, 
without delay. Every thing I have left must be 
sent to London. My Poetics you will pack up for 
the same place, and not even reserve a copy for 
yourself and sister, as I am about to gi^ e them an 
entire new form : when they are complete, you shall 
have the first fruits. Mrs.B. on no account is tf 
see or touch them. Adieu." 



LETTER VII. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

" Lhtle Hampton, Au^ruat "X, 1806. 

*' 1 this morning received your epistle, which 1 
was obliged to send for to Worthing, whence I 
have removed to this place, or. the same coast, about 
eight miles distant from the former \i)u wil 



LETTERS. 



74: 



wot ably not be displeased with this letter, when it 
Informs you that I am 30,000/, richer than I was at 
uur* parting Laving just received intelligence from 
my lawyer that a cause has been gained at Lancas- 
(er assizes,* which will be worth that sum by the 
lime I come of age. Mrs. B. is doubtless acquainted 
of this acquisition, though not apprized of its exact 
value, of which she had better be ignorant ; for her 
behavior on any sudden piece of favorable intelli- 
gence is, if possible, more ridiculous than her de- 
testable conduct on the most trifling circumstance 
of an unpleasant nature. You may give my com- 
pliments to her, and say that her detaining my ser- 
vant's things shall only lengthen my absence ; for 
unless they are immediately despatched to 16 Pic- 
cadilly, together with those which have been so long 
delayed belonging to myself, she shall never again 
behold my radiant countenance illuminating her 
gloomy mansion. If they are sent, I may probably 
appear in less than two years from the (lite of my 
present epistle. 

" Metrical compliment is an ample reward for my 
:.aains ; you are one of the few votaries of Apollo 
who unite the sciences over which that deity pre- 
sides. I wish you to send my poems to my lodgings 
in London immediately, as I have several altera- 
tions and some additions to make ; every copy must 
be sent, as I am about to amend them, and you shall 
soon behold them in all their glory. I hope you 
have kept them from that Upas tree, that antidote 
to the arts, Mrs, B. Entre nous, — you may expect 
to see me soon. Adieu. Yours ever." 



LETTER VIII. 
to miss piqot. 

»Mk Dear Bridget, 

'• I have only just dismounted from my Pegcuut, 
which has prevented me from descending to plain 
prose in an epistle of greater length to your fair 
self. You regretted in a former letter, that my 
poems were not more extensive ; I now for your sat- 
isfaction announce that I have nearly doubled them, 
partly by the discovery of some I conceived to be 
lost, and partly by some new productions. We 
shall meet on Wednesday next; till then, believe 
me yours affectionately, " Byron. 

" P. S. Your brother John is seized with a poetic 
mania, and is nov/ rhyming away at the rate of 
three lines per hour — so much for i?ispiration ! 
Adieu !" 



LETTER IX. 

TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

"Southwell, NolU, Kebrunry 8tli, 1807. 

"My Dearest Clark, 

•' Were I to make all the apologies necessary to 
atone for my late negligence, you would justly say 
jrou had received a petition instc^ad of a letter, as it 
would 1)0 filled with prayers for forgiveness ; but in- 
«tead of this, I will acknowU-dge my sins at once, 
tnd I trust to your fiiendship and generosity rather 
y than to my own excases. Though my health is not 
perfectly rei'stablished, I am out of all danger, 
and have recovered everything l)nt my spirits, 
^hich arc subject Ur deinession. You will be as- 
tonished to hear I have lately written to Dclawurre, 



IB A • uiMlnrtnknn (or Ow mcuvery of tltn ^acbilal* propartf . 



for the purpose of explaining (as far as posoible, 

without involving some old friends of mine in the 
business) the cause of my behavior to him during 
my last residence at Harrow, (nearly two years ago,} 
which you will recollect was rather 'en cavaLer.* 
Since that period I have discovered he was treated 
with injustice, both by those who misrepresented 
his conduct, and by me in consequence of their sug- 
gestions. I have therefore made all the reparation 
in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though 
with very faint hopes of success ; indeed I never 
expected any answer, but desired one for form's 
sake ; that has not yet arrived, and most probably 
never will. However, I have eased my own con- 
science by the atonement, which is humiliating 
enough to one of my disposition, yet I could not 
have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, 
even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have 
done all that could be done to repair the injury, 
and there the affair must end. Whether we renew 
our intimacy or not is of very trivial consequence. 

" My lime has lately been much occupied with 
very different pursuits.* I have been iru)tsportiny a 
servant,* who cheated me, — rather a disagreeable 
event ; performing in private theatricals ; publish- 
ing a volume of poems, (at the request of my 
friends, for their perusal;) making love and taking 
physic. The last two amusements have not had 
the best eftect in the loorld ; for my attentions have 
been divided among so many _/a«r damstls, and the 
drugs I swallow are of such variety in their compo- 
sitions, that between Venus and ^Esculapius I am 
harassed to death. However, I have still leisure 
to devote some hours to the recollections of past, 
regretted friendships, and in the interval to take 
the advantage of the moment, to assure you how 
much I am, and ever will be, my dearest Clare, 
" Your truly attached and sin.-ere 

" Byrov • 



LETTER X. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

" Southwell, Jnn. 13, 180 

" I oiight to begin %vith sundry apologies, for my 
own negligence, but the variety of my avocatior a ii» 
prose and verse must plead my excuse. With this 
epistle you will receive a volume of all my Jurenilia 
published since your departure : it is of considera- 
bly greater size than the copy in your possession, 
which 1 beg you will destrov, as the present is much 
more complete. That unlucky poem to my poor 
Maryt has been the cause of some animadversion 
from ladies in years. I have not printed it in thii 
collection, in consequence of my being prououncecl 
a most profigate sintur, in short, a ' a youny Moore,' 

by , your ♦ * ♦ friend. I bolieve in 

general they have been favorably received, and 
surt'ly the age of their author will preclude seven 
criticism. The adventures of my life from sixteen 
to nineteen, and the dissipation into which I have 
been thrown in London, have given a voluptuous 
tint to my ideas, but the occasions which called forth 
my nnise could hardly admit any other coloiinK. 
This volume is vastly correct and miraculously 
chaste. Apropos, talking of love, ♦ ♦ • * 

" If you can find leisure to answer this farrago of 
unconnected nonsense, you need not (hmbt what 
gr.itifieation will accrue' from your rei)ly to yours 
ever, &c." 



• IIUT>lr(, Knnk. 

' Tin" " Mury " lure iiiontloiiwl wm no! Oxn tu m rm of Aiii>rw«r, iK'f Iti 
•• nimry " of Abtnlwii. Th.- run.* I Ou Hour, ol iairii.>»«, •uUM, "T 
Mury, on r»crl»lin lier pteKww " wii** «i)rfm«»«t lo Imr. 



742 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER XI. 



TO MR. WILLIA.M BANKES. 



" Southwell, March 6, 180 . 

•Di.AB Bankks., 

" Your critique* is valuable for many reasons : 
m the first place, it is the only one in which flattery 
has borne so slight a part; in the next, I am cloyed 
nith insipid compliments. I have a better opinion 
»f' your judgment and ability than your feelings. 
Accept my most sincere thanks for your kind de- 
cision, npi less welcome, because totally unex- 
pected. .With regard to a more exact estimate, I 
need not lemind you how few of the best poems, in 
our language, will stand the test of minute or verbal 
criticism ; it can therefore hardly be expected the 
effusions of a boy, (and most of these pieces have 
been produced at an early period,) can derive much 
merit cither from the subject or composition. Many 
of them were written under great depression of 
spirits, and during severe indisposition ; hence the 
gloomy turn of the ideas. We coincide in opinion 
that the 'jioesies erotiques' are the most exception- 
able ; they were however, grateful to the deities on 
whose altars they were offered — more I seek not. 

"The portrait of Pomposusf was drawn at Har- 
row, after u lung sittlny ; this accounts for the re- 
semblance, or rather the caricatura. He is yo^ir 
friend, he never was mine — for both our sakes I 
shall be silent on this head. The collegiate rhymes 
are not personal ; one of the notes may appear so, 
but could not be omitted. I have little doubt they 
will be deservedly abused ; a just punishment for 
my unfilial treatment of so excellent an Alma Ma- 
ter. I sent you no copy, lest we should be placed 
in the situation of Gil 'Bias and the Archbishop of 
Grenada: though running some hazard from the 
experiment. I wished your verdict to be unbiassed. 
Had my • Libellus' been presented previous to your 
letter, it would have appeared a species of bribe to 
purchase compliment. I feel no hesitation in say- 
ing, I was more anxious to hear your critique, how- 
ever severe, than the praises of the million. On 
the same day 1 was honored wivh the enconiums of 
Maciienzie, the celebrated author of the ' Man of 
Feeling.' Whether his approbation or yours elated 
me most, I cannot decide. 

"You will receive my Jxivenilia, at least all yet 
published. I have a large volume in manuscript, 
which may irn part appear hereafter; at present 1 
have neicher time nor inclination to prepare it for the 
press. In the spring I shall return to Trinity, to dis- 
niaiille my rooms, and bid you a final adieu. The 
Cam will not be much increased by my teais on the 
occasion. Your father remarks, however, caustic or 
bitter to a palate vitiated with the sioeets of adula- 
tion, will be of service. '^Johnson has shoAvn us 
that no poet nj is perfect ; but to correct mine would 
be au Herculean labor. In fact I never looked be- 
yond the moment of composition, and published 
merely at the request of my friends. Notwith- 
standing so much has been said concerning the 
'Genus irritabile vatum,' we shall never quarrel on 
Ihe subject. Poetic fan'ie is by no means the 
• acme' of my wishes. Adieu. 

" Yours ever, 

"Byron." 



LETTER XII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM BANKES. — ^{FRAGMENT.] 

*' For my own part, I have suffered severely in 
Ihe decease of my two greatest friends, the only 



Oil the " Went ot Idleness." 

Docior But.;! Hrad Mi<«? of Harrow School. See " Hour« of Idle- 
st rwn: 443 ii. 



beings I ever loved, (females excepted .) I am then> 
fore a solitary animal, miserable enough, an^ so 
perfectly a citizen of the world, that whether I pasi 
my days in Great Britain or Kamschatka is to me a 
matter of perfect indifference. I cannot evince 
greater respect for your alteration than by immedi- 
ately adopting it — this shall be done in the next 
edition. I am sorry your remarks are not more fre- 
quent, as I am certain they would be equally bene- 
ficial. Since my last I have received two critical 
opinions from Edinburgh, both too flattering for me 
to detail. One is from Lord Woodhouslee, at the 
head of the Scotch literati, and a most voluminous 
writer, (his last work is a life of LordKaimes ;) the 
other from Mackenzie, who sent his decision a sec- 
ond time, more at length. I am not personally 
acquainted with either of these gentlemen, nor ever 
requested their sentiments on the subject: their 
praise is voluntary, and transmitted through the 
medium of a friend, at whose house they read the 
productions. 

" Contrary to my former intention, I am now 
preparing a volume for the public at large ; .my 
amatory pieces will be exchanged, and others substi- 
tuted in their place. The whole will be considerably 
enlarged, and appear the latter end of May This 
is a hazardous experiment ; but want of better em- 
ployment, the encouragement I have met Avith, and 
my own vanity, induce me to stand the test, though 
not without sundry palpitations. The book will 
circulate fast enough in this couiitry, from iQ^re 
curiosity, what I prin " 



LETTER XIII. 



to mr. falkner. 
" Sir, 

" The \ olume* of little pieces which accompaniea 
'this, would have been presented before, had I not 
been apprehensive that Miss Falkner's indisposition 
might render such trifles unwelcome. There are 
some errors of the printer which I have not had 
time to correct in the collection : you have it thus, 
with 'all its imperfections on its head,' a heavy 
weight, when joined with the faults of its author. 
Such ' Juvenilia,' as they can claim no great degree 
of approbation, I may venture to hope, will also 
escape^the severity of uncalled for, though perhaps 
not undeserved, criticism. 

" They were written on many and various occa- 
sions, and are now published merely for the perusal 
of a friendly circle. Believe me, sir, if they afford 
the slightest amusement to yourself and the rest of 
my social readers, I shall have gathered all the bays 
I ever wish to adorn the head of 

" Yours, very truly, 
" Bykon. 

" P. S. I hope Miss F. is in a state o\ recovery ' 



LETTER XIV. 

TO MR. PIGOT. 

" Southwell, April, 18U. 

" Mv Dear Pigot, 

" Allow me to congratulate you on the success ol 
your first examination, — H^ouraye, mon am-i.' Th« 
title of Dr. will do wonders with the damsels. ] 
shall most probably be in Essex or London when 



The Houn of Idlene 



LETTERS. 



743 



Tou arrive at this d— d place, where I am detained 
Dy the publication of my rhymes. 

" Adieu. — Believe me ycirs very truly, 
** Byron. 
«* P. S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by 
violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 
fourteen stone six lb. to twelve stone seven lb. In 
all I have lost twenty-sevon pounds. Bravo ! — what 
say you ?" 



LETTER XV 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

" June 11, 1807. 

"Dear Queen Bess, 

*' Savage oup:ht to be immoHal : — though not a 
thorough-bred bull-dog, he is the finest puppy I ever 
sdto, and wiil answer much better ; in his great and 
manifold kindness he has already bitten my fingers, 
and distui-bed the gravity of old Boatswain, who is 
arievously discomposed. I wish to be informed what 
he costs, his expenses, Sec, &c., that I may indemnify 

Mr. Gi . My thanks are all I can give for the 

trouble he has taken, make a long speech and con- 
clude it with 12 3 4 5 6 7.* I am out of practice, 
80 deputize you as Legate, — ambassador would not 
do in a matter concerning the Pope, which I pre- 
«ume this must, as the whole turns upon a Bull. 

"Yours, 

"Byron. 

•* I' 8. I wiite in bed." 



LETTER XVI. 

to miss PIGOT. 

" Cambridge, June 30, 1807. 

• * Better late than never. Pal,' ia a saying of 
which you know the origin, and as it is applicable on 
the present occasion, you will excuse its conspic- 
uous place in the front of my epistle. I am almost 
superannuated here. My old friends, (with the 
exception of a very few,) all departed, and I am 
preparing to follow them, but remain till Monday to 
be present at tbree Oratorios, two Concerts, a Fair, 
and a Ball. I find I am not only thinner, but taller 
by an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell 
every body my name, nobody having the least recol- 
lection of my visage or person. Even the hero of 
my Cornelian,^ (who is now sitting vis-d-vis, read- 
ing a volume of my Poetics,) passed me in Trinity 
walks without recognising me in the least, and was 
thimderstruck at thi' alteration which had taken 

{)lace in my countenance, &c., &c. Some say I 
ook better, others worse, but .all agree I am thinner 
—more I do not require. I have lost two poimds in 
my weight since I left our cursed, detestable and 
abhorred abode of scandal, where, excepting your- 
self and John Bccher, I care not if the whole race 
were consigned to tlie Pit of Acheron, which I 
would visit in person rather than contaminate my 
taiululs with the ])olluted dust of Southwell. Sert- 
ous/y, unlfss obliged by the emjitiness of my purse 
to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more. 

" On Monday I dep;ut for London. I quit Cam- 
bridge with little regret, because owr set are vanished, 
and my musical proteg<^ before mentioned has left 
the choii;, and is stationed in a mercantile house of 
consifbn-uble eminence in tlje metropolis. You may 
have heard me observe he is exactly, to an hour, 



* Mn hiTO nlliiilri U> an odd fiiiicy ur Irlck of )iis own : wlirnrTi-r he wiu 
It ■ loM Tor «';iru'ttiin^ lo my, iiu iiX'd (o fitlible ovr>r " I '2 8 4 S 6 7." 

t Mr. kViJcitiii. K«e ttin Hum "to B." Houn of lOleneH, pnfe 419; 
md " t\t* 'JoriieUur. ' Uoun of lOleiMM, pa^a 417. 



two years younger than myself. I found him ^owt 
considerably, and, as you will suppose, very glad tf 
see his former Patron. He is nearly my height 
very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and ligh 
locks. My opinion of his mind you already know 
— I hope I shall never have occasion to change it 
Every body here conceives me to be an invalid 
The university at present is very gay, from tht 
fetes of divers kinds. I supped out last night, but 
eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a bottle of claret, went 
to bed at two and rose at eight. I have commenced 
early rising, and find it agrees with me. Ihc 
Masters and the Fellows all very polite, but look a 
little askance — don't much admire lampoons—-iT\\i\^ 
always disagreeable. 

" Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of your 
menagerie go on, and if my publication goes off 
well : do the quadrupeds growl? Apropos, my bull 
dog is deceased — 'Flesh both of cur and man is 
grass.' Adda-ess your answer to Cambridge. If I 
am gone, it will be forwarded. Sad news just 
arrived — Russians beat — a bad set, eat nothing but 
oil, consequently must melt before a hard fire. I 
get awkward in my academic habiliments for want 
of practice. Got up in a window to hear the orato- 
rio at St. Mary's, popped doAvn in the middle of the 
Messiah, tore a woful rent in the back of my tiest 
black silk gown, and damaged an egregious pair 
of breeches. Mem. — never tumble from a church 
vnndow during service. Adieu, dear * * * * ! do not 
remember me to any body : — to jforget and be forgot- 
ten by the people of Southwell is all I aspire to " 



LETTER XVII. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

" Trin . Coll . Camb. J uly 5, 1307 . 

* Since my last letter I have determined to reside 
another year at Granta, as mv rooms, &e., &c., are 
finished in great style, several old friends come up 
again, and many new acquaintances made ; con- 
seqxiently, my inclination leads me forward, and I 
shall return to college in Octo])er, if still alive. My 
life here has been one continued routine of dissipa- 
tion — out at different places every day, en imaged to 
more dinners, &c., &c., than mV stay woidd permit 
me to fulfil. At this moment t write with a bottle 
of claret in my ^«rtrf, and tears in my eyes; for T 
have just parted from my ' Cornelian,' who spent 
the evening with me. As it was our last interview, 
I postponed my engagement to devote the hours 
of the Sabbath to friendship : — Edleston and I have 
separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos 
of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for 
London : you will address your answer to ' Gordon's 
Hotel, Albemarle street,' where I sojourn during my 
visit to the metropolis. 

' I rejoice to hear you are interested in ray 
protege : he has been my almost constant assoeiati 
since October, 180o, when I entered Trinity College 
His voice first attracted my attention, his cour.te 
name fixed it, and his ?na?in('rs attaclu'd me to him 
for ever. He departs for a mercantile hai/st- in tea.-/ 
n October, aud we shall probably not meet till Il.o 
expiration of my minority, when 1 shall leavt ut 
his decision either entering as a 2>nrtner through 
my interest, or residing with me altogether C)f 
course he would in his present frame of mind pvofei 
the latter, but he may alter his opinion pvevi ms, i>\ 
that period ; — however, he sliall have his ehoite. 1 
certamly love him more than atiy human being, and 
neither time nor distance have had the least eH'eiM 
on my (in general) chaiige»l»le dispos4ti()n. Li 
short, we shall put Lady E. Ihillt-r and Miss 
P()nso}iby to the blush, Pyladfs aiul Orestes out o1 
countenance, and want notliing but a Chtastrupb': 
like Nis\i9 and Euryalua, to give Jonathan und 



744 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



David the * go by.* He certainly is perhaps more 
attached to me than even I am in return. During 
the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met 
every day, summer and winter, without passing one 
tiresome moment, and separated each time with 
increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see 
Qs together — he is the only being I esteem, though 
I like many.* 

•' The Marquis of Tavistock was down the other 
day ; I supped with him at his tutor's —entirely a 
whig party. The opposition muster strong here 
now, and Lord Huntingdon, the Duke of Leinster, 
&c , &c., are to join us in October, so every thing 
will be splendid. The music is all over at present. 
Met with another ' accidency ' — upset a butter-boat 
in the lap of a lady — look'd very blue — spectators 
grinned — * curse 'em ! ' Apropos, sorry to say, been 
d'^mk every day, and not quite sober yet — however, 
touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup, and vegeta- 
bles, consequently it does me no harm — sad dogs 
all the Cantabs. Mem. — we mean to reform next 
January. This place is a monotony of endless variety 
— like it — hate Southwell. Has Ridge sold well ? 
or do the ancients demur ? What ladies have 
bought? ******** 

" Saw a girl at St. Mary's the image of Anne * *, 
thought it was her — all in the wrong — the lady 
stared, so did I — I blushed, so did ')iot the ladN' — sad, 
thing — wish women had more modesty. Talking 
of women, puts me in mind of my terrier Fanny — 
how is she ? Got a headache, must go to bed, up 
early in the morning to travel. My protege- break- 
fasts with me ; parting spoils my appetite — except- 
ing from Southwell. Mem. — I hate Southwell. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER XVIII. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

" Gordon's Hotel, July 13, 1807. 

•♦ You write most excellent epistles — a fig for 
ether correspondents with their nonsensical apolo- 

fies for ' ktwwing nought aboid it,' — you send me a 
elightful budget. I am here in a perpetual vortex 
of dissipation, (very pleasant for all that,) and, 
strange to tell, I get thinner, being now below 
eleven stone considerably. Stay in town a month, 
perhaps six weeks, trip into Essex, and then, as a 
favor, irradiate Southwell for three days with the 
lis^ht of luy countenance ; but nothing shall ever 
make me reside there again I positively return to 
Cambridge in October ; we are to be uncommonly 
gay, or in truth I should cut the University. An 
extraordinary circumstance occurred to me at Cam- 
bridge, a girl" so very like * * * made her appear- 
ance, that nothing but the most minute insj)ection 
could have undeceived me. I wish I had asked if 
she had ever been at H * * *. 

" What the devil would Ridge have ? is not fifty 
m a fcitnight, before the advertisements, a sufficient 
sale ? I hear many of the London booksellers 
have them, and Crosby has sent copies to the 
(principal watering-places. Are they liked or not in 
•> luthwell ?*****! wish Boatswain had 
iicallf'H^ed Damon ! How is Bran ? by the immortal 
gods, Bran ought to be a Count of the Holy Roman 
Empire. * * * 

•' The intelligence of London cannot be interesting 
to you, who have rusticated all your life — the annals 
of routs, riots, balls and buxing-matches, cards and 
cxim. cons., parliamentary discussions, political 
details, masquerades, mechanics, Argyle street 
Institution and aquatic races, love and' lotteries, 
Brooks's and Bonaparte, opera-singers and orato- 
•iofi, wine, women, wayworks, and weathercocks. 



R/IUmum See Leuer lOL 



can't accord with your tr^sulated ideas of deconus 
and other silly expressions not inserted in ou9 
vocabulary. 

" Oh ! "Southwell, Southwell, how I rejoice to 
have left thee, and how I curse the heavy hours 3 
dragged along, for so many months, among th€ 
Mnhawks who inhabit your kraals ! — However, one 
thing I do not regret, which is having pared off a 
sufficient quantity of flesh to enable me to slip mta 
' an eel skin,' and vie with the slim beaux of modern 
times ; though, I am sorry to say, it seems to be 
the mode among gentlemen to grow fat, and 1 am 
told I am at least fourteen pounas below thp 
fashion. However, I decrease instead of enlarging 
which is extraordinary, as violent exercise in Lon 
don is impracticable ; but I attribute t^e pJienom 
enon to our evening squeezes at public and private 
parties. I heard from Ridge this morning, (the 
14th, my letter was begun yesterday:) he says the 
Poems go on as well as can be wished, the seventy- 
five sent to town are circulated, and a demand foi 
fifty more complied with, the day he dated hia 
epistle, though the advertisements are not yet hall 
published. Adieu. 

"P. S. Lord Carlisle, on receiving my poems 
sent, before he opened the book, a tolerably hand- 
some letter : — I have not heard from him since. 
His opinions I neither know nor care about ; if he 
is the least insolent, I shall enroll him with Btitler* 
and the other worthies. He is in Yorkshire, poor 
man ! and very ill ! He said he had not time to 
read the contents, but thought it necessary to 
acknowledge the receipt of the volume immediately 
Perhaps the earl * bears no brother near the throne* 
— if so, I will make his sceptre totter in his hands."^ 
A(ueu ! " 



LETTER XIX. 

TO MISS PIGOT. 

" August 2, 1807. 

" London begins to disgorge its contents — town 
is empty — consequently I can scribble at leisure, as 
occupations are less numerous. In a fortnight 1 
shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but 
expect two epistles from you previous to that 
period. Ridge does not proceed rapidly in Notts- 
very possible. In town things wear a more promis- 
ing aspect, and a man whose works are praised by 
revietvers, admired by duchesses, and sold by every 
bookseller in the metropolis, does not dedicate 
much consideration to rustic readers. I have now a 
review before me, entitled ' Literary Recreations,' 
where my hardship is applauded far beyond my 
deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but think 
him a very discerning gentleman, and myself a_ 
devilish clever fellow. His critique pleases me 
particularly because it is of great length, and a 
proper quantum of censure is administered, just to 
give an agreeable relish to the praise. You know 
I hate insipid, unqualified, common-place compli- 
ment. If you would wish to see it, order the 
thirteenth number of ' Literary Recreations ' foi 
the last month. I assure you I have not the most 
dL«-tant idea of the writer of the article — it is printed 
in a periodical publication — and though I have 
written a paper, (a review of Wordsworth,!) which 



* Dr. Butler. See Letter XI. 

t Tlie first a)".tempt of Ixird Byrou at reviewing, (for he, once or twio 
aClerwant, irioU his hand at this least poetical ot eniploynieiiu.J is lemarkable 
only as bhowiiig how plausibly he coiiKI assuuie the estal/iislieii tone aiu| 
phn<sfolog-y of these minor judgment-seats ot criticism. For histance» 
" The volumes before us are by the Aiitlior of Lyrical Ballads, a coUeclkw 
which has not undeservedly met with a considcraWe share of public applause. 
The characteristics of Mr. Wonlsworlh's muse are sinipie and flowiny, 
thuuerh occasionally inharmonious, verse,— strong, and sometimes irresistible 
appeals to the feelings, with unexccptionuhle sentin^nU. Tio'^gh thi 
present work may not equal his former etfnru, many of tie poems poasaM 
ualive ele^nce," \c. tc—Moon. 



T.ETTERS. 



748 



ippear<i in the same work, I am ignorant of every 
other person concerned in it — even the editor, 
wrhose name I have not heard. Mv cousin. Lord 
Alexander Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, 
told me his mother, her Grace of Gordon, requested 
he would introduce my poetical Lordship to her 
Hiyhness, as she had bouj^ht my volume, admired it 
exceedine:ly in common with the rest of the fashion- 
able world, and wished to claim her relationship 
with the author. T was unluckily en^aj^ed on an 
excursion for some days afterward, and as the 
duchess was on the eve of departing for Scotland, 
I have postponed my introduction till the \vinter, 
wien I sh.il\ favor the lady, whose taste I shall tiot 
dispute, with my most sublime and edifying con- 
rtrsation. She is now in the Hic;hlands, and 
Alexander took his departure a few days ago, for 
the same blessed seat of ' dark rolling winds.' 

""Crosby, my London put)lisher, has disposed of 
nis second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a 
third — at least so he says. In every bookseller's 
window I see my oion name and sai/ nothing, but 
enjoy my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly 
requests me to alter my determination of writing 
no more, and * a Friend to the Cause of Literature ' 
begs I will (/ratify the public with some new work 
* at no very distant period.' "Who would not be a 
bard i* — that is to say, if all critics would be so 
polite. However, the others will pay me off, 1 
doubt not, for this f/enfle encouragement. If so, 
have at 'em ' By-the-by, I have written at my 
intervals of leisure, after two in the morning, three 
•hundred and eighty lines in blank verse, of Bosworth 
Field. I have luckily got Button's account. I 
shall extend the Poem to eight or ten books, and 
Bhall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be 
published or not must depend on circumstances. 
So much for egotism ! My laurels have turned my 
brain, but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms 
will probably restore me to modesty. 

" Southwell is a damned place — ^I have done with 
It — at least in all probability: excepting yourself, I 
esteem no one within its precincts. You were my 
only rational companion ; and in plain truth, I had 
more respect for you than the whole bevy, with 
whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with 
their prevailing propensities. You gave yourself 
more trouble with me and mv manuscripts than a 
thousand dolls would have done. Believe me, I 
have not forgotten vour good-nature in thi/ circle 
of sin, ajid one day I trust I .sliall be able to evince 
my gratitude. Adieu, yours, dtc, 
'* P. S. Remember me to Dr, P." 



LlfiTTER XX. 



TO MISS PiaOT. 



I^iidoii, AiiKiiit 11, 1807, 

"On Sundav next I set off for the Highlands,* 
A fiiend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to 
Bdinl)iirgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in 
& tandem, (a Kjjecies of oj^-n carriage,) through the 
western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase 
thelties, to enalile us to view plac«'s inaccessible to 
vehitvlar conveyances. On the coast we shall hire 
a vessel and visit the most ren\arkable of the He- 
brides, and, if we have time and favorable weather, 
naean to sail as far as Icehmd, only tliree hundred 
miles from tliejiortln-rn extremity of ('alcdonia, to 
peep at llecla. Tliis last inteytion you will keep a 
secret, is my nif'e mamma would imagine I was on 
te Voyage of Disrovery, and raise the accustomed 
maternal war-whoop. 



rhU pluii (Which h)> nevor put In pncUee) ImiI bean talked of by hlro 
re Ke loll 8oi lliwcll.— Afcior*. 



" Last week I swam in the Thames from Lam- 
beth through the two bridges, "Westminster and 
Blackfriars. a dista ice, including the ditlerenl 
turns and tacks made on the way, of three miles 
You see I am in excellent training in case of a 
s(^uall at sea. I mean to collect all the Erse tradi- 
tions, poems, &c., and translate, or expand the sui, 
ject to fill a volume, which may appear next s])ring 
under the denomination of * The Highland Ko.rp,' 
or some title equally picturesque. Of Bosworth 
Field, one book is finished, another just begun. It 
will be a work of three or four years, andmcst prob- 
ably never conclude. "What would you say. to some 
stanzas on Mount Hecla .' they would be written at 
least with fire. How is the immortal Bran ? and 
the Phfcnix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain ? I 
have lately purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, 
worthy to be the coadjutor of the aforesaid celestials 
— his name is Smut ! — * bear it, ye breezes, on your 
balmy wings,' 

"Write to me before I set off, I conjure you by 
the fifth rib of your grandfather. Rid.ge goes on 
well with the books — I thought that worthy had 
not done much in the country. In town they have 
been very successful ; Carpenter (Moore's publisher) 
told me a few days ago they sold all theirs immed'- 
ately, and had several inquiries made since, which, 
from the books being gone, they could not supply. 
The Duke of York, the Marchioness of Headfort. 
the Duchess of Gordon, &C., &c., were among the 
purchasers, and Crosby says the circulation will be 
still more extensive in the winter ; the summer sea- 
son being very bad for a sale, as most people are 
ibsent from London. However, they have gone ofl 
extremely well altogether. I shall pass very near yoi 
on my journey through Newark, but cannot ap- 
proach. Don't tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes 1 
travel a different road. If you have a letter, order 
it to be left at Ridge's shop, where I shall call, or 
the post-office, Newark, about six or eight in the 
evening. If your brother would ride over, I should 
be devilish glad to see him — he can return the same 
night, or sup with us and go home the next morn- 
ing — the Kingston Arms is my inn. Adieu. Yours 
ever, "Byron" ' 



LETTER XXI. 



TO MISS PiaOT. 
" Trinity College, Cambridge, CK\. 38, 19l»7. 

"My Dear *♦*♦, 

" Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning 
for the last two days at hazard, I take u]) my pen 
to imiuire how your highness and the rest of my 
female acquaintance at the seat of archiejiiscopal 
grandeur go on. I know I deserve a scolding for 
my negligence in not writing more frequently : but 
racing up and down the country for these last three 
months, how was it possible to fulfil the duties of a 
correspondent ? Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, 
as thin as pver, (not having gained un ounce since 
my reduction,) and rather in better hunnu-; — but, 
after, all, Si)uthw»>.l was a dctest^ole residence. 
Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it ; I imm 
been twice within eight miles of it, but coul£!l 
not prevail on myself to suffocate in its heav> 
MtmoBphere. This place is wretched enough — a 
villanous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothinf; 
but hazard and Burgundy, hunting mathematics 
and Newmarket, riot and racing. Yet it is a pjiia- 
disc compared with the eternal diiluess of South- 
well. Oh ! the misery of doing nothing but muke 
lovf, niemifvi, and versen. 

"Next January (but t.:.iH i« entrf noun only, and 
pray let it be so," or my maternal persecutor will b« 
throwing her tomahiiwk at any of mv curious pn j- 
eels) I am Koing to sra, for four or live luonf.hii, 
with my couuiu, Cupt, Bettcsworth. wbt> ennunard* 



746 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Tartar, th» finest frigate in the navy. I have 
Been most scenes, and wish to look at a naval life. 
We are going probably to th*> MediteiTanean, or to 

the West Indies, or to the d 1 ; and if there is a 

possibility of taking me to the latter Bettesworth 
will do it; for he .has received four-and-twenty 
wonnds in different places, and at this moment pos- 
sesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating 
Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had 
more wounds than himself.* 

" I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, 
a tame bear. When I brought him here, they asked 
oae what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, 
he should sit for a felloicship.' Sherard will ex- 
plain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambigu- 
ous. This answer delighted them not. We have 
several parties here, and this, evening a large as- 
sortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxars, authors, 
parsjns. and poets, sup with me, — a precious mix- 
trare, but th<;y go on well together : and for me, I 
am a spice of every thing except a jockey; by-the- 
by, I was dismounted again the other day. 

" Thank your brother in my name for his treatise. 
I have written 214 pages of a novel, — one poem of 
380 lines, t to be published (without my name) in a 
few weeks, with notes, — 560 lines of Bosworth 
Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, be- 
sides half a dozen smaller pieces. The poem to be 
published is a Satire. Apropos, I have been praised 
\-> the skies in the Critical Review, and abused 
greatly in another publi(!ation. So much the better, 
they tell me, lor the sale of the book ; it keeps up 
controversy, and prevents it being forgotten. Be- 
sides, the first men of all ages have had their share, 
nor do the humblest escape ; — so I bear it like a 
philosopher. It is odd two opposite critiques came 
out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse 
my censor only quotes two lines from different 
poems, in support of his opinion. Now the proper 
way to cut vp, is to quote long passages, and make 
them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no 
pi oof. On the other hand, there are seven pages of 
praise, and more than my modesty wA\ allow said on 
the subject. Adieu. 

*' P S. Write, wTite, write ! ! ! " 



LETTER XXII. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



'♦ Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle street, Jan. 20, 1808. 

«' Sir,. 

" Yojir letter was not received till this morning, I 
presume from being addressed to me in Notts, 
where I have, not resided since last June, and 
as the date is the 6th, you will excuse the delay of 
my answer. 

"If the little volume ;J; you mention has given 
pleasure to the author of Percival and Aubrey, I 
am sufiiciently repaid by Ijis praise. Though our 
periodical censors have been uncommonly lenient, I 
confess a tribute from a man of acknowledged genius 
is still more flattering. But I am afraid I should 
forfeit all claim to candor, if I did not decline such 
praise as I do not deserve ; and this is, I am sorry 
to say, the case in the present instance. 

*' My compositions speak for themselves, and 
must stand or fall by their own worth or demerit : 
thus far I feel highly gratified by yoiir favorable 
opinion. But my pretences to virtue are unluckily 
%o few, that though I should be happy to merit, I 
cannot accept your applause in that respect. One 
passage in your letter struck me forcibly: ycu 



* See poatKcript to t>e Engliih BanU and Scotch Reriewen. 

• Rn|;Uili Bir'j atw Scotcli Reriswen. 
t Houn of I<Ue^>w«. 



mention the two Lords Lyttleton in a manner they 
respectively deserve, and ^A-ill be surprised to heal 
the person who is now addressing you has been 
frequently compared to the latter. I know I am in- 
juring myself in your esteem by this avowal, but 
the circumstance was so remarkable from your ob 
sevvation, that I cannot help relating the fact. The 
events of my short life have been of so singular « 
nature, that though the pride commonly called 
honor has, and I trust evei will, prev- nt me front 
disgracing my name by a mean or cowardly action 
I have been already held up as the votary of licen- 
tiousness, and the disciple of infidelity." How fai 
justice may have dictated this accusati,on I cajiuo* 
pretend to say, but like the i/entleman to whom ray 
religious friends, in the warmth of their charity, have 
already devoted me, I am made worse than 1 really 
am. ilowever, to quit myself, (the worst theme t 
could pitch upon,) and return to my Poems, I can- 
not .siifficientiy express my thanks, and I hope I 
shall some day have an opportunity of rendering 
them in person. A second edition is now in the 
press, with some additions and considera\)le omis- 
sions ; you will allow me to present you with a copy. 
The Critical, Monthly, and Anti- Jacobin Reviews 
have been very indulgent ; but the Eclectic has pro- 
nounced a furious Philippic, not against the book 
but the author, where you will find all I have men 
tioned asserted by a reverend divine who wrote- the 
critique. 

" Your name and connexion with our family have 
been long known to me, and I hope your person 
will be not less so ; you will find me an excellent 
compound of a 'Brainless' and a 'Stanhope.'* I 
am afraid you will hardly be able to read this, for 
my hand is almost as bai as my character, but yoiJ 
will find me, as legibly as possible, 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 
*' Bykon ' 



LETTER XXIII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 



Sir, 



Dorant's, Jannaiy 21, 180b 



" Whenever leisure and inclination permit me the 
pleasure of. a visit, I shall feel truly gratified in a 
personal acquaintance with one whose mind has 
been long known to me in his %\Tit.ings. 

" You are so far correct in your cowjecture, that I 
am a member of the University of Cambridge, 
where I shall take my degree of A. M. this term ; 
but Avere reasoning, eloquence, or virtue the objects 
of my search, Granta is not their metropolis, nor is 
the place cf her situation an 'El Dorado,' far less 
a Utopia. The intellects of her children are as 
stagnant as her Cam,t and their pur.suits limited to 
the church — not of Christ, but of the nearest bene- 
fice. 

" As to my reading, 1 believe I may aver, v/ithoiit 
hiperbole, it has been tolerably extensive in th? his- 
torical ; so that few nations exist, or have existed 
with whose records I am not in some degree ac- 
quainted, from Herodotus down to G.bbon. Of the 
classics, I know about as much as most school boys 
after a discipline of thirteen years ; of the law ol 
the land as much as enables me to keep ' within the 
statute' — to use the poacher's vocabulary. I did 
study the ' Spirit of Laws' and the Law of of Na- 
tions ;. but when I saw the latter violated everj 
month, I gave up my attempts at so useless an ac- 
complishment ; — of geography, I have seen more 
land on maps than I should w>sh to traverse on 
foot; — of mathematics, enough to give me th« 



• Characters in the no»cl called Percival. 
t Seo B. B. and S. B pa«« 466 



LETTERS. 



74 1 



Headache wiinout clearing the part affected : — of 
philosophy, . astronomy, and metaphysics, more 
than I can coniprcheud, arid of common sense so 
little, that I mean to leave a Byronian prize at each 
of our ' Alma3 Matres' for the first discovery, — 
thon^h I rather fear that of the Longitude will pre- 
cede it. 

,_ "I once thought myself a philosopher, and 
'talked nonsense with great decorum : I defied pain, 
and preached up equanimity. For some time this 
did very well, for no one was in pain for me but my 
friends, and* noiie lost their patience but my hear- 
ers. At last, a fall from' my horse convinced me 
bodiiy suffering was an evil ; and the worst of an 
RTgunient overset my maxims and my temper at the 
same moment, so I quitted Zeno for Aristippus, and 
concoive that pleasure constitutes the toki'qv. In 
morality, I prefer Confuf^ius to the Ten Conimand- 
ments, and Socrates to St. Paul, thougli the latter 
trrz agree in their opinion of marriage. In religion, 
I favor the Catholic emancipation, but do not ac- 
knowledge the Pope ; and I have refused to take 
the Sacrament, because I do not think eating bread 
or drinking wine from the hand of an earthly vicar 
will make me an inheritor of heaven. I hold virtue 
in general, or the virtues severally, to be on^y in the 
disposition, each a feeling, not a principle. I be- 
lieve truth the prime attribute of the Deity; and 
death an eternal sleep, at least of the body. You 
have here a l)rief compendium of the sentiments of 
the wicked George Lord Byron ; and, till I get a 
new suit, you will perceive I am hadly clothed. I 
rt^raain, " Yours very truly, 

" Bykon." 



LETTER XXIV. 

TO MR. HENRY DRURY.* 

"Doraiit's Hotel, Jan. 13, 1908, 

' My Dear Sir, 

*' 1 hough the stupidity of my servants, or the 
porter of the house, in not showing you up stairs, 
(where I should have joined you directly,) pre- 
vented me the pleasure of seeing you yesterday, I 
hoped to meet you at some public place in the eve- 
ning. However, my stars decreed otherwise, as 
they generally do, when I have any favor to re- 
quest of them. I think you would have been sur- 
prised at my figure, for, since our last meeting, I am 
reduced four stone in weight. I then weighed four- 
teen stone seven pound, and now only ten stone and 
a half. I have disposed of iny superfiidties by 
means of hard exercise and abstinence. * * * 

•' Should your Harrow engagements allow you to 
visit town between this and Febuary. I shall be 
most happy to see you in Albemarle street. If I 
am not so fortunate, I shall endeavor to join you 
for an afternoon at Harrow, tliough, I fear, your 
cellar will by no moans contribute to my cure. As 
for my worthy preceptor, Dr. B., our eju-ounter 
would by no means j)revent the mutual endear nients 
he and I were wont to lavish on each other. We 
have only spoken once since my departure from 
Harrow in 18')o, and then he politely told Tatersall 
J was not a proper associate for his pupils. This 
was long before my strictures were in verse : btit, in 
plain wrose, had I been some years older, I should 
nave held my tongue on his perfections. But being 
laid on my nack, when that schoolboy thing was 
written — or rather dicitated — expecting to rise no 
more, my physician liaving taken his sixteenth fee, 
and I his proscription, 1 could not qiiit this earth 
without leaving a memento of my constunt attach- 
ment to Butler in gratitude for his manifold good 
ofhces. 

* Hoa of D<x:tof Orury, Lot I Uvran's Conner MaXer at U&rrow School. 



" I meant to have been down in July ; but think 
ing my appearance, immediately after the publica 
tion, would be construed intcJ an insult, I diiected 
my steps elsewhere. Besides, I heard that Pome 
of the boys had got hold of my Libellus, contrary 
to my wishes certainly, for I never transmitted 9 
single copy till October, when 1 gavu one to a boy, 
since gone, after repeated importunitie.-. You will, 
I trust, pardon this egotism. As you Jj.: d touched 
on the subject, I thought some explanat'on neces- 
sary. Defence I shall not attempt^ ' Ilic murus 
aheneus esto, nil conscire sibi' — and 'so on ' (as 
Lord Baltimore said, on his trial for a rape)-"I La\e 
been so long at Trinity as to forget the conclusiofj 
of the line; but, though I cannot finish my quo a 
tion, I will my letter, and entr(!at you to beli-tve 
nie, gratefully and affectionately, &c. 

" P. S. I will not lay a tax on your time by 
requiring an answer, lest you say, as Butler said to 
Tatersall, (when I had \^Titten his reverence an 
impudent epistle on the expression before men 
tioued,) viz., 'that I wanted to draw him into a 
correspondence.' " 



LETTER XX V 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



" Doruiit's Hotel, Albemarle street, Feb. 11 1808 

"My Dear Harness, 

" As I had no opportunity of returning my verbal 
thanks, I trust you will accept my written acknowl 
edgments for the compliment you were pleased to 
pay some production of my unlucky muse last 
November — I am induced to do this not less from 
the pleasure I feel in the praise of an old school 
fellow, than from justice to you, for I had heard the 
story with some slight variations. Indeed, when 
we met this morning, Wingfield had not undeceived 
me, but he will tell you that I displayed no resent- 
ment in mentioning what I had heard, though 1 
was not sorry to discover the truth. Perha])s you 
hardly recollect some years ago a short, though, for 
the time, a warm friendship between us ! Why it 
was not of longer duration, I know n )t. I have 
still a gift of yours in my possession, tliat must 
always prevent ine from forgetting it. I also 
remember being favored with the perusal of manj 
of your compositions and several other circum- 
stances very pleasant in their day, which 1 will not 
force upon your memory, but entreat you to bciiera 
me, with mucii regret at their short continuar-ca, 
and a hope they are not irrevocable, vtMirs vn 
sincerely, &c. ♦ hvao*. 



LETTER XXVI. 

TO MR. HARNESS. — [PRAUMENT.J 

" Murch, 160a 

"We both seem perfectly to recollect, with a 
mixture of pleasure and regret, the hours we once 
passed togetlu>r, and I assure ymi most sincorrly 
they are nuiul)ered among the happiest of my brio! 
chronicle of enjoyment. I am now ijttting into 
years, that is to say, I was firenfi/ a month ago, and 
another year will send me into tlie worUl to tun my 
career ot' folly with the rest. I was thou jv.st four 
toon, — you wore almost the first of my llarr«)W 
friends, cortainly ihc Jir.sf in \n\ estotMii, if not in 
date; btit an a^)senoo fnnu Harrow for soino time, 
shortly after, and new connexions on your side, nno 
the difteronco in om* conduct (an advantage .locidcdly 



748 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



hi your favor) from that turbulent and riotous 
disposition of mine, which impelled me into every 
species of mischief, — all these circumstances com- 
bined to destroy an intimacy, which Affection urged 
me to continxie, and Memory compels me to regret. 
But there is not a circumstance attending that 
period, hardly a sentence we exchanged, which is 
not impressed on my mind at this moment. I need 
not say more, — this assur;mce alone must convince 
vou, had I considered them as trivial, they would 
have been less indelible. How well I recollect the 
perusal of your * first flights ! ' There is another 
circumstance you do not know ; — the first lines I 
ever attempted at Harrow were addressed to you. 
You were to have seen them; but Sinclair had the 
copy in his possession when we went home ; — and, on 
oi;r "i eturn , we were strangers. They were destroyed, 
and certainly no great loss ; but you will perceive 
from this circumstance my opinions at an age when 
we canno.t be hypocrites. 

"I have dwelt longei on this theme than I 
intended, and I shall now conclude with what I 
ought to have begun. We were once friends, — nay, 
we" have always been so, for our separation was the 
effect of chance, not of dissension. I do not know 
how far our destinations in life may throw us 
together, but if opportunity and inclination allow 
you to waste a thought on such a harebrained being 
as myself, you will find me at least sincere, and not 
so bigoted to my faults as to involve others in the 
consequences. Will you sometimes %vrite to me^ 
I do not- ask it often, and, if we meet, let us be 
what we should be and what we were." 



LETTER XXVII. 



TO MR. BECHER. 



•* My Dear Becher, 



• Dorant'B Hotel, Feb. 26, 1808. 



•' * * * * Now for Apollo. I am 
happy that you still retain your predilection, and 
that the public allow me some share of praise. I 
am of so much importance that a most violent 
attack is preparing for me in the next number of 
the Edinburgh Review. This I had from the 
authority of a friend who has seen the proof and 
manuscript of the critique. You know the system 
of the Edinburgh gentlemen is universal attack. 
They praise none ; and neither the public nor the 
author expect praise from them. It is, however, 
something to be noticed, as they profess to pass 
judgment only on works requiring the public 
attention. You will see this, when it comes out ; — 
it is, I imderstand, of the most unmerciful descrip- 
tion ; but I am aware of it, and hope you will not 
be hurt by its severity. 

•' Tell Mrs. Byron not to be out of humor with 
them, and to prepare her mind for the greatest 
ao«*tility on their part. It'will do no injury what- 
ever, and I trust her mind will not be ruflied. They 
defeat their object by indiscriminate abuse, and they 
nev^r praise, excc])t the partizans of Lord Holland 
ard Co. It is nothing to be abused when Southey, 
Mo ire, Lauderdale, Strangford, and Payne Knight, 
share the same fate. | 

" I am sorry — but ' Childish Recollections ' must 
be suppressed during this edition I have altered, | 
fct your suggestion, tlie obnoxious auusions in thei 
lixth stanza of my last ode. 

" And now, my dear Becher, I must return my 
best acknowledgments for the interest you Y ive 
taken ic. me and my poetical bantlings, and I shall 
rver be proud to show how much I esteem the 
xdtice a; I a the livise?: 

" Believe me most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXVIll. 



TO MR. BECHER 



" Dorant's, March V8, 1808, 

'* I have lately received a copy of the new editic Q 
from Ridge, and it is high time for me to return mj 
best thanks to you for the trouble you have taken 
in the superintendence. This I do most sincerely 
and only regret that Ridge has not seconded youaa 
I could wish, — at least, in the bindings,, paper, &c.,, 
of the copy he sent to me. Perhaps those for the 
public may be more respectable in such articles. 

"You have seen the Edinburgh Review, of 
course. I regret that Mrs. Byron is s^^ much 
annoyed. For my own part, these ' paper _ ulleta 
of the brain ' have only taught me to stan 1 fire ; 
and, as I have been lucky enough upon the whole, 
my repose and appetite are not discomposed. Pratt, 
the gleaner, author, poet, &c., &:c., addressed a 
long rhyming epistle to me on the subject, by way 
of consolation ; but it was not well dotrie, so I do 
not send it, though the name of the man might 
make it go down. The E. R's. have not performed 
their task well ; at least the literati tell me this, 
and I think / could write a more sarcastic critique 
on myself than any yet published. For instance, 
instead of the remark, — ill-natured enough, but not 
keen, — about Mac Pherson, I (quoad reviewers) 
could have said, ' Alas, this imitation only proves 
the assertion of Doctor Johnson, that many men, 
women, and children could vnrite such poetry a^ 
Ossian's.' \ 

" I am /Am and in exercise. During the spring 
or summer I trust we shall meet. I hear Lord 
Ruthyn leaves Newstead in April. * * * As soon 
as he quits it for ever, I wish you would take a ride 
over, survey the mansion, and give me your candid 
opinion on the most advisable mode of proceeding 
with regard to the hotise. Entre nous, I am cursedly 
dipped ; ray debts, every thing inclusive, will be 
nine or ten thousand before I am twenty-one. But 
I have reason to think my property will turn out 
better than general expectation may conceive. 01 
Newstead I have little hope or care ; but Hanson, 
my agent, intimated my Lancashire property was 
worth three Newsteads. I believe we have it 
hollow ; though the defendants are protracting the 
surrender, if possible, till after my majority, for the 
purpose of forming some arrangement with me, 
thinking I shall probably prefer a sum in hand to a 
reversion. Newstead I may sell: — perhaps I will 
not, — though of that more anon. I will come 
down in May or June. * * * * 

" Yours most truly, &c." 



LETTER XXIX. 

TO MR. JACKSON.* 

N. A. NetU, Sept. 18, ISOft. 

" Dear Jack, 

" I wish you would inform me what has oeeti 
done by Jekyll, at No. 40 Sloane Square, coEsem- 
ing the pony I returned as unsound. 

" I have also to request you will call on Loueb, 
at Brompton, and inquire what the devil he meant 
by sending such an insolent letter to me at Bright- 
on ; and at the same time tell him I by no means 
can comply with the charge he has made for thinca 
pretended to be damaged. 

"Ambrose behaved most scandalously about the 
pony. You may tell Jekyll if he does not refund 
the money, I shall put the affair into my lawyer'* 

* The PiiriUn. See note to Don Juan. Canto XI. 



LETTERS. 



748 



Qaivds. Five-and-twenty guineas is a sound price 

for a pony, and by , if it cost me five hundred 

pounds, I will make an example of Mr. Jekyll, 
lAd th.^t immediately, unless the cash is returned. 
*' Believe me, dear Jack, &c." 



LETTER XXX. 

TO Ma. JACKSON. 

«• N. A., Notto, Oct. 4, 1808. 

'* You vrill make as good a bargain as possible 
»rith thi^ Master Jekyll, if he is not a gentleman. 
If he is a gentleman, inform me, for I shall take very 
different steps. If he is not, you must get what 
you can of the money, for I have too much business 
on hand at present to commence an action. Besides, 
Ambrose is the man who ought to refund, — but I 
Have done with him. You can settle with L. out 
of the balance, and dispose of the bidets, &c., as 
you best can. 

" I should be very glad to see you here ; but the 
house is filled with workmen, and undergoing a 
thorough repair. I hope, however, to be more 
fortunate before many months have elapsed. 

" If you see Bold Webster, remember me to him, 
and tell him I have to regret Sydney, who has 
perished, I fear, in my rabbit warren, for we have 
Been nothing of him for the last fortnight. 

*' Adieu. — Believe me, &c." 



LETTER XXXI. 

•TO MK. JACKSON. 

" N. A., Nott», Dec. 12, 1808. 

MY Dear Jack, 

" You will get the greyhound from the owner at 
any price, and as many more of the same breed 
(male or female) as you can collect. 

" Tell D'Egville his dress shall be returned — I 
am obliged to him for the pattern. I am sorry you 
should have so much trouble, but I was ifot aware 
of the difficulty of procuring the animals in ques- 
tion. I shall have finished part of my mansion in 
a few weeks, and, if you can pay me a visit at 
Christmas, I shall be very glad to see you. 

*' Believe me, &c." 



LETTER XXXII. 

TO MR. BECHER. 

•• Newitead Abbey, NotU, Sept U, 1808. 

*Mt Dear Becher, 

♦•I am much obliged to you for your inquiries, 
Rnd shall profit by them accordingly. I am going 
to get up a play here ; the hall will constitute a most 
admirable theatre. I havrf settled the dram. pers. 
awd can do without ladies, as I have some young 
friends who will make tolerable substitutes for 
females, and we only want three male characters, 
beside Mr. Hobhouse and myself, for the plav we 
nave fixed on, which will be the Revenge. Pray 
direct Nicholson the carpenter to come over to me 
Immediately, and inform me what day you will dine 
\nd pus tK? night here. " Believe me, &o." 



LETTER XXXm. 

TO THE HONORABLE* MRS. BYRON. 

" Newrtead Ablwy, Nottt, Oct. 7, ISCS^ 

•Dear Madam, 

** I have no beds for the H * * s, or any body else 
at present. The H * * s sleep at Munsfield. I do 
not know that I resemble Jean Jacques Rousseau.* 
I have no ambition to be like so illustrious a mad 
man — but this I know, that I shall live in my own 
manner, and as much alone as possible. When my 
rooms are ready I shall be glad to see you ; at pres- 
ent it would be improper, and uncomfortable to 
both parties. You can hardly object to ray render- 
ing my mansion habitable, notwithstanding mt 
departure for Persia in March, (or May at farthest,) 
since you will be tenant till my return ; and in case 
of any accident,) for I have already arranged my 
will to be drawn up the moment I am twenty-one,) 
I have taken care you shall have the house and ma- 
nor for life, besides a sufficient income. So you see 
my improvements are not entirely selfish. As 
I have a friend here, we will go to the Infirmary 
Ball on the 12th ; we will drink tea with Mrs. By- 
ron at eight o'clock, and expect to see you at the 
ball. If that lady will allow us a couple of rooms 
to dress in, we shall be highly obliged : — if we are 
at the ball by ten or eleven it will be time 
enough, and we shall return to Newstead aU ut 
three or four. Adieu. Believe me, 

" Yours, very truly, 

'♦ Byron •* 



LETTER XXXIV. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

" Newslead Abbey, Nor. 2, IMS. 

♦•Dear Mother, 

♦' If you please, we will forget the things you 
mention. I have no desire to remember them 
When my rooms are finished, I shall be happy to 
see you ; as I tell but the truth, you will not suspect 
me of evasion. I am furnishing the house more foi 
you than myself, and I shall establish you in it be- 
foi-te I sail for India, which I expect to do in March, 
if nothing particularly obstructive occurs. I ara 
now fitting up the yreen drawing-room ; the red for 
a bed-room, and the rooms over as sleeping-rooms. 
They will be soon completed ; — at least, I hope so. 

'•I wish you would inquire of Major Watsoti 
(who is an old Indian) what things will bo necessary 
to provide for my voyage. I nave already pro- 
cured a friend to write to the Arabic professor at 
Cambridge for some information I am anxious to 
procure. I can easily get letters from Government 
to the ambassadors, consuls, Sec, and also to the 
governors at Calcutta and Madras. I shall place 
my property and will in the hands of trustees till 
my return, and I mean to ai)point you one. From 
Hanson I have heard nothing — when I do you shall 
have the particulars. 

" After all, you must own my project is not a bad 
one. If I do not travel now, I never shall, and all 
men should one day or other. I have at present no 
connections to keep me at home ; no wife, or un- 
provided sisters, brothers, &C. I shall take cure o! 
you, and when I return I may possibly become • 
politician. A few years' knowledge of other coun- 
tries than our own will not incapacitate me for that 
part. If we see no nation but our own we do not 



* Tbua addrMMd alwnyi by Lord Byron, but wUtoul any rigkt I* h» 
II lljgp n. 
t fcaM< 



Memocmixluin, |m(* Ul>> 



750 



BYRON'S WOKKo 



give mankii d a fair chance — it is from expei'ietice, j 
not books, we ought to judge of them. There is' 
nothing like inspection, and trusting to our own 
senses. *' Yours very truly, 

" Bykon." 



LETIER XXXV. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

*• A fpw -^eeks ago I wrote to * * *, to request he 
.WGiild receive the son of a citizen of London, well 
known to zr=e, as a pupil ; the family having been 
particularly polite during the short time I was with 
them i;iduced me to this application. Now, mark 
wliat follows, — as somebody sublimely saith. On 
this day arrives an epistle, signed * * *, containing 
not the smallest reference to tuition, or mtuition, 
but a /jetition for Robert Gregson, of pugilistic no- 
toriety, now in bondage for certain paltry pounds 
sterling, and liable to take up his everlasting abode 
in Banco Pegis. Had the letter been fiom any of 
my lf(i/ acquaintance, or, in short, from s.ny person 
but the gentleman whose signature it bears, I should 
have marvelled not. If * * * is serious, I congrat 
ulate pugilism on the acquisition of such a patron 
and shall be most happy to advance any sum neces 
sary for the liberation of the captive Gregson. But 
[ certainly hope to be certified from you, or some re- 
spectable housekeeper, of the fact, before I write 
to * * * on the sul.iject. When I say the fact, I 
mean of the letter being written by * * *, not hav- 
ing any doubt as to the authenticity of the state- 
ment. The letter is now before me, and I keep it 
for your perusal." 



LETTER XXXVI. 



LETTER XXXVn. 



DALLAS, ESQ 



My Dear Sir, 

"Suppose we have this couplet- 



' Feb. r, 



or, 



" Though sweet ;he sound, disdain a bonrow'd ( 
Resign Achaia's lyre, aud strike your own ; 

" Though soft Ihe echo, scorn a borrow'd tone, 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 



" So much for your admonitions ; but my note od 

notes,t my solitary pun must not be given up — nt>, 
rather 

" ' Let mightiest of aD the beasts of chac«, 
That roain in woody Caledou' 

come against me : my annotation must stand. 

" We shall never sell a thousand ; then why print 
so many } Did you receive my yesterday's note ? 
I am troubling you, but I am apprehensive some ol 
the lines are omitted by your young amanuensis, to 
whom, however, I am infinitely obliged. 

" Believe me, yours very truly, 
" Byron " 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

•' Reddish's Hotel, Jan. 25, 1809. 

* My Dear Sir, • 

*' My only reason for not adopting your lines* is 
because they are yotir lines. You will recollect 
what Lady Wortley Montague said to Pope : * No 
touching, for the good will i)e given to you, and the 
bad attributed ;o me.' I am determined it shall be 
all my own, except such alterations as may be abso- 
lutely requisite ; but I am much obliged by the 
trouble you have taken and your good opinion. 

" The couplet on Lord C. may be scratched out, 
and the following inserted : 

" Roscommon ! Sheffield I with your spiriti fled, ftc. 

- This will answer the purpose of concealment. 
Wow for some couplets on Mr. Crabbe, which you 
laay ptace after ' Gifford, Sotheby, McNeil :' 

" There be who say in these enlightened days, &e. 

'I am sorry to differ with you with regard to the 
title, but I mean to retain "it with this addition : 
•The English Bards and Scotch Reviewers;' and. 
If we call it a Satire, it will obviate the objection, as 
ttie bards also were Welsh. * * * * 
*' Yours very sincerely, 
"Byron." 



Mr. Dalia* had written some lines, an 1 requited Lord Byron to ^^it 
trm in the Satire, the " Enj^ish Bard* and Scotch Rp viewers," ta|r''> 
unw Thn iMlen foUowliic to Mr. Dallas, relals to that woik 



NOTES TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Feb. 11, .809. 

" I wish you to call, if possible, as I have some 
alterations to suggest as to the part about Brougham 

"B." 

" Excuse the trouble, but I have added two lines 
which are necessary to complete the poetical char 
acter of Lord Carlisle. 

" ' . . in his ago 

His scenes alone had damn' d our sinking stage t 
But managers for once cried, ' liold, enough I' 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 



' Feb. 12, 1809." 



Yours, &C. 



B.' 



"I wish you much to call on me, about ow«, not 
later, if convenient, as I have some thirty or forty 
lines for addition. Believe me, &c. " B." 

"Feb. 15, 1809." 

" Ecce'iterum Crispinus ! — I send you some lines 
to be placed after ' Gifford, Sotheby, McNeil.' Pray 
call to-morrow any time before two, and believe 
me, &c. "B." 

"P. S. Print soon, or I shall overflow with mere 
rhyme. 

" Feb. 16, 1809." 

*' I enclose some lines to be inserted, the six first 
after, ' Lords too are bards, &c.,' or rather immedi- 
ately following the line : 

" < Oh 1 who would take their titles with their rhymes f 

The four next will wind up the panegyric en Lord 
Carlisle, and come after ' tragic stuff.', 

" Yours, truly, "B." 

"FV). 19, 1809." 

" A cut at the opera — Ecce signum ! from last 
night's observation, and inuendoes against tha 
Society for the suppression of Vice. The lineswiU 
come well in after the aouplets concerning Naldi 
and Catalini. . " Yours truly, « 

" Bf aoN."^ 

"Feb. 22, 1809." 



* Mr. Dallas objected to the linet ai originaily 
" Translation's serriJe work at length diK)wn, 
And quit Achaia's muse to court your own.' 
t See English Barria and note p. <•). 



LETTERS. 



751 



LETTER XXXVIII. 



TO MRS. BYBON. 



" 8, St. Jamei'* rt., March, 6, 1809. 

* Deab. Mother, 

" My last letter was written under great depres- 
sion of spirits from poor Falkland's death,* who 
has left without a shilling four children and his 
wife. I have been endeavoring to assist them, 
which, God knows, I cannot do as I could wish, 
from my own embarassments, and the many claims 
upon me from other quarters. 

" "Wlxat you say is all very true: come what may 
Jfewstead and I stand or fall together. I have now 
lived on the spot, I have fixed my heart upon it, 
and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me 
to barter the last vestige of our inheritance. '' 
have that pride within me which will enable me 
to support difficulties. I can endure privations 
but could I obtain in exchange for Newstead 
Abbey the first fortune in the country, I would re 
ject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on that 
score ; Mr. Hanson talks like a man of business on 
the subject, I feel like a man of honor, and I will 
not sell Newstead. 

" I shall get my seat on the return of the affida^ 
vits from Carhais, in Cornwall, and will do some 
thing in the House soon ; I must daoh, or all is over 
My Satire m^st be kept secret for a month ; after 
that you may say what you please on the subject. 
Lord Carlisle has used me infamously, and refused 
to state any particulars of my family to the Chan- 
cellor. I have lashed him in my rhymes, and per 
haps his Lordship may regret not being more con 
ciliatory. They tell me it will have a sale ; I hope 
80, for the bookseller has behaved well, as far as 
•Publishing well goes. Believe me, yours truly. 

" P. S. You shall have a mortgage on one of 
the farms." 



LETTER XXXIX. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



' 8, St. James's street, March 18, 1809. 



** There was no necessity for your excuses ; if you 
have time and inclination to wi-ite, ' for what we re- 
ceive, the Lord make us thankful.' — If I do not 
hear from you, I console myself with the idea that 
you are much more agreeably employed. 

** I send down to you by this post a certain Satire 
lately published, and in return for the three and six- 
pence expenditure upon it, only beg that if you 
should guess the author, you will keep his name 
secret ; at least, for the present. London is full of 
the Duke's business. The Commons have boon at 
t those last three nights and arc not yot come to a 
decision. I do not know if the affair will be brought 
before our House, unless in the shape of an ini])earh- 
ment. If it makes its appearance in a dohatahle 
form, [ believe I shall be tempted to say something 
on the subject — I am glad to hear you like Cam- 
bridge : firstly, because to know that you are happy 
Is pleasant to one who wishes yoti all possible sub- 
lunary cjijoyment; and, secondly, I admire the mo- 
rality of the sentiment. Alma Mater was to mo 
Vijusta noverca ; and the old Beldam only gave me 
my M A. degree because she could not avoid it. — 
You know what a farce r ooble Cantab, must per- 
form. 



" I am going abroad, if possible, in the sp.-ing; 
and before I depart I am collecting the pictures 
of my most intimate schoolfellows ; I have already 
a few, and shall want yours, or my cabinet will be 
incomplete. I have employed one of the first 
miiiiature-painters of tiie day to take thenn, of 
course at my own expense, as I never allow my 
Acquaintance to incur the least expenditure to 
gratify a whim of mine. To mention this may 
seem indelicate ; but when I tell you a friend of 
ours first refused to sit, under the idea that he was 
to disburse on the occasion, you will see that it \m 
necessary to state these preliminaries to present 
the recurrence of any similar mistake. I shall see 
you in time, and will caiTy you to the limner. It 
will be a tax on your patience for a week, but praj 
excuse it, as it is possible the resemblance may be 
the sole trace I shall be able to preserve of our past 
friendship and present acquaintance. Just now it 
seems foolish enough, but in a few years, when 
some of us are dead, and others are separated by 
inevitable circumstances, it will be a kind of satis 
taction to retain in these images ol the living the 
idea of our former selves, and to contemplate in the 
resemblance of the dead, all that remains of judg- 
ment, feeling, and a host of passions. But all this 
would be dull enough for you, and so good night, 
and to end my chapter, or rather my homily, believe 
me, dear H., yours most affectionately. 

" P. S. I do not know how you and Alma Matet 
agree. I was but an untoward child myself, and I 
believe the good lady and her brat were equally 
rejoiced when I was weaned; and, if 1 obtained her 
benediction at parting, it was, at best, eouivocal." 



LETTER XL. 

TO R. C. DALLA*S, ESQ. 

• April 25, 1800. 

" Dear Sir, 

*' I am just arrived at Batt's Hotel, Jermyn street. 
St. James's, from Newstead, and shall bo very glaci 
to see you when convei.icnt or agreeable. Hob- 
house is on his way up to town, full of printing 
resolution, and proof against criticism. 

" Believe me, with great sincerity, yours truly, 

" Byhon." 



LETTER XLI 

TO MR. WILLIAM BA>XE9. 

" TtrslTfl o'rioek, Fifcby mctt 

My Dear Bankes, 

"I have just rocoivcd your note; believ* raa 1 
regret most sincerely that I was not f.nanM« 
enouf^h to see it before, as 1 need not rep"ftt to \ou, 
that yoTir convorsntioji for half an hotir would have 
boon much more agreeable to me than ijambling or 
drinking, or any other fashionable mode of passiwg 
an evening abroad or at home. 1 ro.'.lly am very 
sorry tbut 1 wont out previous to the arrival of your 
dos]mtih : in future, pray let me hoar from you 
before six, and whatever my engagomcnts may be, 1 
will always postpone them. Boliovp n>e, witli thai 
dcforouoo whiih 1 have always from ujv childhood 
paid to your talents, and with somowfuit a bottef 
ojunion of your heart than I huv«« hitherto enter 
tained. " Yours eter, &« " 



752 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER XLII. 



TO MBS. BYRON. 



<• Falmouth, Jane SS, 1809. 

•Dear Mother, 

. " 1 am about to sail in a few days ; probably 
before this reaches you. Fletcher begged so hard, 
that I have continued him in my service. If he does 
not behave well abroad, I will send him back in a 
traiisport. I have a German servant, (who has 
been with Mr. Wilbraham in Persia before, and was 
strongly recommended to me by Dr. Butler of Har- 
row,*) Robert, and William; they constitute my 
whole suite. I have letters in plenty — you shall 
hear from me at the different ports I touch upon ; 
but you must not be alarmed if my letters miscarry. 
The continent is in a fine state — an insurrection 
lias broken out at Paris, and the Austrians are 
beating Bonaparte — the Tyrolese have risen. 

" There is a picture of me in oil, to be sent down 
to Newstead soon. — I wish the Miss Pigots had 
something better to do than carry my miniatures to 
Nottingham to copy. Now they have done it, you 
may ask them to copy the others, which are greater 
favorites than my own. As to money matters, I 
am ruined — at least till Rochdale is sold; and if 
that does not turn out well, I shall entur into the 
Austrian or Russian service — perhaps the Turkish, 
If I like their manners. The world is all before me, 
and I leave England without regret, and without 
a wish to revisit any thing it contains, except your- 
self, and your present residence. 

" Believe me, yours ever sincerely. 

"P. S. Pray teil Mr. Rush ton his son is well, 
and doing well; so is Murray, indeed better than 1 
ever saw him ; he will be back in about a month. 
[ ought to add the leaving Murray to my few regrets, 
as his age perhaps will prevent my seeing him 
again. Robert I take with me ; I like him, because, 
Use myself, he seems a friendless animal." 



LETTER XLIII 

TO MR. HENRY DBURY. 

" Falmouth, Jane 25, 180t. 

••My Dear Drury, 

" We sail to-morrow in the Lisbon packet, having 
been detained till .now by the lack of wind, and 
other necessaries. These being at last procured 
by this time to-morrow evening we shall be 
embarked on the vide forld of waters, vox all the 
corld like Robinson Crusoe. The Malta vessel not 
•ailing for some weeks, we have determined to go 
bv way of Lisbon, and, as my servants term it, to 
?ee ' that there Portingale ;' thence to Cadiz and 
Gibralter, and so on our old route to Malta and 
Constantinople, if so be that Captain Kidd, our 
gallant commander, understands plain sailing and 
Mercator, and tak^s us on our voyage all according 
Jo the chart. 

" Will you tell Dr. Butler that I have taken the 
treasure of a servant, Friese, the native of Prussia 
F roper, into my service from his recommendation. 
He has been all among the Worshippers of Fire in 
Persia, and seen Persepolis and all that. 

** Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a 
book on his return ; — one hundred pens, two gallons 
of japan ink, and several volumes of best blank, is 
no bad provision for a discerning public. I have 



laid down my pen, but have ^romsed to contribute 
a chapter on the state of morals, &c., (Src. 

•• • The cock is crowing, 

I mugt be going, . 

Aud can no mon.'—Chott of Gafft 



Th« Page and Yeoman of Ibe " Ckwd Nlfbt," in <he ftnt Cuto of 
IdoHuold. 



"Adieu. Believe me, &c., &e.* 



LETTER XLIV. 

TO MR. KODOSON. 

" Falmouth, Jobs 8ft, ISOti. 

My Dear Hodgson, 

•* Before this reaches you, Hobhouse, two officers 
wives, three children, two waiting-maids, ditto sub- 
alterns for the troops, three Portugese esquires and 
domestics, in all nineteen souls, will have sailed in 
the Lisbon packet, with the noble Captain Kidd, a 
gallant commander as ever smuggled an anchor 
of right Nantz. 

♦' We are going to Lisbon first, because the 
Malta packet has sailed, d'ye see ? — from Lisbon 
to Gibralter, Malta, Constantinople, and ' all that,' 
as Orator Henley said, when he put the Church, 
and ' all that,' in danger. 

" This town of Falmouth, as you will partly 
conjecture, is no great ways from the sea. It is 
defended on the sea-side by tway castles, St. Maws 
and Pendennis, extremely well calculated for annoy- 
ing eveiy body except an enemy. St. Maws is 
garrisoned by an able-bodied person of fourscore, a 
widower. He has the whole command and sole 
management of six most unmanageable pieces oi 
ordnance, admirably adapted for the destruction 
of Pendennis, a like tower of strength on the 
opposite side of the Channel. We have seen St. 
Maws, but Pendennis they will not let us behold 
save at a distance, because Hobhouse and I are 
suspected of having already taken St. Maws by a 
coup de main. 

" The town contains many quakers and salt fish 
— the oysters have a taste of copper, owing to the 
soil of a mining country — the women (blessed be 
the Corporation therefor!) are flogged at the cart's 
tail when they pick and steal, as happened to one 
of the fair sex yesterday noon. She was pertina- 
cious in her behavior, and damned the mayor. * ♦ ♦ 

•' Hodgson ! remember me to the Drury, and 
remember me to — ^yourself when drunk : — I am not 
worth a sober thought. Look to my Satire at Caw- 
thorne's, Cockspur street. ♦ * ♦ * 

" I don't know when I can write again, because 
it depends on that experienced navigator, Captain 
Kidd, and the ' stormy winds that (don't) blow,' at 
this season. I leave England without regret-— I 
shall return to it without pleasure. I am like 
Adam, the first convict, sentenced to transporta- 
tion, but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple 
but what was sour as a crab ; and thus ends my 
first chapter. Adieu. •* Yours, &c." 



LETTER XLV. 

TO MB. HODGSON. 

"LM)on,Jal7 16, 18M 

" Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all 
sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c.— 
which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse'i 
forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate 
by smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a 
private and clandestine manner. I must iust observe 



LETXISKS. 



753 



that the village of Cintra* in Estremadura is the 
most beautiful, perhaps, in the world. * * * 

•' 1 am very nappy here, because I loves oranges 
and talk bad Latin to the monks, who understand 
It, as it is like their own, — and I goes into society, 
(■yp^ith my pocket pistols,) and 1 swims in the Tagus 
all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, 
and swears Portuguese, and have got a diarrhoea and 
bites from the musquitoes. But what of that ? 
Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a 
pleasuring. * * * 

•• When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say, 
Oarracho !' — the great oath of the grandees, that 
very well supplies the place of * Damme,' — and, 
when dissatisfied with my neighbor, I pronounce 
him ' Ambra di merdo.' With these two phrases, 
and a third. ' Avra Bouro,' which signifieth ' Get an 
ass,' I am universally understood to be a person of 
degree and a master of languages. How merrily 
we lives that travellers be ! — if we had food and 
raiment. But, in sober sadness, any tiling is better 
than England, and I am infinitely amused with my 
pilgrimage as far as it has gone, 

'* To morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles 
as far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and 
I'yzantium. A. letter to Malta will find me, or to 
be forwardea, if I am absent. Pray embrace the 
Drury and Dwyer and all the Ephesians you encoun- 
ter. I am writing with ButleV's donative pencil, 
which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegi- 
bility. * * * 

'* Hodgson ! send me the news, and the deaths, 
and defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes 
of one's friends; and let us hear of literary matters, 
and the controversies and the criticisms. All this 
will be pleasant — * Suave mari magno,' &c. Talk- 
ing of that, J have been sea-sick, and sick of the 
sea. Adiev ~ ** Yours faithfully, &c."" 



LETTER XLVI. 

TO MR HOBQSON. 

«' Glbralter, August 6, 1809. 

• 1 have just arrived at this place after a Journey 
through Portugal, and a part of Spain, of nearly 
five hundred miles. We left Lisbon and travelled 
on horstback to Seville and Cadiz, and thence in 
the Hyperion frigate to Gibralter. The horses are 
excellent — we rode seventy miles a day. Eggs and 
wine and hard beds are all the acommodation we 
found, and, in such torrid weather, quite enough. 
My health is better than in England. * * * * 

" Seville is a fine town, and the Sierra Morena, 
part of whieh we crossed, a very sufficient mountain, 
— but damn description, it is always disgusting. 
Cadiz, sweet Cadiz ! — it is the first spot in the 
creation. « * * The beauty of its streets and 
mansions is only excelled by the loveliness of its 
inhabitants. For, with all national prejudice, I 
must confess the women of Cadiz are as far superior 
to the F/uglish women in beauty as the Spaniards 
are inferior to the English in every quality that 
dignifies thj rame of man. « ♦ * Jiist as I 
began to know the principal fjrsons of the city, I 
was obliged to sail. 

•' You will not expect a lonp letter after my riding 
■0 far *on hollow pampered jades of Asia.' Talk- 
ing of Asia puts me in mind of Africa, which is 
within five miles of my present residence. I am 
going over before I go on to Constantinople. 

((« # « Cadiz is a complete Cythera. Many 
of the grandees who have left Madrid during the 
troubles reside there, and I believe it the prettiest 
and cleanest town in Europe. London is filthy in 



■m Chll t« H«i«ia, canto I., lUnM zrtll., ft& 
01 



the comparison. * * * The Spanish women are 
all alike, their education the same. The wife of a» 
duke is, in information, as the wife of a peasant,— 
the wife of a peasant, in manner, equal to a duchess. 
Certainly, they are fascinating ; but their minds 
have only one idea, and the business of their livea 
is intrigue. * * * 

*' I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Cadiz, 
and like Swift's barber, have been do vn on my 
knees to beg he would not put me into black and 
white. Pray r'-member me to the Drurys and the 
Davies, and all of that stamp who are yet extant. 
Send me a letter and news to Malta. My next 
epistle shall be from Mount Caucasus or Moun* 
Sion, I shall return to Spain before I see England 
fOx- 1 am enamored of the country. 

" Adieu, and believe me, &c *' 



LETTER XLVII. 



TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Gibralter, Aug. 11, 1809. 

"Dear Mother, 

" I have been so much occupied since my depar- 
ture from England, that till I could address you at 
length, I have forborne writing altogether. As I 
have now passed through Portugal, and a consider* 
able part of Spain, and have leisure at this place, I 
shall endeavor to give you a short detail of my 
movements. We sailed fiom Falmouth on the 2d ot 
July, reached Lisbon after a very favorable passage ->! 
four days and a half, and took up our abode in that 
city. It has often been described without being 
worthy of description ; for, except the view from the 
Tagus, which is beautiful, and some fine churches 
and convents, it contains little but filthy streets and 
more filthy inhabitants.* 

" To make amends for this, the village of Cintra, 
about fifteen miles from the capital, is, perhaps in 
every respect, the most delightful in Europe ; it 
contains beauties of every description, natural and 
artificial. Palaces and gardens rising in the midst 
of rocks, cataracts, and precipices ; convents on 
stupendous heights — a distant view of the sea and 
the Tagus ; and, besides (though that is a sec- 
dary consideration) is remarkable as the scene cf 
Sir H. D.'s Convention. t It unites in itself all the 
wildness of the western highlands, with the ver 
dure of the South of France. Near this plapp, 
about ten miles to the right, is the palace of Mafra 
the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any coun- 
try, in point of magnificence without elegance. 
There is a convent annexed; the monks, who po8- 
soss large revenues, are courteous enough, and un- 
derstand Latin, so that we had along conversation: 
they have a large library, and asked me if th« 
Emflish had any books in their country. 

•"' I si^nt my baggage and part of the servants' by 
sea to Gibralter, and travcllrd on horsel»ack from 
Aldea Galheda, (the first stage from Lisbon, which 
is only accessible by water,) to Seville, (one of th« 
most famous cities in Spain,) where tlie govern- 
ment called the Junta is now hold. The clistance 
to Seville is nearlv four hundred miles, and to Cadil 
almost ninety miles further towards the coast, I 
had orders froin the government, and every possible 
accommodation on the road, as an l-higlish noble- 
man, in an English uniform, is a very resi)eetable 
personage in Spain at present. The horses are re- 
markably good, and the roads (I assure you U| »n 
my honor, for you will hardly believe it) very U 
superior to the best British road*, without tait 



8.<« Chilli* II>->ld, Canto I., ( 



754 



BYRON'S WORKS 



smallest toll or turnpike. You mil suppose this 
when I rode post to Seville in four days, through 
this pdrching country, in the midst of summer, 
without fatigue of annoyance. Seville is a beauti- 
ful town ; though the streets are narrow they are 
clean.* We lodged in the house of two Spanish 
unmarried ladies, who possess six houses in Seville, 
and gave me a curious specimen of Spanish man- 
ners. f They are women of character, and the eld- 
est, a fine woman, the youngest pretty, but not so 
good a figure as Donna Josepha. The freedom of 
in inner which is general here, astonished me not a 
little ; and in the course of further obervation I find 
that r -serve is not the characteristic of the Spanish 
oelles, who are, in general, very handsome, with 
large black eyes, and very fine forms. The eldest 
honored your" unworthy son with very particular 
Httention, embracing him with great tenderness at 
parting, (I was there but three days,) after cutting 
ufi' a lock of his hair, and presenting him with one 
of her own, about three feet in length, which I 
send, and beg you will retain till my return. Her 
last words were, ' Adios, tu hermoso ! me gusto 
mucho.' — ' Adieu, you pretty fellow, you please me 
much.' She offered a share of her apartment, which 
ray virtue induced me to decline : she laughed, and 
said I had some .English 'amante,' (lover,) and 
added that she was going to be married to an officer 
in the Spanish army. 

" I left Seville, and rode on to Cadiz, through a 
beautiful country. At Xeres, where the sherry we 
drank is made, I mot a great merchant, a Mr. Gor- 
don of Scotland, who was extremely polite, and fa- 
vored me with the inspection of his vaults and cel- 
lars, — so -that I quaffed at the fountain head. 

*'Oadiz,t sweet Cadiz, is the most delightful town 
I ever beheld, very different from our English cities 
in every respect, except cleanliness, (and it as clean 
as London,) but still beautiful and full of the finest 
women in Spain, the Cadiz belles being the Lan- 
cashire witches of their land. Just as I was intro- 
duced, and began to like the grandees, I was forced 
to leave it for this accursed place ; but before I re- 
turn to' England I will visit it again. The night 
before I left it, I sat in the box at the opera with 
Admiral Cordova's family ; he is the commander 
whom Lord St. Vincent defeated in 1797, and has 
an aged wife and a fine daughter, Senorita Cordova ; 
the girl is very pretty in the Spanish style,, in my 
opinion by no means inferior to the English in 
charms, and certainly superior in fascination. Long 
black hair, dark languishing eyes, clear olive com- 
plexions, and forms more graceful in motion than 
can be conceive 1 by an Englishman used to the 
drowsy, listless air of his countrywomen, added to 
the most becoming dress, and, at the same time, 
the most decent in the world, render a Spanish 
beauty irresistible. I beg leave to observe that in- 
trigue here is the business of life ; when a woman 
marries she throws off all restraint, but I believe 
their conduct is chaste enough before. If you make 
a proposal, which in England would bring a box on 
the ear from the meekest of virgins, to a Spanish 
girl, she ^lianks you for the honor you intend her, 
and repl'es, ' Wait till I am married, and I shall be 
too happy.' This is literally and strictly true. Miss 
C. and her little brother understood a little French, 
and, after regretting my ignorance of the Spanish, 
she proposed to become my preceptress in that lan- 
guage. I could only "eply by a low bow, and express 
my regret that I quitted "Cadiz too soon to permit 
me to make the progress which would doubtless at- 
tend my studies under so charming a directress. I 
was standing at the back of the box, which resem- 
bles our opera boxes, (the theatre is large, and 
finely decorated, the music admirable,) in the man- 
'ler La which Englishmen generally adopt, for fear 



* Boe Childe Harold, canto i., itanza Ixr., ftc. 

t Don Juan, canto 1., aUnza viil. 

t 8m Ohllde HaraU, canto L, lUnza Ixr., Ac 



of incommoding the ladies in front, when this fail 
Spaniard dispossessed an old woman (an aunt ;r a 
duenna) of her chair, and commanded me ti be 
seated next herself, at a tolei-able distance from hex 
mamma. At the close of the performance I with- 
drew, and was lounging with a party of men in the 
passage, when, en passant, the lady turned rouhd 
and called me, and I had the honor of attending 
her to the admiral's mansion. I have an invitation 
on my return to Cadiz, which I snail accept, if 1 
repass through the country on my return from Asia. 

" I have met Sir John Carr, knight errant, at Se 
A'ille and Cadiz. He is a pleasant man. I like the 
Spaniards much. You have heard of the battle 
near Madrid, and in England they call it a victory— 
a pretty victory ! two hundred oincers, and Atc 
thousand men killed, all English; and the French 
in as great force as ever. I should have joined the 
army, but we have no time to lose before we get up 
the Mediterranean and Archipelago. I am going over 
to Africa to-morrow; it is only six miles from this 
fortress. My next stage is Cagliari in Sardinia, 
where I shall be presented to his majesty. I have 
a most superb uniform as a court dress, indis- 
pensable in travelling. 

Axignst IZth. — I have not been- to Africa; the 
wind is contrary ; bu^t I dined yesterday at Alge 
siras, with Lady Westmoreland, where I met Gen 
eral Castanos, the celebrated Spanish leader, in the 
late and present war : to-day I dine with him ; he 
has offered me letters to Tetuan in Barbary, for the 
principal ISIoors ; and I am to have the house for a 
few days of one of the great men, which was in- 
tended for Lady W., whose health will not permit 
her to cross the Straits. 

AuffKst loth. — I could not dine with Castanos yes 
terday, but this afternoon I had that honor ; he is 
pleasant, and for aught I know to the contrary, 
clever. I cannot go to Barbary. The Malta packeft 
sails to-morrow, and myself in it. Admiral Purvis, 
with whom I dined at Cadiz, gave me a passage in a 
frigate to Gibralter, but we have no ship of war des- 
tined for Malta at present. The packets sail fast, 
and have good accommodations. You shall heai 
from me on our route. Joe Murray delivers this. I 
have sent him and the boy back ; pray show the 
lad every kindness, as he is my great favorite. I 
hope this will find you well. 

" Believe me, ever yours sincerely, 
"Byron. 

" P. S. So Lord G. is married to a rustic ! well 
done ! If I wed, I will bring you home a Sultana. 
with half a dozen cities for a dowry, and reconcile 
you to an Ottoman daughter-in-law with a bushel- pf 
pearls, not larger than ostrich eggs or smaller th^n 
walnuts ' 



LETTER XLVIII. 



TO MR. RUSHTON. 



••Gibraltar, Avffu*:!5. 18M 

"Mr. Rushton, 

" I have sent Robert home with Mr. Murray oe- 
cause the country which I am about to travel 
through is in a state which renders it unsafe, par- 
ticularly for one so young. I allow you to deduct 
five-and-twenty pounds a year for his education foi 
three years, provided I do not return before that 
time, and I desire he may be considered as in my ser- 
vice. Let every care be taken of him, and let h"ii» 
be sent to school. In case of my death I have pro- 
vided enough in my will to render him indt pendent. 
He has behaved extremely well, and has travelled 
a great deal for the time of his absence. Dedi'.cf 
the expense of his ediicat" ^n from your rent. 

'Bvrok' 



LETTERS. 



; 54' 



LETTER XLIX. 

TO TRB HONORABLE MRS. BYRON. 

" Malt?, Sept. 15, 1809. 

Da-iE Mother, 

*' Though I have a very short time to spare, being 
bo sail immediately for Greece, I cannot avoid 
taking an opportunity of telling you that I am well. 
I have been in Malta, a short time, and have found 
the inhabitants hospitable and pleasant. This letter 
is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary 
woman, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. 
Spencer Smith,* of whose escape the Marquis de 
Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She 
has since been shipwrecked, ana her life has been 
from its commencement so fertilg in remarkable in- 
cidents, that in a romance they would appear im- 
probable. She was born at Constantinople, where 
her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambas- 
sador ; married unhappily, yet has never been 
impeached in point of character ; excited the ven- 
geance of Bonaparte by a part in some conspi- 
racy ; several times risked her life ; and is not yet 
twenty-five. She is here in her way to England, 
to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, 
where she was paying a visit to her mother, by 
the approach of the French, and embarks soon 
in a ship of \Var. Since my arrival here, I have 
had scarcely any other companion. I have found 
her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely ec- 
centric. Bonaparte is even now so incensed against 
her, that her life would be in some danger if she 
were taken prisoner a second time. 

You have seen Murray and Robert by this time, 
and received my letter — little has happened since 
that date. I have touched at Cagliari, in Sardinia, 
and at Girgenti, in Sicily, and embark to-morrow 
for Patras, from whence I proceed to Yanina, where 
Ali Pacha holds his Court, so I soon shall be among 
the Mussulmans. 

** Adieu. Believe me with sincerity, yours ever, 

"Byron." 



LETTER L. 



TO MRS. BYRON. 



"1 t-3M, V^>r,n. 1909. 

• My Dear Mother, 

**I have now been some time in Turkey; t':il& 
place is on the coast, but I have traversed the inte- 
rior of the province of Albania on a visit to the 
Pacha. I left Malta in the Si)idev, a brig of war, 
on the 21st of September, and arrived in cigbt days 
at Prevcsa. I thence have been about one hundred 
and fifty miles as far as Tepalon, his higbness's 
country palace, where I stayed three days.f The 
name of the Pacha is All, and lie is considered a 
man "of the first abilities; he governs the whole of 
Albania, (the ancient Illyiicum,) Epirus, and part 
of Macedonia. His son, Vely Pacha, to whom he 
has given me letters, governs the Moroa, and has 
gre.Tt infiucTice in Kgy^Jt ; in short he is one of the 
most powerful men in the Ottoman empire. Wlien 
I reached Yanina, the capital, after a journey of 
three days over the mountains, through a countiv 
of the most picturesque beauty, I found that All 
Pacha was with his army in lllyrietim, besieging 
Ibrahim Pacha in the castle of lierat. He had 
heard that an Englisbnuin of rank was in his do- 
minions, ai d had It'tt orders in Yanina with the 
commandment to provide a house, and sunply me 
with every kind of neressary (jratis ; and though I 
Uave been allowed to make presents to the slaves, 



* TIm) "PInrence" of K-verul ol liiii •iiinUer po «j niut alluileU to kn 
bflde llvolil, :aiiUi ii., ktanca xxx. 
< Bee JjUftt UiuvlU, moU \., iUiua Ut 



&c.. I have not been permittet! to pay for t singU 
article of household consumption. 

" I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the 
palaces of himself and grandsons • they are splen- 
did, but too much ornaTuented with siik and gold, 
I then went over the mountains through Zitza, a vil- 
lage with a Greek monastery, (where I slept on my 
return,) in the most beautiful situation (always ex- 
cepting Cintra, in Portugal) I ever beheld. In nine 
days I reached Tepalen. Our journey was much 
prolonged by the torrents that had fallen from the 
mountains, and intersected tjie roads. I shall never 
forget the singular scene on entering Tepalen at 
five in the afterpoon, as the sun was going do-wn. It 
brought to my mind (with some change of clrezs^ 
however) Scott's description of Branksome Castlf 
in his Lay, and the feudal s_^ . tem. The Albanians, 
in their dresses, (the most magnificf-nt in the 
world, consisting of a long it/'i^e /;//;', gold-woiked 
cloak, crimson velvet gold laced jacket and waist- 
coat, silver-Riounted pistols and daggers,) the Tar- 
tars with their high caps, the Turks in their vast 
pelisses and turbans, the soldiers and black slaves 
with the horses, the former in groups in an im 
mense large open gallery in front of the palace 
the latter placed in a kind of cloister below it, two 
hundred steeds ready caparisoned to move in a 
moment, couriers entering or passing out with dis 
patches, the kettle-drums beating, boys calling the 
hour from the minaret of the mosque — altogether, 
with the singular appearance of the building itself, 
formed a new and delightful spectacle to a stran- 
ger. I was conducted to a very handsome apart- 
ment, and my health inciiiired after by the vizier'f 
secretary, ' a la-mode Turque ! ' 

" The next dav 1 was introduced to Ali Pa'^ha. I 
was dressed in a full suit of staif unitorm, with a 
very magnificent sabre, &c. The vizier received me 
in a large room paved with marble ; a fountain* 
was playing in the centre ; the apartment was 
surrounaed by scarlet ottomans. He received me 
standing, a wonderful compliment from a Mussul- 
man, and made me sit down on his right hand. I 
have a Greek interpreter for general use, but a 
physician of All's, named Femlario, who under- 
stands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His 
first question was, why, at so early an age, I left 
my countrv ?— (the Turks have no idea of travelling 
for amusement.) He then said, the English niiu 
ister, Captain Leake, had told him I was of a greal 
family, and desired his respects to my mother ; 
which I now, in the name of Ali Pacha, present to 
y4u. He said he was certain I v.'as a man of birth, 
because I had small ears, eu.ling hair, and little 
white hands,t and expressed hintsi If pleased with 
my appearance and garb. lie tt)ld me to consider 
him as a father while I was in Turkey, and said he 
looked on me as his son. \ Indeed, he treated \\\( 
like a child, sending me almonds and sugared 
sherbet, fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. 
He begged me to visit him often, and at night, 
when he was at leisure. 1 then art(>r cotfee and 
pipes, retired for the first time. I saw him thriiC 
afterward. It is singular that the 'luiks, who hav« 
no hereditary dignities, and few great families, 
excej)t the Sultans, nay so nnu-h respect to hirlh ; 
for I found my pedigree more regarded than m> 
title. 

"His highness is sixty years old, very fat, and 
not tall, hiit with a fine face, light blue eyes, and a 
white beard ; his nninner is very kind, and at the 
saJiie time he possesses that dignity which I l»'id 
universal anmng the Tnrks.-lle has the nppeiu- 
ance of any thing but his real character; for he in «. 
remorseless tyrant, guilty of the n ost h^ : '', 
cr»u>ities, very hra\e, and so good a gt-ner 
thcv call him "the Mahoin(<tan Bonaparte. Na] 
has" twice oftcred to make him king of Epiius, bu* 



* Sre Ihui Jiinii, cuiito ' 
t lUil, (UnM ovi.. iuhI 



■IKiilH !«., mill 



756 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



he prefers the English interest, and abhors the 
French, as he himself told me. He is of so much 
consequence, that he is much courted by both ; the 
A-lbanians being the most warlike subjects of the 
Bultan, though Ali is only nominally dependent on 
the Porte. He has been a mighty warrior ; but is 
as barbarous as he is successful, roasting rebels, 
&'C., &c. Bonaparte sent him a snuff-box, with his 
picture ; he said the snutf-box was very well, but 
the picture he could excuse, as he neither liked it 
nor the original. His ideas of judging of a man's 
bitth from ears, hands, &c., were curious enough. 
T« me, he was, indeed, a father, giving me letters, 
gxards, and every possible accommodation. Our 
next conversations were of war aud travelling, pol- 
itics and England. He called my Albanian soldier, 
who attends me, and told him to protect me at all 
hazard. His name is Viscillie, and like all the 
Alljanians, he is brave, rigidly honest, and faithful ; 
but they are cruel, though not treacherous ; and 
nave several vices, but no meannesses. They are, 
perhaps, the most beautiful race, in point of counte- 
nance, in the world ; their women are sometimes 
handsome also, but they are treated like slaves, 
beaten, and, in short, complete beasts of burden ; 
they plough, dig, and sow. I found them carrying 
wood, and actually repairing the highways. The 
men are all soldiers, and war and the chase their 
sole occupation. The women are the laborers, 
which, after all, is no great hardship in so delighf^il 
a climate. Yesterday, the 11th of Novembe' I 
bathed in the sea ; to-day it is so hot that L. ctm 
writing in a shady room of the English consul's 
with three doors wide open, no fire, or evenjire-place 
in fhe house ; except for culinary purposes. 

" To-day I saw the remains of the town of Acti- 
um,* near which Antony lost the world, in a small 
ba}', where two frigates could hardly manoeuvre : a 
broken wall is the sole remnant. On another part 
of the gulf stands the ruins of Nicopolis, built by 
A.ugustus in honor of his victory. Last night I was 
at a Greek mamage ; but this and a thousand things 
more I have neither time nor space to describe. 

•' I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty 
men, to Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, 
whcr<? I sliall winter. Two days ago I was nearly 
lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the igno- 
rance of the captain and crew, though the storm 
was nr-t violent. Fletcher yelled after his wife, the 
Grepkv called on all the saints, the Mussulmans on 
Alia ; the captain burst into tears and ran below 
deck, telling us to call on God ; the sails were sjiJit, 
the mainyard shivered, the wind -blowing fresh, the 
night setting in, and all our chance was to make 
Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as 
Fletcher pathetically termed it) 'a watery grave.' 
I did vviiat I could to console Fletcher, but finding 
him incorrigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian 
capote, (an immense cloak,) and lay down on deck 
to wait the worst. I have learned to philosophize 
in my travels, and if I had not, complaint was use- 
less. Luckily the wind abated, and only drove us 
on the coast of Suli, on the main land, where we 
landed, and proceeded, by the help of the natives, 
to Prevesa again ; but I shall not trust Turkish 
m'Iots in future, though the Pacha had ordered one 
>i idf own galliots to take me to Patras. I am there- 
(oi'*i going as far as Misselonghi by land, and there 
hare only to cross a small gulf to get to Patras. 

" Fletcher's next epistle will be full of marvels : 
vre were one night lost for nine hours in the moun- 
tains in a thundnr-storm, and since nearly wrecked. 
In both cases, Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from 
apprehensions of famine and banditti in the first, 
and drowning in the second, instance. His eyes 
Were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying, (I 
don't know which,) but are now recovered. When 
;0u write, address to me at Mr. Stranes, English 
toasul, Patrus, Morea. 



ChUe Harold, cuuloii.. 



•' I could tell you I know not how many incidenls 
that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on 
my mind as much as they would swell my paper 
and I can neither arrange them in the one, nor put 
them down on the other, except in the greatest 
confusion. I like the Albanians much ; they are 
not all Turks ; some tribes are Christians. But 
their religion makes little difference in their man- 
ner or conduct. They are esteemed the best troops 
in the Turkish service. I lived on my route two 
days at once, and three days again, in a barrack at 
Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, thougl 
I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and Malta, 
and seen Spanish, French, .Sicilian, and British 
troops in abundance. I have had nothing stolen, 
and was always welcome to their provision and 
milk. Not a week ago an Albanion chief, (every 
village has its chief, who is called Primate,) after 
helping us out of the Turkish galley in her distress, 
feeding us, and lodging my suite, consisting ol 
Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, a Greek priest, 
and my companion, Mr. Hobhouse, refused any 
compensation but a written paper stating that ^ 
was well received ; and when I pressed him to 
accept a few sequins, ' No,' he replied ; ♦ I wish you-- 
to love me. not to pay me.' These are his words, 

"It is astonishing how far money goes in this 
country. While I was in the capital, I had nothing 
to pay, by the vizier's order ; but since, though I 
ha-e generally had sixteen horses, and generally 
six or seven men, the expense has not been /lalf aa 
much as staying only three weeks in Malta, though 
Sir A. Ball, the governor, gave me a house for 
nothing, and I had only one servant. By-the-by, I 
expect Hanson to remit regularly ; for I am not 
about to stay in this province for ever. Let him 
%viite to me at Mr. Sti-ane's, Euglish consul, Patras. 
The fact is, the fertility of the plains is wonderful, 
and specie is scarce, which makes this remarkable 
cheapness. I am going to Athens to study modern 
Greek, which diifers much from the ancient, though 
radically similar. I have no desire to return to 
England, nor shall I>, unless compelled by absolute 
want, and Hanson's neglect; but I shall not enter 
into Asia for a year or two, -as I have much to see 
in Greece, and I may perhaps cross into Africa, at 
least the Egyptian part. Fletcher, like all English- 
men, is very much dissatisfied, though a little 
reconciled to the Turks by a present of eighty 
piastres from the vizier, which, if you considei 
every thing, and the value of specie here, is nearly 
ten guineas English. He has suffered nothing hvk 
from cold, heat, and vermin, which those who lie ii; 
cottages and cross mountains in a cold country 
must undergo, and of which I have equally partaken 
with himself i^ but he is not valiant, and is afraid of 
robbers and tempests. I have.no one to be remem 
bered to in England, and wish to hear nothing from 
it, but that you are well, and a letter or two on 
business from Hanson, whom you may tell to write. 
1 will write when I can, and beg you to believe me, 
"Your afifectionate son, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. I have some very ' magnifique ' Albanian 
dresses, the only expensive article in this country. 
They cost fiftv guineas each, and have so much 
gold they would cost in England two hundred. I 
have been introduced to Hussim Bey and Mahmoiit 
Pacha, both little boys, grand-children of Ali, at 
Yanina. They are totally unlike our lads, have 
painted complexions like rouged dowagers, large 
black eyes, and features perfectly regular. They 
are the prettiest little animals I ever saw, and are 
broken into the court ceremonies already. The 
Turkish salute is a slight inclination of the head, 
with the hand on the breast. Intimates always 
kiss. Mahmout is ten years old, and hopes to see me 
again. We are friends without understanding each 
other, like many other folks, though from a differenl 
cause. He has given me a letter to his father in tiw 
Morea, to whom I have also letters from Ali Pacha.' 



LETTERS. 



751 



LETTER LI. 



TO MRS. BYKON. 



" Smyrna, Marcfc 19, 1810 

• Dear Mother, 

*' I cannot write you a long letter, but is I know 
rou will not be sorry to receive any intelligence of 
'ny movements, pray accept what I can give. I 
R.)ive traversed the greatest part of Greece, besides 
Kpirus, &c., &c., resided ten weeks at Athens, and 
•im now on the Asiatic side on my way to Constan- 
finople. I have just returned from viewing the 
"uins of Ephesus, a day's journey from Smyrna. I 
oresume you have received a long letter I wrote from 
Albania, with an account of my reception by the 
Pacha of the province. 

'♦ When I arrive at Constantinople, I shall deter- 
mine whether to proceed into Persia or return, 
which latter I do not wish, if I can avoid it. But I 
nave no intelligence from Mr. Hanson, and but one 
letter from yourself. I shall stand in need of remit- 
tances, whether I procfeed or return. I have written 
to him Repeatedly, that he may not plead ignorance 
of my situation for neglect. I can give you no ac- 
count of any thing, for I have not time or opportu- 
'Jty, the frigate sailing immediately. Indeed, the 
farther I go the more my laziness increases, and my 
aversion to letter-writing becomes more confirmed. 
I have written to no one but yourself and Mr. Han- 
eon, and these are communications of business and 
duty rather than of inclination. 

"Fletcher is very much disgusted with his fatigues, 
though he has undergone nothing that 1 have not 
shared. He is a poor creature ; indeed English 
servants are detestable travellers. I have, besides 
him, two Albanian soldiers and a Greek interpreter ; 
all excellent in their way. Greece, particularly in 
the vicinity of Athens, is delightful ; cloudless skies 
and lovely landscapes. But I must reserve all 
account of my adventures till we meet. I keep no 
jc>urnul, but my friend Ilobhouse writes incessantly. 
Pray take care of Murray and Robert, and tell the 
boy it is the most fortunate thing for him that he 
did not accompany me to Turkey. Consider this 
as merely a notice of my safety, and believe me, 
"Yours, &c., &c., 

" Byron." 



LETTER LII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Smyrna, April 10, 1810. 

•* Dear Mother, 

*• To-morrow, or this evening, I sail for Constan- 
tiurple in the Salsette frigate, of thirty-six guns 
She returns to England with our ambassador, whom 
she is going up on purpose to receive. 1 have 
written to you short letters from Athens, Smyrna 
Bud a long one from Albania. I have not yet 
mi'.'tered courage for a second large epistle, and 
foil must not be angry, since 1 take all opportuni- 
tich jf api)rizing you of my safely : but even that 
,B an ell'ort, writing is so irksome. 1 have been 
travevi^ing Greece, and Kpirus, lUyria, &c., &c 
ahd you see by my date, have got into Asia. 1 
have made Imt one excursion lately, to the ruins of 
Ephesus. Malta is the rendezvous of my letters, 
BO address to that island. Mr. Hanson has not 
wiitten, though I wished to hear of the Norfolk 
gale, the Lancashire law.suit, ttc, itc. I am 
anxiously expecti:ig friish reniitt;uice«. T believo 
fou will like Nottingliamshire, at least, my share 
ii it. Pray accept my good wishes in lieu ot a long 
Inlci; and believe me, 

" Yours sincerely and affectionately, 

" livKON.' 



LETTER Lin. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" SaUelte Frigate, off the DardaiieUe*, April 17, 18» J. 

" Dear Madam, 

*' I write at anchor, (in our way to Constantino- 
ple,) off the Troad, which I traversed two days ago 
All the remains of Troy are the tombs of hei 
destroyers, among which I see that of Antilochui 
from my cabin window. These are large moundi 
of eayth, like the barrows of the Danes in youi 
island. There are several monuments, about twelve 
miles distant, of the Alexandrian Troas, which 1 
also examined ; but by no means to be comparea 
with the remnants of Athens and Ephesus. This 
will be sent in a ship of war bound with despatches 
for Malta. In a few days we shall be at Constanti- 
nople, barring accidents. I have also written from 
Smyrna, and shall, from time to time, transmit 
short accounts of my movements, but I feel totally 
unequal to long letters. 

" Believe me, yours very sincerely, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. No accounts from Hanson ! Do not 
complain of short letters, — I write to nobody but 
yourself and Mr. Hanson." 



LETTER LIV. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 

" Constantinople, May 18, 181t 

" Dear Madam, 

" I arrived here in an English frigate from 
Smyrna, a few days ago, without any events worth 
mentioning, except landing to view the plains of 
Troy, and afterwards, when we were at anchor 
in the Dardanelles, sicimming from Sestos to Aby- 
dos, in imitation of Monsieur Leander, whose story 
you no doubt know too well for me to add any 
thing on that subject, except that I crossed the 
Hellespont without so good a motive for the under- 
taking. As I am just going to visit the Capitan 
Pacha, you will excuse the brevity of my letter. 
When Mr. Adair takes leave, I am to see the Saltan 
and the mosques, Xc. 

*' Believe me, yours ever, 

"BlRON " 



LETTER LV. 

TO MR. HENRY DRDRT 

" Saliettp Frip />, SUj i, t«I* 

" My Dear Duury, 

"When I left England, nearly a veil r ago, 7r< 
requested me to write to you — I will ao .sn. I haro 
crossed Portugal, traversed the south of Spain, vis- 
ited Sardinia, Sicily, Malta, and thence passed mto 
Turkey, where I am still wandering. I first hmdej 
in Albania, tlic ancient Kpirus, where we penetrated 
as far as Mount Tomarit — excellently treated by the 
chief, Ali Pacha; and, after jounieving through 
Illyria, Chaonia, Xc, crossed the gulf t)f Artium, 
with a guard of titty Allninians, and passrd the 
Achelous in our route through AiMiuania njid 
JUolia. We stopjjcd a short tinu" in the Morea. 
crossed the gulf of Lepanto, and landed at the fool 
of P:iriiassus ; saw all that Dtlphi rrtaius, ntid sr 
on tt» Tlicbes and Athens, at which last we r'-nuiinoij 
ten weeks. 

*' His majesty's ship Pylades brought uo to 



758 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Smyria ; but not befo re we had topographized At- 
tica, includiiig, of course, Marathon and the Sunian 
pvomontory. From Smyrna to the Troad (which we 
"isited when at anchor, for a fortnight, off the 
tomb of Antilochiis) was our next stage : and now 
w^ are in the Dardanelles, waiting for a wind to pro- 
oet i to Constajitinople. 

" This morning I s?oam from Sestos to Abydos* 
The immediate distance is not above a mile, but the 
current renders it hazardous ; — so much so that I 
doubt whether Lciinder's conjugal affection must 
not have be^n a little cliilled in his passage to Para- 
dise. I atJempted it a week ago, and failed, — owing 
to the I -jrtii wind, and the wonderful rapidity of the 
tide, — though I have been from my childhood a 
strong swimmer. But, this morning being calmer, 
I succeeded, and crossed the ' broad Hellespont' in 
an hour and ten minutes. 

" Well, ray dear sir, I have left my home, and 
seen part of Africa and Asia, and a tolerable por- 
tion of Europe. I have been with generals and 
admirals, princes and pachas, governors and 
ungovernables, — but 1 have not time or paper to 
expatiate. I wish to let you know that I live with 
a friendly remembrance of you, and a hope to meet 
you again; and, if I do this as shortly as possible, 
attribute it to any thing but forgetfulness. 

" Greece, ancient and modern, you know too well 
to require description. Albania, indeed, I have 
Been more of than any Englishm.an, (except a Mr. 
Leake,) for it is a country rarely visited, from the 
savage character of the natives, though abounding 
in more natural beauties than the classical regions 
of Greece, — which, however, are still eminently 
beautiful, part'cularly Delphi and Cape Colonna in 
Attica. Yet these are nothing to parts of Illyria 
and Epirus, where places without a narne, and 
rivers not laid doAvn in maps, may, one day, when 
more known, be justly esteemed superior subjects, 
for the pencil and the p§n, to the diy ditch of the 
Ilissus and the bogs of Boeotia. 

"The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and 
snipe-shooting, and a good sportsman and an inge- 
nious scholar may exercise their feet and faculties 
to great advantage upon the spot ; or, if they pre- 
fer riding, lose their way (as I did) in a cursed 
quagmire of the Scamander, who wriggles about as 
if the Dardan virgins still oiFered their wonted trib- 
ute. The only vestige of Troy, or her destroyers, 
are the barrows supposed to contain the carcasses 
of Achilles, Antilochus, Ajax, &c. — but Mount Ida 
is still in high feather, though the shepherds are 
now-a-days not much like Ganymede. But why 
should I say more of these things ? are they not 
wi-itten in the Boke of Gell? and has not H. got a 
journal. I keep none, as I have renounced scrib- 
oling. 

"I see not much difference between ourselves 
and the Turks, save that we have * *, and they 
have none — that they have long dresses, and we 
short, and that we talk much and they little. 

» * * * ♦ They are sensible people. Ali 
Pacha told me he was sure I was a man of rank, 
because T had small ears •and hands and curlim/ 
hair. Bj -the-by, I speak the Romaic, or modern 
Greek, tolerably. It does not differ from the an- 
cient dialects so much as you would conceive ; but 
the pronunciation is dianietrieally opposite. Of 
verse, except in rhyme, they have no idea. 

"I like the Greeks, who are plausible rascals, — 
with all the Turkish vices, without their courage. 
However, some are brave, and all \re beautiful, very 
•nuch resesembling tlie busts o\ Alcibiades : — the 
women not quite so handsome. 1 1 m swear in Turk- 
3h; but, except one honible oath, and 'pimp,' and 
'bread,' and 'water,* I have got no great vocabu- 
lary in that language. They are extremely polite 
to strangers of anyrark, properly protected ; and 
ir I have two servants f.ud two soldiers, we get on 



with great eclat. We have been occasionally in 
dtinger of thieves, and once of shipnrecic, — ^but al 
v^ays escaped. 

" At Malta I fell in love with a married woman,* 
and challenged an aid-de-camp of General * * (t 
rude fellow, who grinned at something, — I nevel' . 
rightly knew what) — but he explained and apolo- 
gized, and the lady embarked for Cadiz, and so I 
escaped murder and crim. con. Of Spain I sent 
so^jie account to our Hodgson, but have subse- 
quently written to no one, save notes to relations 
and lawyers, to keep them out of my premises. I 
mean to give up all connexion, on my return, with 
many of my best friends — as I supposed them — and 
to snarl all my life. But I hope to have one good- 
humored laugh with you, and to embrace Dwyer, and 
pledge Hodgson, before I commence cynicism. 

" Tell Doctor Butler I am now writing with the 
gold pen he gave me before I left England, which 
is the reason my scrawl is more unintelligible than 
usual. I have been at Athens and seen plenty ol 
these reeds for scribbling, some of which he refused 
to bestow upon me, because topographic Gell had 
brought them from Attica. But I will not describe, 
— no — you must be satisfied with simple detail till 
my return ; and then we will unfold the floodgates 
of colloquy. I am in a thirty-six gun frigate, going 
up to fetch Bob Adair from Constantinople, who 
will have the honor to carry this letter. 

"And so H.'s boke is out,t with some sentimeu 
tal sing-song of my own to fill up, — and how does 
it take, eh ? and where the devil is the second edi- 
tion of my Satire, with additions ? and my name on 
the title-page ? and more lines tagged to the end. 
with a new exordium and what not, hot from my 
anvil before I <;leared the Channel ? The Mediter- 
ranean and the Atlantic roll between me and criti- 
cism ; and the thunders of the Hyperborean Re- 
view are deafened by the roar of the Hellespont. 

" Rememember me to Claridge, if not translated 
to college, and present to Hodgson assurances ol 
my high consideration. Now, you will ask, what 
shall I do next ? and I answer, 'l do not know. I 
may return in a few months, but I have intents 
and projects after visiting Constantinople. Hob 
house, however, will probably be back in September. 

" On the 2d of July we have left Albion one year 
' oblitus meorum obliviscendus et illis.' I was sick ol 
my own country, and not much prepossessed in favor 
of any other ; but I ' di-ag on' ' my chain' without 
'lengthening it at. each remove.' — I am like the 
Jolly Miller, caring for nobody and not cared for. 
All 'countries are much the same in my eyes. I 
smoke,' and stare at mountains, and twirl my mus- 
taches very independently. I miss no comforts, and 
the mosquitoes that wrack the morbid frame of H. 
have, luckily for me, little effect on mine, because I 
live more temperately. 

"I omitted Ephesus in my catalogue -rrich I 
visited during mv sojourn at SmjTua ; but tne Ttem- 
ple has ahaost' perished, and St. Paul need not 
trouble himself to epistolize the present brood ol 
^phesians, who have converted a large church built 
entirely of marble into a mosque, and I don't know 
that the edifice looks the worse for it. 

" My paper is full, and my ink ebbing- -good af- 
ternoon ! If you address to me at Malta, the let.ci 
will be forwarded wherever I may be. Hobhouse 
greets you ; he pines for his poetry, — at least some 
tidings of it. I almost forgot to tell you that I an 
dying for love of three Greek girls at Athens, sis- 
ters. I lived in the same house. Teresa, Mari- 
ana, and Katinka, are the names of these divinities^ 
all of them under 15. 

" Your TaTTEivoraToi JwAoy, 

" Byron." 



Am ■n'n -^ViUixvt.. te 



• See Letter xlix. 

t Hobliou^'* MisceUanies, in whicl iCTeral of Irfird Byron'i UmUM 
piece* were ori(inaUy publitfaed. 



LETTERS. 



759 



LETTER LVI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" SaUette Pnjrate, in the Dartanelle*, off 
AbydM, May 5, 1810. 

'• I am on my way to Constantinople, after a tour 
through Gieece, Epirus, &c., and part of Asia 
Minor, some particulars of which I have just com- 
municated to our friend and host, H. Dvury. With 
these, t}.?n, I shall not trouble you ; but, as you will 
perhaps be pleased to hear that I am well, &c., I 
take the opportunity of our ambassador's, return 
to forward the few lines I have time to despatch. 
We have undergone some inconveniences and in- 
currHl partial perils, but no events worthy of com- 
mui.ication, unless you ^^ill deem it one that two 
days ago I swam from Sestos to Abydos. This, — 
with a few alarms from robbers, and some danger of 
shipwreck in a Turkish galliot six months ago, a 
visit to a Pacha, a passion for a married woman at 
Malta, a challenge to an officer, an attachment to 
three Greek girls at Athens, with a great deal of 
buffoonery and fine prospects, — form all that has 
distinguished my progress since my departiire from 
Spain. 

" Hobhonse rhymes and journalizes ; I stare and 
do nothing — unless smoking can be deemed an ac- 
tive amusement. The Turks take too much care 
of their women to permit them to be scrutinized ; 
/ but I have lived a good deal with the Greeks, whose 
modern dialect I can converse in enough for my 
purposes. With the Turks I have also some male 
acquaintances — female society is out of the ques- 
tion. I have been very well treated by the Pachas 
and Governors, and have no complaint to make of 
any kind. Hoi)house will one day inform you of all 
our adventures, — were I to attempt the recital, 
neither my paper nor your patience would hold out 
r'uring the operation. 

"Nobody, save yourself, has^viitten tome since I 
left England ; but indeed I did not request it. I 
except my relations, who write quite as often as I 
wish. Of Hohhouse's volume 1 know nothing, ex- 
cept that it is out ; and of my second edition I do 
not even know that, and certainly do not, at this 
distance, interest myself in the matter. * * * * 
I hope you and Bland roll down the stream of sale 
with rapidity. 

" Of my return I cannot positively speak, but 
think it probable ITobhouse will precede me in that 
respect. We have been very nearly one year abroad. 
I should wish to gaze away another, at least, in 
these ever-green climates ; but I fear l)usiness — law 
business — the worst of employments, will recall me 
previous to that period, if not very quickly. If so, 
you shall have due notice. 

" I hope you will find me an altered personage, — 
I do not me in in body, but in manner, for I begin 
to find out that nothing but virtue will do in this 
d — J world I am tolerably sick of vice, which I 
hafe tried in its agreeable varieties, and mean, 
on my return, to cut all my dissolute acquaintance, 
leavfc off wine and carnal company, and betake my- 
telf t'> politics and decorum. I am very serious and 
ivnical, uid a good deal disposed to moralize ; but, 
fortunately for you, the coming homily is cut off by 
default of pen and defection of paper. 

*' Good morrow ! If you ^rite, address to me at 
Malta, whence your letters will be forwarded. You 
reed not remember me to any body, but bt>lieve me 
" Yours with all faith, 
"BvuoN." 



LETTER LVII 



TO THE HONORABLE MRS. BYRON. 



" CoimUiiCiaop^e, May 34, IblO. 

' Dear Mother, 

" 1 wrote to you, very shortly, the other day on mj 
arrival here, and as another opportunity avails, take 
up my pen again, that the frequency of my letters 
may atone for their brevity. Pray did you ever re- 
ceive a picture of me in oil by Sanders, in Viyo-lane, 
London.^ (a noted limner:) if not, write for it im 
mediately ; it was paid for, except the frame, , li 
frame there be,) before I left England. I believe 1 
mentioned to you in my last, that my only notable 
exploit, lately, has been swimming from Sestos to 
Abydos on the third of this month, in huml)le imi- 
tation of Leander, of amorous memory, though 1 
had no Hero to receive me on the other bhore of the 
Hellespont. Of Constantinople you have, oi 
course, read fifty descriptions by sundry travellers, 
which are in general so correct, that I have nothing 
to add on the subject. 

" When our ambassador takes his leave, I shall 
accompany him to see the sultan, and afterward 
probably return to Greece. I have heard nothing of 
Mr. Hanson, but one remittance, without any letter 
from that gentleman. If you have aiiy occasion fox 
iny pecuniary supply, pray use my funds as far as 
they go without reserve ; and, lest this should not 
be enough, in my next to Mr. Hanson I will direct 
him to advance any sum you may want, leaving it 
to your discretion hoAv much, in the present state oi 
my affairs, you may think proper to requirre. I 
have already seen the most interesting parts of 
Turkey in Europe and Asia Miiiv^r, but shall not 
proceed farther till I hear from England: in the 
mean time I shall expect occasional supplies, ac 
cording to circumstances, and shall pass my sum- 
mer among my friends, the Greeks of the Morea. 

"You will direct to Malta, where my letters are 
forwarded, and believe me to be, 

" With great sincerity, yours ever. 

" P. S. Fletcher is well ; pray take care of my 
boy Robert, and the old man Murray. It is fortu- 
nate they returned ; neither the youth of the one, 
nor the age of the other, would have suited the 
changes of climate and fatigues of travellin£ 



LETTER LVlll. 



TO MR. HENRY DRURY. 



<• CoiuUntincple, June 17, I8t0. 

" Though I wrote to you so recently, I break io 
upon you again to congratulate you on a child being 
born, as a letter from Ilodgson apprizes me of that 
event, in which I rejoice. 

" I am just come from an expedition throuch thf 
Bosphorus to the Black Sea and the Cyan an Syiu- 
l)legade«, up which last I scrumblfd ;it as grcjii » 
risk as ever tlie Argonauts esraj-oil in tlioir hoy 
You remember the beginning of tht nurse's dole id 
the Medea, of which I beg you to tnke the foUoir 
ing translation, done on the' summit. 

" Oh how I wi«h that >ii pinNirfO 
lluil krpt hi purt \he gtxxl ■! Ip Ai^ I 
Who, illll iiiilaiiiich'il fmm UirciHn dgcJa, 
Hnil iirvpr pniwM \\\t Kwfr rocki 
But now I tivir hrr trip will \ie k 
DnniiiM buiinrM fur my Miw Mnti>ii, Ac, ftc 

as it very nearly was to mo ; — for, had not thU 
sablime passage been in my head, I should nevei 
have dreamed of nscetiding the said nn'ks,» and 
bruising my carcass in honoi of the ancients. 

1 • Mm ChLie Uioold, CmKo 1*., tUiiM eluvi. | i 



BYKON'S WO±tJi.Ri!. 



760| 

♦* I have now sat on the Cyaneans, swam from 
Sestos to Abydos, (as I trumpeted in my last,) and, 
after passing through the Morea again, shall set 
Bail for Santa Maura, and toss myself from the 
Leucadian promontory ; — surviving which opera- 
tion, I shall probably rejoin you in England. H., 
who will deliver this, is bound straight for these 
pai-ts ; and as he is bursting with his travels, I shall 
not anticipate his narratives, but merely beg you 
not to believe one word he says, but reserve your 
ear for me, if you have any desii-e to be acquainted 
with the truth. ******* 

*' I am bound for Athens once more, and thence 
to the Morea ; but my stay depends so much on my 
caprico, that I can say nothing of its probable 
iuratioi: . I have been out a year already, and may 
stay another ; but I am quicksilver, and say noth- 
iBig positively. We are all very much occupied doing 
nothing, at present. We have seen every thing 
but the mosques, which we are to view with a 
firman on Tuesday next. But of these and other 
snudi-ies let H. relate, with this proviso, that / am 
to be referred to for authenticity ; and I beg leave 
to contradict all those things whereon he lays 
particular stress. But, if he soars, at any time, 
into wit, I give you leave to applaud, because that 
is necessarily stolen from his fellow pilgrim. Tell 
Davies that H. has made excellent use of his best 
jokes in many of his majesty's ships of war; but 
add, aho, that I always took care to restore them 
to the right owner ; in consequence of which he, 
(Davies,) is not less famous by water than by land, 
md reigns unrivalled in the cabin, as in the * Cocoa 
Tree.' 

*' And Hodson has been publishing more poesy — 
I wish he would send me his * Sir Edgar,' and 
Bland's Anthology' to Malta, where they will be 
forwarded. In my last, which I hope you received, 
I gave an outline of the ground we have covered. 
tf you have not I cen overtaken by this despatch, 
H.'s tongue is at your service. Remember me to 
Dw}-er, who owes i: e eleven guineas. Tell him to 
put them in my banker's hands at Gibralter or 
Conatantinople. I believe he paid them once, but 
that goes for nothing, as it was an annuity. 

" I wish you would write. I have heard from 
Hodgson frequently. Malta is my post-office. I 
mean to be with you by next Montem. You 
remember the last,— I hope for such another ; but, 
after having swam across the ' broad Hellespont,' I 
disdain Datchc^t. Good afternoon ! 

' I am yours, very sincerely, 

*' Byron." 



LETTER LIX. 



TO THE HON. MRS. BYRON. 



My Dear Mother, 



' Constantinople, June 28, 1810. 



" I regret to perceive, by your last letter, that 
'^veial of miup have i ot arrived, particularly a very 
long one, written in November last, from Albania', 
vrhen I was on a visit to the P icha of that province. 
Flelchor has also written to his spouse perpetuLllv. 
Mr. Hobhouse, who will forward or deliver this, aiid 
is on his return to England, can inform you of our 
different movements, l)ut I am very uncertain as to 
my own return. lie will probalily be down to 
Nott's, some time or other ; but Fletcher, whom I 
send back as an incun brance, (English servants 
are sad travellers,) will supply his place in the 
Interim, and describe our travels, which have been 
tolerably extensive. I have written twice briefly 
from thi- capital, rrnni Smyrna, from Athens, and 
)ther pans of Greece ; from All)auia, the Pacha of 
t'bifh province desired his respects to my mother, 



and said he was sure I was a man ol high birth, 
because I had small ears, curling tair, and whit6 
hands ! ! He was very kind to me, oegged me to 
consider him as a father, and gave me a guard ol 
forty soldiers through the forests of Acarnania. 
But of this and other circumstances I have written 
at large, and yet hope you will receive my letters. 

" I remember Mahmout Pacha, the grandson ol 
Ali Pacha, at Yanina, (a little fellow of ten years 
of age, with large black eyes, which our ladies 
would purchase at any price, and those regular 
features which distinguish the Turks,) askel me / 
how I came to travel so young, without any body to 
take care of me. This question was put by the \ 
little man with all the gravity of threescore. I \ 
cannot now write copiously ; I have only time to 
tell you that I have passed many a fatiguing, but 
never a tedious moment : and that all I am afraid 
of is, that I shall contract a gipsy-like wandering 
disposition, which will make home tiresome to me : 
this, I am told, is very common with men m the 
habit of peregrination, and, indeed, I feel it so. On 
the third of May, I swam from Sestos to Abydos. 
You know the story of Leander, but I had no Hero 
to receive me at landing. 

" I also passed a fortnight in the Troad : the 
tombs of Achilles and Esyetes still exist in large 
barrows, similar to those you have, doubtless, seen 
in the North. The other day I was at Belgrade, (a 
village in these environs,) to see the house built on 
the same site as Lady Mary Wortley's ; by-the-by, 
her Ladyship, as far as I can judge, has lied, but 
not half so much as any other woman would have 
done in the same situation. I have been in all the 
principal mosques by the vu-tue of a firman ; this is 
a favor rarely permitted to infidels, but the ambas- 
sador's departure obtained it for us. I have been 
up the Bosphorus into the Black Sea, round the 
Avails of the city, and indeed I know more of .t by 
sight, than I do of London. * 

" I hope to amuse you some winter's evening 
with the details, but at present you must excuse 
me ; I am not able to write long letters in June. I 
return to spend my summer in Greece. I shall not 
proceed further into Asia, as I have visited Smyrna, 
Ephesus, and the Troad. I write often, but you 
must not be alarmed when you do not receive my 
letters ; consider we have no regular post further 
than Malta, where I beg you will in future send 
your letters, and not to this city. Fletcher is a 
poor creature, and requires comforts that I can 
dispense with. He is very sick of his travels, but 
you must not believe his account of the country ; 
he sighs for ale, and idleness, and a wife, and the 
devil knows what besides. I have not been disap- 
pointed or disgusted. I have lived with the highest 
and the lowest. I have been for days in a Pacha's 
palace, and have passed many a night in a cow- 
house, and I find the people inoffensive and kind. 
I have also passed some time with the principal 
Greeks in the Morea and Livadia, and, though 
inferior to the Turks, they are better than the 
Spaniards, who, in their turn, excel the Portuguese. 
Of Constantinople you will find many descnpliona 
in dilferent travels; but Lady Wortley'errs stranyely 
when she says, ' St. Paul's would cut a strange . 
figure by St. Sophia's.' I have been in both, sur- 
veyed them inside and out attentively. St. Sophia's 
is undoubtedly the most interesting from its im- 
mense antiquity, and the cii mmstance of all the 
Greek emperors, from Justinian, haviug been 
crowned there, and several murdered at the altar, 
hesides the Turkish sultans, Avho attend it regularly. 
But it is inferior in beauty and size to some of the 
mosques, particularly ' Soleymiin,' &-c., and not 
to be mentioned in the same page Avith St. Paul's, 
(1 speak like a Cockney.) However, I prefer the 
Gothic cathedral of Seville to St. Paul's, St. 
Sophia's, and any religious building I have ovel 
seen. 

'♦ The walls of the Seraglio are like the walls o 



LETTERS. 



761 



tfTew stead gardens, only higher, and much in the 
same order ; but trie ride by the walls of the city, 
3n the land side, is beautiful. Imagine four miles 
of immense triple battlements, covered with ivy, 
Burmounted with two hundred and eighteen towers, 
and, on the other side of the road, Turkisl burying- 
grounds, (the loveliest spots on eartli,) full of 
enormous cypresses. I have seen the ruins of 
Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi. I have traversed 
great part of Turkey, and many other parts of 
Europe, and some of Asia ; but 1 never beheld a 
vrork of nature or art which yielded an impression 
like the prospect on each side from the Seven 
Towers to the end of the Golden Horn. 

** Now for England. I am glad to hear of the 
progress of 'English Bards,' &c., — of course, you 
C/bserved I have made great additions to the new 
-dition. have you recived my picture' from San- 
der's, Vigo lane, London ? It .was finished and 
paid for long before I left England : pray, send for 
it. You seem to be a mighty reader of magazines : 
where do you pick up all this intelligence, quota- 
tions, &c., &c. ? Though I was happy to obtain 
my seat without the assistance of Lord Carlisle, I 
had no measures to keep with a man who declined 
interfering as my relation on that occasion, and I 
have done with him, though I regret distressing 
Mrs. Leigh, poor thing ! — I hope she is happy. 

" It is my opinion that Mr. B * * ought to marry 
Miss R * *. Our first duty is not to do evil ; but, 
alas ! that is impossible : our next is to repair it, if 
in our power. The girl is his equal : if she were his 
inferior, a sum of money and provision for the child 
would be some, though a poor compensation : as it 
is, he should marry her. I will have no gay 
deceivers on my estate, and I shall not allow my 
tenants a privilege I do not permit mj'self, thai of 
debauching each other's daughters. God knows I 
have been guilty of many excesses ; but, as I have 
laid down a resolution to reform, and lately kept it, 
I ■'xpect this Lothario to follow the example, and 
oegin by restoring this girl to society, or, by the 
beard of my father ! he shall hear of it. Pray take 
aome notice of Robert, who will miss his master : 
poor boy, he was very imwilling to returft. I trust 
vou are well and happy. It will be a pleasure to 
near ftom you. 

" Believe me, yours very sincerly, 

" Byron." 

" P. S. How is Joe Murray ? 

'* P. S. I opened my letter again to tell you that 
Pletcher having petitioned to accompany me into 
the Morea, I have taken him with me, contrary to 
the intention expressed in my letter." 



LETTER LX. 

TO MRS. BYKON. 

«' AtheiiB, July 25, 1810. 

' Dear Mother, 

" I have ariivod here in four days from Constan- 
linople, which is considered as singularly quick, 
particularly f(jr the season of th«> year. Yon 
lorthern gentry can have no concc])tion of a Greek 
fiumnier; wliicli, however, is a perfect frost com- 
pared with Malta and Gibralter, whore I reposed 
myself ill the sh;ide last year, after a gentle gallop 
of four hmulrod miles, without intermission, through 
'' Portugal and S])ain. Y*)U sec, by mv datr>, that I 
am at Athens again, a place which I think I prefer, 
upon the whole, to any I have seen. ♦ • ♦ • 

" My next luovcuient is to-morrow into the 

Moroaj where I slinll probably remain a month or 

tMo, and IhiMi return to winter here, if I do not 

^iii;i>{e mv plans whidi, however, are verj variable, 

96 



as you may suppose ; but uone of them verge to 

England. 

" The Marquis of Sligo, my old fellow-collegian, 
is here, and wishes to accompany me into th« 
Morea. We shall go together for that purpose 
Lord S. will afterward pursue his way to the capital ; 
and Lord B., having seen all the wonders in that 
quarter, will let you know what he does next, o\ 
which at present he is not quite certain. Malta is 
my perpetual post-office, from which my letters are 
forwarded to all parts of the habitable globe : — by- 
the-by, I have now been in Asia, Africa, and the 
east of Europe, and, indeed, made the most of my 
time without hurrying over the most interesting 
scenes of the ancient world. Fletcher, after" having 
been toasted, and roasted, and bjiked, and grilled, 
and eaten by all sorts of creeping things, begins to 
philosophize, is grown a refined as well as resigned 
character, and promises at his return to become an 
ornament to his own parish, and a very prominent 
person in the future family pedigree of the Fletch- 
er's, whom I take to be Goths by their accomplish- 
ments, Greeks by their acuteness, and ancient 
Saxons by their appetite. He (Fletcher) begs 
leave to send half a dozen sighs to Sally his spouse, 
and wonders (though I do not) that his ill vritten 
and worse spelled letters have never come to hand ; 
as for that matter, there is no great loss in either 
of our letters, saving and except that I wish you to 
know we are well, and warm enough at this present 
wiiting, God knows. You must not expect long 
letters at present, for they are written with the 
sweat of my brow, I assure you. It is rather singu- 
lar that Mr. Hanson has not written a syllable 
since my departure. Your letters I have mostly 
received, as well as others ; from which I conjecture 
that the man of law is either angry or busy. 

" I trust you like Newstead, and agree with yom 
neighbors ; but you know yoti are a ri.ce'n. — is not 
that a dutiful appellation ? Pray, take care of my 
books and several boxes of papers in the hands ot 
Joseph ; and pray leave me a few bottles of cham- 
pagne to drink, for I am very thirsty ; — but I do not 
insist on the last article, without you like it. I 
suppose you have your house full of silly wo'men, 
prating scandalous things. Have you ever received 
my picture in oil from Sanders, London ? It has 
been paid for these sixteen months^ why do you 
not get it ? My suite, consisting of two Turks, 
two Greeks, a Lutheran, and the nondescript 
Fletcher, are making so much noise that I am glad 
to sign myself " Yours, &c., ii:c., 

" Byrov 



LETTER LXI. 



TO MRS. BTRON. 



•• Patns, JUy X, 1810. 

'•Dear Madam, • 

" In four days from Constantinople, with a favor- 
able wind, I arrived in the frigate at the ish.ud of 
Ceos, from whence I took a boat to Athens, where 
I met my friend the Marquis of Sligo, who ex 
pi^'ssed a wish to proceed with me a>* far as Corinth 
At Corinth we separated, he for Trinolitza, I for 
■Patras, where I had some business witn the consul, 
Mr. Strane, in whose house I now write. He has 
icndered me every serv'ce in hi> powt>r siiu-e I 
(|iii(lr(l Malta on my way to Const. mtinoplc, whence 
1 have written to vou twice (u* thrice. In a few 
days 1 visit the Pacha at Tripolitza, nuike the U)ur 
of the Morea, and return again to Athens, Mhich at 
j)resent is my head-(|uarters. The heat is at present 
intense. In England, if it reaches 9S°, you iur« 
all on lire: the other day, in travi-lling ix'twecn 
Athens and Megara, the thermuuioter wae af 



762 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



125° ! I Yet I feel no inconvenience ; of course I 
am mu eh bronzed, but I live temperately, and never 
enjoy ei better health. 

'* Before I left Constantinople, I saw the Sultan, 
(with Mr. Adair.) and the interior of the mosques, 
things whii'h rarely happen to travellers. Mr. Hob- 
house is gone to England : I am in no hurry to re- 
turn, but have no particular communications for 
your country, except my surprise at Mr. Hanson's 
silence, and "my desire that he will remit regularly. 
I suppose some arangement has been made with re- 
gard to Wymondham and Rochdale. Malta is my 
post-office, or to Mr. Strane, consul-general, Patras, 
Morea. You complain of my silence — I have wTit- 
ten twenty or thirty times within the last year: 
never less than twic3 a month, and often more. If 
my letters do not arrive, you must not conclude 
that we aie eeten, or that there is a war, pr a pesti- 
lence, or fs.mine : neither must you credit silly re- 
forts, which I dare say you have in Notts, as usual, 
am very well, and neither more nor less happy 
than I usually am ; except that I am very glad to 
be once more alone, for I was sick of my compan- 
ion, — not that he was a bad one, but because my na- 
ture leads me to solitude, and that every day adds 
to this disposition. If I chose, here are many men 
who would wish to join me — one wants me to go to 
Egypt, another to Asia, of which I have seen 
enough.. The greater pax-t of Greece is already my 
own, so that I shall only go over my old ground, 
and look upon my old seas and mountains, the only 
acquaintances I ever found improve upon me. 

" I have a tolerable suite — a Tartar, two Alba- 
nians, an interpreter, besides Fletcher; but in this 
country these are easily maintained. Adair received 
me wonderfully well, and indeed I have no com- 
plaints against any one. Hospitality here is neces- 
sary, for inns are not. T have lived in the houses 
of Greeks, Turks, Italians and English — to-day in 
i palace, to-morrow in a cow-house ; this day with 
the Pacha, the next with a shepherd. I shall con- 
tinue to write briefly, but frequently, and am glad 
to hear from you; but you fill your letters with 
things from the papers, as if English papers were 
not found all over the world. I have at this mo- 
ment a dozen before me. Pray take care of my 
books, and beUeve me, 

dear Mother, yours very faithfully, 

"Byron." 



My 



the Morea, of which I have been ma'riing the toui 
and visiting the Pacha, who gave me a fine horse 
and paid me all possible honors and attention. 3 
have now seen a good portion of Turkey in Europe 
and Asia Minor, and shall remain at Athens, and in 
the vicinity, till I hear from England. I have 
punctually obeyed your injunctions of writing fre- 
quently, but I shall not pretend to describe coun« 
tries which have been already amply treated of. ] 
believe before this time Mr. Hobhouse will have ar« 
rived in England, and he brings letters from rae, 
written at Constantinople. In these I menticij 
having seen the Sultan and the mosques, and that 1 
swam from Sestos to Abydos, an exploit cf which J 
take care to boast. 

" I am here on business at present, but Athens la 
my head-quarters, where I am pleasantly situated in 
a Franciscan convent. 

" Believe me»tobe, with great sincerity, 
*' Yours, very affectionately, 
*' Byron. 

"P. S. Fletcher is well, and discontented na 
usual ; his wife don't write, at least, her scrawle 
have not arrived. You will address to MaJta. Frxy 
have you never received my picture in oil from San 
ders, Vigo-lane, London ? " 



LETTER LXII. 

TO THE HON. MRS. BY'RON. 

" Pat™, Oct. 2d, 1810. 

"Dear Mvdam, 

" It is now several n»onths since I have recei\ed 
any communication from you; but at this 1 am not 

B\rpri';ed, nor indeed have 1 any complaint to make, | did in fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here I am 

well but weakly, at your seiwice. 

" Since I left Cor.stantinople, I have made a rcuf 
of the Morea, and visited Vely Pacha, who paid 
me great honors and gave me a pretty stallion. II. 
is doubtless in England before even tha date ot tnig 



LETTER LXIIL 



TO MR. HODGSON. 

" Patras, Morea, October 3, 1810. 

" As I have just escaped from a physician and a 
fever A^hich confined me five days to bed, you won't 
expect much ' allegrezza' in the ensuing letter. In 
this place there is an indigenous distemper, which, 
when the wind blows from the gulf of Corinth, (as 
it does five months out of six,) attacks great and 
small, and makes wofui work with visiters. Here 
be also two physicians, one of whom trusts to hia 
genius (never having studied) — the oiher to a cam- 
paign of eightren months against the sick of 
Otranto, which he made in his youth with 'great 
effect. 

" When T was seized with my disorder, I pro- 
tested against both these assassins ; — but what can 
a helpless, feverish, toasted-and-watered poor 
wretch do ? In spite of my teeth and tongue, the 
English consul, my Tartar, Albanians, dragoman, 
forced a physician upon me, and in three days vom 
ited and giystered me to the last gasp. In this 
state I made my epitaph — take it. 

Youili, Nature, and relentinjr Jove 
To keep my lamp in strong-ly strove ; 
But Romanelli was so stout, 
He beat all tltree— and blew it cut. 

But Nature and Jove, being piijued at my doubts 



Hince you have written frequently, for which I 
laank ycu ; but I very much condemn Mr. Hanson, 
■vho has not taken the smallest notice of my many 
etters, nor of my request before I left England, 
vrhich I sailed from on this very day fifteen months 
a.5C Thus one year and a quarter have passei 
away, without my receiving the least intelligence 
on the state of my affairs, and they were not in a 
posture to fir-'. ,of neglect, and I d,o conceive and 
declare that M:. Hanson has acted negligently and 
culpably in not apprizing me of his proceedings; I 
«vi'.l also add uncivily. His letters, were there any, 
"ould not easily miscarry: the communications 
fpith the Levant are slow, but tolerably secure, at 
least as far as Malta, and there I left directions 
which I know would be observed. I have written to 
ffju several times from Constantinople and Smyrna. 
You will perceive hy my date I am returned into 



letter — he bears a despatch from me to your bard- 
ship. He wiites to me from Malta, and requests 
my journal, if I keep one. I have none, or he 
should have it ; but I have replied, in a consolatory 
and c.\.hortatory epistle, praying him to abate three 
and sixpence in the price of his next Boke, seeing 
that half a guinea is a price not to be given for any 
thing save an opera-ticket. 

" As for England, it is long since I have heard 
from it. Every one at all connected with my con- 
cerns is asleep, and you are my only correspondent, 
agents excepted. I have really no friends in the 
world; though all my old schou companions ar« 



LETTERS. 



763 



/ 



Sfone forth into that wu^iJ, and walk about there in 
monstrous disguises, in the "garb of guardsmen, 
lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such other 
masquerade dresses. So, I here shake hands and 
cut with all these busy people, none of whom write 
to me. Indeed, I asked it not ; and kere I am, a 
poor traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath 
perambulated the greatest part of the Levuiit, and 
seen a great quantity of very improvable land and 
sea, and, after all, am no better than when I set 
out — Lord help me ! 

"I have been out fifteen months this very day, 
and I believe my concerns ■will draw me to England 
Boon ; but of this I will ap]n-ize you regularly from 
Mahr<. On all points, Hobhouse will intorm you, if 
you are curi-ras as to our adventures. I have seen 
some oil Er.^'lish papers up to the loth of May. I 
see I'r.z ' Lady of the Lake' advertised. Of course 
it IS in his old ballad style, and pretty. After all, 
''oott is the best of them. The end of all scribble- 
ment is to amuse, and he certainly succeeds there. 
I long to read his ne^v romance. 

" And how does ' Sir Edgar ?' and your friend, 
Bland ? I suppose you are involved in some lite- 
rary squabble. The only' way is to despise all 
brothers of the quill. I suppose you won't allow 
me to be an author, but I contemn you all, you 
dogs ! — I do. 

" You don't kno^r D s, do you ? He had a 

farce ready for the s^age before I left England, and 
asked me for a pr dogue, which I promised, but 
Bailed in such a hurry, I never penned a couplet. I 
am afraid to ask after his drama, for fear it should 
be damned — Lord forgive me for using such a woid ! 
—but the pit, sir, you know, the pit — they will do 
those things in spite" of merit. I remember this 
farce from a curious circumstance. When Drury- 
lane was- burnt to the ground, by which accident 
-Sheridan and his son lost the few remaining shil- 
lings they were worth, what doth my frieiid D 

do ? Why, before the fire was out, he writes a note 
to Tom Sheridan, the manager of this combustible 
concern, to inquire whether this farce was not con- 
verted into fuel, \AJth about two thousand other un- 
a,ctable manuscripts, which of course were in great 
peril, if not actually consumed. Now, was not this 
characteristic ? — tlae mling passions of Pope are 
nothing to it. While the poor distracted manager 
was bewailing the loss of a building only worth 
300,000/., tfigether with some twenty thousand 
pounds of rags and tinsel in the (Uring rooms, Blue- 
beard's elephants, and all that — in comes a note 
from a scorching author, requiring at his hands two 
acts and odd scenes of a farce ! ! 

"Dear H., remind Drury that I am his well- 
wisher, and let Scrope Davies be well affected to- 
wards me. I lock forward to meeting you at 
Newstf»ad, and renewing our old champagne eve- 
nings with all the glee of anticipation. I have writ- 
ten by every opportunity, and ex|)cct res])onses 
aa regular as those of the liturgy, and somewhat 
longer. As it is impossil)le for a man in his senses 
to iiopc for happy days, let us at least look forward 
to merry ones, which come nearest to the other 
In a;->p-3arance, if not in reality ; and in such 2x- 
|)Ct't.\tior^ I remain, &c.' 



LETTER LXIV. 

TO MHS. HYllON. 

" Athena, Jnnimry U, 1811. 

•♦My Dlar Mai).\m, 

" I seize an occasion to write as URual, shortly, 
out frequtntly, as the arrival of letters, where then* 
exists uo : of^ular communication, is, of course, very 



precarious. 1 have lately made several sr. all toure 
of some hundred or two miles about the Morea, At- 
tica, &c., as I have finislied my grand giro by the 
Troad, Constantinople, &c., and am returned dov/n 
again to Athens. I believe I have mentioned tc 
you more than once, that I swam (in imitation oi 
Ltfandc though without his lady) across the Hel 
lespont, from Sestos to Abydos. Of this, and al) 
other particulars, F., whom I have sent home with 
papers, &c., will apprize you. I cannot find that he 
is any loss, being tolerably master ol tHe Italian 
and modern Greek languages, which last I am also 
studying with a master, — I can order and discourse 
more than enough for a reasonable man. Besides 
the perpetual lamentations after beef and beer, the 
stupid, bigoted contempt for every thing foreign, 
and insurmountable incapacity of acouiring even a 
few Avords of any language, rendered him, like all 
other English servants, an incumbrance. I do as- 
sure you, the plague of speaking for him, the com- 
forts he required, (more than myself by far,) the 
pilaws, (a Turkish dish of rice and meat.) which he 
could not eat, the wines which he could not drink, 
the beds where he could not sleep, and the long list 

lof calamities, such as stumbling horses, want o? 

'^.ea! ! ! &c., which assailed him, would have made a 
lasting source of laughter to a spectator, and in- 
convenience to a master. After all, the man is 
honest enough, and, in Christendom, capable 
enough ; but in Turkey, Lord forgive me ! my Al- 

»ianian soldiers, my Tartars and Janizary, worked 
or him and us too, as my friend Hobhouse car 
testify. 

" It is probable I may steer homewards in spring; 
but to enable me to do that, I must have remit- 
tances. My own funds would have lasted me very 
well ; but I was obliged to assist a friend, who, i 
know, will pay me ; but in the mean time, I am out 
of pocket. At present, I do not cure to venture a 
winter's voyage, even if I were otherwi^^e tired ol 
travelling ; but I am so convinced of the advan- 
tages of looking at mankind instead of reading 
about them, and the bitter effects of staying at 
home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, 
that I think there should be a law among us to set 
our young men abroad, for a term, among the few 
allies our wars have left us. 

'♦ Here I see and have conversed with French, 
Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Ameri- 
cans, &c., &c., &c.. \ and, without losing sight of mj 
own, I can judge of the countries and manners ol 
others. Where I see the superiority of England 
(which, by-the-by, we arc a good deal mistaken 
about in many things,) I am pleased, and where I 
find her inferior, I am at least enlighted. Now, I 
might have stayed, smoked in vour towns, or fogged 
in your country, a centurv', without being sure ol 
this, and without acquiring any tiling more useful 
or amusing at home. I keep no journal, nor have 
I any intention of scribbling my travels. I have 
done with authorship; and if, in my last produc- 
tion, I have convinced the critics of the world I 
was something more than they took me for, I am 
satisfied ; nor will I hazard thai rvputtitimi by a fu- 
ture effort. It is true I have some otiiers in numu- 
soript, but I leave tlu^m for those whi> eoine utter 
me; aiul, if deetned worth publishing, thty may 
serve to prolong my memory when I my^t If shall 
cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian 
artist taking some views of Athens, it c, X"C., lor mo. 
This will be i)etter than scribbling, n disease I hope 
myself curi'd of. I hope, on my return, to lead a 
(juiet rechi.se life, but (rod knows and does Itest foi 
us all ; at least, so they say^ and 1 hive uollinfj 
to object, as (>!» the whole, 1 have no reason to c nu- 
pl.iin of my lot. I am convinced, however, that 
men do more hiirm to themselves than ever 'h* 
devil could do them. I trust this will find you well, 
and as happy as wc can be ; you will, at least, b< 
l)leasfd to hear I an' "O. and yours ever." 



764 



BYEON'S WORKS. 



LETTER LXV. 



TO MKS. BYBON. 



«< Atheni, Feb. 23, 1811. 

' Depm Madam, 

'^ As I have received a firman for Egypt, &c., I 
shall pioceed to that quarter in the spring, and I 
DC'g you will state to Mr. Hanson that it is neces- 
sary to further remittances. On the_ subject of 
Newstcc.d A answer, as before, no. If it is neces- 
sary to self; sell Rochdale. Fletcher will have ar- 
rived by this time with my letters to that purport. 
I will tell you fairly, I have in the first place, no 
opinion of funded property; if, by any particular 
circumstan';es, I shall be led to adopt such a deter- 
mination, I will at all events, pass my life abroad, 
as my only tie to England is Newstead, and, that 
once gone,' neither- interest nor inclination lead me 
northward. Competence in your country is ample 
wealth in the East, such is the diiference in the 
value of money and the abundance of the necessa- 
ries of life ; and I feel myself so much a citizen of 
the world, that the spot where I can enjoy a deli- 
cious climate, and every hixury, at a less expense 
than a common college life in England, will always 
be a country to me ; and such are in fact the shores 
of the Archipelago. This then is the alternative — 
if I preserve Npwstead, I return ; if I sell it, I stay 
away. I have .^ad no letters since yours of June, 
but I have written several times, and shall continue, 
as usual, on the same plan. 

" Believe me, yours ever, 
" Byron." 

" P. S. I shall most likely see you in the course 
of the summer, but, of course, at such a distance, 
I cannot specify any particular month," 



LETTER LXVI. 

TO MRS. BYRON. 

" Volage frigate, at sea, June 25, 1811. 

•' Dear Mother, 

" This letter, which will be forwarded on our ar- 
ival at Portsmouth, probably about the fourth of 
July, is begun about twenty-three days' after our 
departure from Malta. I have just been two years 
t' a day, on the second of July) absent from Eng- 
land, and I return to it with much the same feel- 
ings wh.ch prevailed on my departure, viz., indif- 
ference ; but within that apathy I certainly do not 
comprise yourself, as I will prove by every means in 
my power. You wi.U be good enough to get my 
apartments ready at Newstead, "but don't disturb 
yourself on any account, particularly mine, nor con- 
sider me in any other light than as a visitor. I 
must only inform you that for a long time I have 
been restricted to an entire vegetable diet, neither 
fish nor flesh coming within my regimen ; so I ex- 
pect a powerful stock of potatoes, greens, and bis- 
cuit : I drhik no wine. I have two servants, mid- 
lle-aged men, and both Greeks. It is my inten- 
tion to proceed first to town, to see Mr. Hanson, 
and thence to Newstead, on my way to Rochdale. 
I have only to beg you will not forget my diet, 
which it is verv necessary for me to observe. I 
am well in health, as I have g'merally been, with 
the exception of two agues, both f which I quickly 
got over. 

" My piano will so much depend on circum- 
Btanfes, that I shall not venture to lay down an 
opir/iou on tiie subject. My prospects are not very 
promising, but I suppose we shall wrestle through 
life like our neighbors; indeed, by H.'s last ad- 
ices, I have some apprehensions of finding New- 



stead dismantled bj Messrs. Brothers, &c., and h« 

seems determined to force me into selling it, but h( 
will be baffled. I don't suppose I shall be much 
pestered with visiters ; but if I am, you must re- 
ceive them, for I am determined to have nobody 
breaking in upon my retirement : you know that 1 
never was fond of society, and I am less so than be- 
fore. I have brought you a shawl, and a quantity 
of attar of roses, but these I must smuggle, if pos- 
sible. I trust to find my library in tolerable order. 

"Fletcher is no doubt arrived. I shall separate 
the mill from Mr. B * *'s farm, for his son is tt^o 
gay a deceiver to inherit both, and place Fletcher 
in it, who has served me faithfully, and who«e wife 
is a good woman ; besides, it is necessary to 6ober 
young Mr. B * *, or he will people the parish with 
bastards. In a word, if he had seduced a dairymaidj 
he might have found something like an apology ; 
but th^ girl is his equal, and in high life or low life 
reparation is made in such circumstances, But 1 
shall not intefere further than (like Bonaparte) by 
dismembering Mr. B. 's kingdom, and erecting part 
of it into a principality for field-marshal Fletcher ! 
I hope you govern my little empire and its sad load 
of national debt with a wary hand. To drop ray 
metaphor. I beg leave to subscribe myself, yours, 
&c. 

'• P. S. This letter was written to be sent from 
Portsmouth, but, on arriving there, the squadi-on 
was ordered to the Nore, from whence I shall for- 
ward it. This I have not done before, supposing 
you might be alarmed by the interval mentioned in 
the letter being longer than expected between ova 
arrival in port and my appearance at Newstead." 



LETTER LXVn. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" Volage friprate, at sea, June 29, 1811. 

" In a week, with a fair wind, we shall be at 
Portsmouth, and on the 2d of July, I shall have 
completed (to a day) two years of peregrination, 
from which I am returning with as little emotion as 
I set out. I think upon the whole, I was more 
grieved at leaving Greece than England, which I am 
impatient to see, simply because I am tired of a 
long voyage. 

"Indeed, my prospects are not very pleasant. 
Embarrassed in my private aff'airs, indifferent to 
public, solitary without the wish to be social, with 
a body a little enfeebled by a succession of fevers, 
hut a spirit, I trust, yet unbroken, I am returning 
home without a hope, and almost without a desire. 
The first thing I shall have to encounter will be a 
lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, farmers, 
surveyors, and all the agreeable attachments to 
estates out of repair and contested coal-pits. la 
short, I am sick and sorry, and when I have a Utile 
repaired my irreparable aff'airs, away I shall march, 
either to campaign in Spain, or back again to the 
East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and 
a cessation from impertinence. 

" I trust to meet, or see you, in town or at New- 
stead, whenever you can make it convenient. I 
suppose you are in love and in poetry, as usual. 
That husband, H. Drury, has never written to me, 
albeit I have sent him more than one let<<^r ; — but I 
dare say the poor man has a family, am! ')f course 
>ill his cares are confined to his circle. 

" ' For children fresh expenses gel. 

And Dicky now for scliool is fii.'—Warton. 

If vou see him, tell him I have a letter for him firom 
Tucker, a regimental chuurgeon and friend of his 
who prescribed for me. « * * and is a very 



LETTERS 



765 



woTtTiy man, but too foi.d of hard words. I should 
oe too late for a speech-day, or I should probably 
go down to Hurrow. 

I regretted ver}' much in Greece having omitted to 
warrv' th? Anthology with me — I mean Bland and 
Merivale's. 

What has Sir Edgar done? And the Imitations 
and Translations — where are they ? I suppose you 
don't mean to let the public off so easily, but 
charge them home with a quarto. For me, I am 
* sick of fops and poesy and prate,' and shall leave 
the ' whole Castalian state' to Bufo, or any body 
else. But you arc a sentimental and sensibilitous 
person, and will rhyme to the end of the chapter. 
Howbcit. I have written some four thousand lines, 
of one kind or another, on my travels. 

" I need not repeat that I shall be happy to see 

you. I shall be in town about the 8th, at Dorant's 

Hotel, in Albemarle-street, and proceed in a few 

Kv» to Notts, and thence to Rochdale on business. 

"I an>, hei'e and there, yours, &c." 



1.ETTEB, LXVIIl. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

*♦ Volage frigate, at tea, June 28, 1811. 

After two years absence, (to a day, on the 2d of 
luly, before which we shall not arrive at Ports- 
mouth,) I am retracing my way to England. I 
Have, as you know, spent the greater part of that 
period in Turkey, except two months in Spain and 
Portugal, which were then accessible. I have seen 
every thing most remarkable in Turkey, particu 



poor fellow among you : had it not beeii for his 
patrons, he might now have been in veiy good 
plight, shoe (not verse) making ; but you hav6 
made him immortal with a vengeance. I write this 
supposing poetry, patronage, and strong waters tc 
have been the death of him. If you are in town ir 
or about the beginning of July, you will find me a^ 
Dorant's in Albemarle-street, glad to see you. ] 
have an Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry ready 
for Cawthorn, but don't let that deter you, for I 
shan't inflict it upon you. You know I never read 
my rhymes to visitors. I shall quit town in a few 
days for Notts, and thence to Rochdale. I shall 
send this the moment we arrive in harbor, that is a 
week hence. 

'* Yours ever sincerely, 

" Bybon ' 



LETTER LXIX. 



MR. HENRT DRURT. 



" Volage frigate, off Ushact, July 17, I8I» 

" My Dear Drury, 

"After two years' absence (on the second) antt 
some odd days, I am approaching your country 
The day of our arrival you will see by the outside 
date of my letter. At present, we are becalmed 
comfortably, close to Brest Harbor; I have never 
been as near it since I left Duck Puddle. * ♦ • 
We left Malta thirty-four days ago, and have had a 
tedious passage of it. You will either see or hear 
"from or of me, soon after the receipt of this, as I 
pass through town to repair my irreparable alFairs ; 
and thence I want to go to Notts, and raise rents, 
and to Lanes, and sell" collieries, and back to Lon- 
, , - , T, , ^ ,, ^ . , • . All don and pay debts; for it seems I shall neither 

larly the Troad Greece, Constantinople, and Alba-||^^^e ^^^^^ or comfort till I go down to Rochdale in 

person. 

" I have brought home some marblps for Tlob- 
house ; for myself, four ancient Athenian skulls,* 
dug out of Sarcophagi ; a phial of attic hemlock ;* 



BO high as Hobhouse and myself. I don't know 
tliat I have done any thing to distingnsh me from 
other voyagers, unless you will reckon my swim- 
ming from Sestos to Abydos, on May 3d, 1810, a 
tolerable feat for a modern. 

" I am coming bacK. with little prospect of pleas- 
ure at home, and with a body a little shaken by 
one or two smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet un- 
broken. My affairs, it seems, are consiaerably in- 
volved, and much business must be done with law- 
yers, colliers, farmers, and creditors. Now this, to a 
man who hates bustle as he hates a bishop, is a seri- 
ous concern. But cnougli of my home department. 

** I find I have been scolding Cawthoni without a 
cause, as I found two parcels with two letters from 
you on my return to Malta. By these it appears 
you have not received a letter from Constantinople, 
addressed to Longman's, but it was of no conse- 
quence. 

'* My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a 
success rather above the middling run, but not 
much for a production which, from its topics, must 
be temporary, and of course be successftil at first, 
or not at all' At this period, when I can think and 
act more coolly, I regret tbiit I have written it, 
though I shall probably find it forgotten by all ex- 
cept t;.ose whom it has offended. 

"Mr Hobhouse's Miscellany has not succeeded, 
but he himself writes so g()«d humoredly on the 
Bubject, I don't know, whether to laugh or cry with 
him. He met with your son at Cadiz, of whom he 
ipeaks highly. 

" Yours and Pratt's protege, Blackett, the cob- 
bler,* is dead in spite of his rhymes, and is proba- 
bly one of the instances where death has saved a 
cnan from damnation. You were the ruin of that 



. p. in. 



four live tortoises ; a greyhound, (died on the pas 
sage;) two live Greek servants, one an Atheniar, 
t' other a Yaniote, who can speak nothing but Ro- 
maic and Ilalian ; and myself, as Moses in the Vicai 
of Wakefield says, slyly, and I may say it too, for 
I have as little cause to boast of my expedition aa 
he had of his to the fair. 

•' I wrote to you from the Cyanean Rocks, to tcU 
you I had swum from Sestos to Abydos; have yon 
received my letter ? • ♦ ♦ Hodgson, I suppose 
is four deep by this time. Wliat would he have 
given to have seen, like me, the real Pantassttty 
where I robbed the Bishop of Crissae of a book of 
geography ; but this I only call plagiarism, M it 
was done within an houi-'s ride of Dolihi." 



LETTER LXX. 



TO THB HON. MRS. BYRON. 



Rr<MUh'i Hol«l, July «, llwt 
" St. JaniPt't ttrrM, 



" My Dkar Mapam. 

** I am only detained by Mr. Hanson, to tin 
some coppyhold papers, and will give you timelj 
notice of ray iipprouch. It is with great reluct*no»; 
I remain in town. I shall pay a short visit as we g< 



• OfvOT aftennutl l< Mr Wahor eMO. 
T la Iho poMsalon j< Mr. M«f»» 



766 



BYRON'S WORfeS. 



an to Lansashire, on Rochdale biijiness. I shall 
Intend to your directions, of course, and am, 
•' With great respect, yours ever, 

'• Byron. 
" P. S. you will consider Newstead as your house, 
act mine ; and me only as a visitor " 



LETTER LXXI. 

TO I)K. PIGOT. 

" Newport PagneH, August 1, 1811. 

" Mt Dear Doctor, 

" My poor mother died yesterday ! and T am on 
roy way from town to attend her to the family vault. 
[ heard one day of her illness, the nea-t of her 
death. — Thank God her last moments were most 
tranquil. I am told she was in little pain, and not 
aware of her situation. — I now feel the truth of Mr. 
Gray's observation, 'That we can only have one 
mother.'— Peace be with her 1 I have to thank you 
for your expressions of regard, and as in six weeks 
I shall be in Lancashire on business, I may extend 
to Liverpool and Chester, — at least I shall endeavor. 

"If it will be any satisfactioji, I hava to infcrni 
you that in November next the editor of the Scourge 
will be tried for two different libels on the late Mrs. 
B. and myself, (the decease of Mrs. B. makes nc 
diff'erence in the proceedings,) and as he is guiltv, 
by his very foolish and utifounded' assertion, of a 
breach of privilege, he will be prosecuted with the 
utmost rigor. 

" I inform you of this, as yon seena interested i» 
the affair, which is now in the hands of the attorney- 
general. 

" I shall remain at NeAvstead the greater part of 
this month, where I shall be happy to hear from 
you, after my two years' absence in the East. 
" I am, dear Pigot, yours very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXXIII. 



BOirON, ESQ. 



" Newstead Abbey, Anjrust 12, I. U. 

"Sir, 

" I enclose a rough draft of my intended wiU 
which I beg to have drawn up as soon as possible in 
the firmest manner. The alterations are principallj 
made in consequence of the death f Mrs. Byron. 
I have only to request that it may b» got ready in a 
short time, and have the honor to bt, 

" Your most obedient humble servant, 

*' Byron." 



LETTER LXXII. 



rO MR. 8CR0PE DAYIES. 



" Newstead Abbey, August 7, 1811. 

* My Dearest Davies, 

'•oome curse hangs over me and mine. My 
mother lies a corpt^e in this house : one of my best 
friends is drowned in a ditch. What can I say, or 
think, or do ? I received a letter from him the 
day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you can 
spire a moment, do come down to me — I want a 
friend. Matthews's last letter was written on 
Fridmi, — on Saturday he was not. In ability, who 
ppas like Matthews"?* How did we all shrink 
before him ? You do me but justice in saying, I 
wocld have risked my paltry existence to have pre- 
eei-yed his. This very evening did I mean to write, 
hinting him, as I invite you, my very dear friend, 
tc visit me. God forgive * * * for his apathy ! 
\'tTiat will our poor Hobhouse feel ! His letters 
breatlie but of Mattbews. Come to me, Scrope, I 
B.m almost desolate — left almost alone in the world 
—I had but you, and H., and M., and let me enjoy! 
Ihe survivors while I can. Poor M., in his letter' 
of Friday, epeaks of his intended contest for Cam- 
bridge, and a speedy journey to London. Write or 
come, but come if you can, or one or both. 

" Yours ever." 



■ee Letter cccclxU. 



«' Newstead Abbey, August 12, 1811. 
" DIRECTIONS FOR THE CONTENTS OP A WILL TO 
BE DRAWN UP IMMEDIATELY. 

" The estate of Newstead to be entailed (subject 
to certain deductions) on George Anson Byron, 
heir at law, or whoever may be the \nAx at law on 
the death of LordB. The Rochdale property to be ' 
sold in part or the whole, according to the debts j 
and legacies of the present Lord B. 

" To Nicolo Giraud of Athens, subject of France, ( 
but born in Greece, the sum of seven thousand 
pounds sterling, to be paid from the sale of such 
parts of Rochdale, Newstead, or elsewhere, as may 
enable the said Nicolo Giraud, (resident at Athens 
and Malta in the year 1810,) to receive the.above 
sum on his attaining the age of twenty-one years. 

" To William Fletcher, Joseph Murray, and 
Demetrius ZografFo,* (native of Greece,) servants, 
the sum of fifty pounds per ann. each, for their 
natural lives. To V/"^ Fletcher the mill at New- 
stead, on condition that he payeth the rent, but not 
subject to the caprice of the landlord. To R' Rush- 
ton the sum of fifty pounds per ann. for life, and a 
further sum of one thousand pounds on attaining 
the age of twenty-five years. 

" To J" Hanson, Esq., the sum of two thousand 
poiyids sterling. 

" The claims of S. B. Davies, Esq., to be satisfied 
on proving the amount of the same. , - 

" The body of Lord B. to be buried in the vault / 
of the garden of Newstead, without any ceremony )f 
or burial-service whatever, or any inscription, save /' 
his name and age. His dog not to be removed from( ' 
the said vault. 

"My library and furniture of every description to 
my friends J" Cam Hobhouse, Esq., and S. B. 
Davies, Esq., my executors. In case of their 
decease, the Rev. J. Becher of Southwell, Notts, 
and R. C. Dallas, Esq., of Mortlake, Surrey, to be 
executors. 

" The produce of the sale of Wymondham in 
Norfolk, and the late Mrs. B.'s Scotch property, to 
to be appropriated in aid of the payment of debta 
and legacies." 



" This is the last will and testament of me the 
Rt. Hon'''e George Gordon Lord Byron, Baron 
Byron of Rochdale in the county of Lancaster. — I 
desire that my body may be buried in the vault of 
the garden of Newstead, without any ceremony or 
burial-service whatever, and that no inscription 
save my name and age, be -n-ritten on the tomb or 
tablet ; and it is my\vill that my faithful dog may 
not be removed from the said vault. To the per- 
formance of this, my particular desire, I rely on the 
attention of my executors hereinafter named." 

* " If t ie papers lie not, (which they generally do,) Demetrius Zognfts 
of Athe; » )t at the head of the Athenian part of the Greek insnrreciion. H« 
WHS my servant in 1809, 1810, 1811, 1812, at different inK-rvals in those yc;<w, 
(for I left him in Greece when I went to Constantinople.) and accompanie* 
me to England in 1811 ; he returned to Greece, spring, 1812. He wa* « 
clever, but not appr.renUy an enterprising man ; but circ imstairces matt 
men. His two sons (then infants) were named Miltiadcs mnd Alclbiadea 
m&y the omen be bapy t " — MS. Journal. 



LETTERS. 



76^ 



" It is subnatfed to Lord Byron whether this 
ilaxme relative to the funeral had ixot better be omit- 
ted. The auhstaiic.e of it can be given in a letter 
from his lordship to the executors, atid accompany 
the will; and the will may' state that the funeral 
thall be performed in stich matmer as his lordship 
may by letter direct, and, in default of any such 
letter', then at the discretion of his executors." 

" It must stand. " B." 

" I do hereby, specifically order and direct that 
all the claims of the said S. B. Davies upon me 
fehdll be fully paid and satisfied as soon as conve- 
nientiy may be after my decease, on his proving 
[by vouchers, or otherAvise, to the satisfaction of 
my executors hereinafter named*] the amount 
thereof and the correctness of the same." 

" If Mr. Daiu'es has any Wtsettlcd claims upon 
Lord Lyro^, that circumstan/ e is a reason for his 
not beim/ aj'pointed executor ; each exe-ator having 
an opportunity of paying himself his own debt with- 
mit consulting his co-executors."' 

" So much the better — if possible, let him be an 
executor. • ' " B." 



In sending a copy of the will, framed on these 
instructions, to Lord Byron, the solicitor accom- 
panied some of the clauses with marginal queries, 
calling the attentioTi of his client to noints which 
he considered inexpedient or questionable : one or 
two of the clauses are here inserted in full, with 
the respective queries and answers annexed. 



/- 



The two following letters contain further instruc- 
tions on the same subject : 

LETTER LXXIV 

TO MR. BOLTON. 

" Newstead Abbey, August 16, 1811. 

Sir, 

" I have answered the queries on the margin.f 
1 wish Mr. Davies's claims to be most fully allowed, 
and, further that he be one of my executors. I 
wish the will to be made in a manner to prevent all 
discussion, if possible, after my decease ; «ind this I 
leave to you as a professional gentleman. 

" With regard to the few and sinii)le directions 
fbi the disposal of my carcass, I must have them 
implicitly fuliillod, as they will, at least, prevent 
tr(nii)le and expense : — and (what would be of little 
consequence to mo, but may quiet the conscience 
of the survivors) the garden is consecrated ground. 
These Jirejtions are copied verWutim from my 
formei will ; the alterations in other parts have 
irxten from the death of Mrs. B. • 

" I have tlie honor to Ix;, 
"Your ^nost ob(;dient, humblp servant, 

"Bykov." 



LETTER LXXV. 



TO MR. BOLTON. 



"Newstead Abbey, Ac pi^au ISli. 

"Sir, 

" The witnesses shall be provided from among 
my tenants, and I shall be happy to see you on ai j 
day most convenient to yourself. I forgot to men- 
tion that it must be specified by codicil, or other- 
wise, that my body is on no account to be removed 
from the vault where I have directed it to be placd ; 
and, in case any of my successors within the eitail, 
(from bigotry, or otherwise,) might think pr^|.ei 
to remove the carcass, such proce.^ding snail &« 
attended by forfeiture of the estate, ^hich , in such 
case, shall go to my sister, the 11 on^'"^ Aug^Hta 
Leigh and her heirs on similar conditions. I have 
the honor to be, sir, 

" Your very obedient, humble servant, 

"Byron" 



LETTER LXXVI. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



• '>»- .i'# v/ord* hern plaWMl ix?tw<n brack -ts, I nl Bynm drew liis peu. 
.t ti: U'.UM enumeralintr ilie iinmi>«aiiil)iliice«orubu<lr ot the exeeulon, 
ih" »H, )tlior H.id left h Hiiki (or the Chruli.ui tiumrg of then" tfcntliiiifii, mid 
I - 1' Byroi., having flll'-d up all but that of l)all.i«, wriK-* in ll>c iii«r(fiii— " I 
lbr|T«>( the Chrlitlmi name of Uutltit — cut him out." lie alio execiiti-d on 
the iwerty-e ifbtli of ihi* month, ti axllcil, by which he revolteil thf U'^ueat of 
hi* " houaeh' I'l ifuisla iiud furiiiiurr, lilimry, pittnn-a, inhri'i, watcli^a, pl.iin, 
Jneii, lriiik<-t«, and oth-r perionid eatiif, (ixc.-pl money and ••curiliea,) 
ilMKte within ilie widla of ttie itiaiinion-Uoun' and premiaea at hit d'Ceia«»— 
and })equniitlie<l thi- a^tine (I'xo-pt hia wine an<l a|iirituoui liqnuni) to hia 
frli'ildKthe aald J. C. Iloljt oua^, S. B. Oiirlea, find Frrtncla Ho.ljr«>n, their 
•x.cntora, ftc, to hf >quiii t dlvldnl betwren th' m for their own u» • ;— anil 
h: iM-quiMl^il hia win'- i\n<l apiritnnua liqunra, whirh ahniild In- in the c<*llara 
uid pn-iiiiaea jit NiwaOml, nnlo hia '^ri'nd tlie uiil ). UechT, for Ilia own 
W, and K'tiucaKil th> add J. C. Iln houar, 8 B. 1)^ -i«a, P. iltxtjfaon, and 
. BecliT, leipuctlvely, to accept (he Niju'^l there oonliiloe<l, I0 them 
WDScli^iv. •• • token ot hia I <niUhip." 



"Newstead Abbey, Notts, August !2, 1811. 

" Peace be with the dead ! Regret cannot wake 
them. With a sigh to the departed, let us resume 
the dull business of life, in tht; certainty that we 
shall also have our repose. Besides her who gave 
me being, I have lost more than one who made that 
being tolerable. The best friend of my friend Hob 
house, Matthews, a man of the first talents, and alsft 
riot the worst of my narrow circle, has perished mis 
erably in the muddy waves of the Cam, always fatal 
to genius ; — my poor schoolfellow Wingfield, at 
Coimbra — within a month,* and while I heard from 
all three, but not seen one. Matthews ANTOte to me 
the very day before his death ; and though I feel fox 
his fate, I am still more anxious for Hobhouse, who, 
I very much fear, will hardly retain his senses; his 
letters to me since the event have been most inco-; 
herent. But let this pass — we shall all one day pas^ 
along with the rest — the world is too full of such 
things, and our vevy sorrow is selfish. 

" I received a letter from you which my late oc- 
cupations prevented mo from duly noticing, — 1 liope 
your friends and family will long hold together. 1 
I shall be glad to hear from ytm, on business on com- 
i monplace, or any thing, or nothing — but dcatli — I 
I am already too familiar with the dead. It is 
strange that I look en the skulls which stand 
beside me (I have always had four in my study) 
without emotion, but 1 cannot strip the features ol 
those I have known of their fleshy covering, even 
in idea, without a hideous sensation ; btjt the 
wt>rms are less ceremonious. .Surel^the Ituiudaa 
f d well when they burned the^tteaoT' I shtilj bf 
h^ppv to heiir from you, and iim 

' Yjuxs. fea." 



LETTER LXXVIL 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" Newatrad Abhey, AnfiMt tt, Ml 

"You rajiy have heard of the suddrn d<K:h oi 
my mother. antL poor Matthews, which, witl» that 
of" Wingflt'il, (of which t was jiot fullv aware tiil 
jiHt before I left town, and indofd h.ndly holipTe4 
It,) has made a sad chasm in my conuvxiona. In 



) ChUd* Haiokl. I 



768 



BTiTlON'S WORKS. 



deed the blows followed esch other so rapidly that I 
am yet stupid from the shock, and though I do eat, 
and drink, and talk, and even laugh, at times, yet I 
can hardly persuade myself that I am awake, did 
not every morning convince me mournfully to the 
eontrary. I shall now waive the subject, — the dead 
are at rest, and none but the dead can be so. 

" You \%all feel for poor Hobhouse, — Matthews 
was the ' god of his idolatry ; ' and if intellect could 
exalt a man above his fellows, no one could refuse 
him preeminence. I knew him most intimately, 
and valued him proportionably, but I am recurring 
so let us talk of life and the living. 

" If you should feel a disposition to come here, 
you will find ' beef and a sea-coal fire,' and not un- 
generous wine. Whether Otway's two other re- 
quirfites for an Englishman or not, I cannot tell, but 
probably one of them. Let me know when I may 
expect you, that I may tell you when I go and 
when return. I have not yet been to Lanes. * * 
Davies has been here, and has invited me to Cam- 
bridge for a week in October, so that peradventure, 
we may encounter glass to glass. His gayety 
(death cannot mar it) has done me service ; but, 
after all, ours was a hollow laughter. 

" You will write to me. I am solitary, and I never 
felt solitude irksome before. Your anxiety about 
the critique on * *'s book is amusing ; as it was 
anonymous, certes, it was of little consequence : I 
wish it had produced a little more confusion, being 
a lover of literary malice. Are you doing nothing ? 
writing nothing ? printing nothing ? why not your 
Satire on Methodism ? the subject (supposing the 
public to be blind to merit) would do wonders. Be- 
sides, it would be as well for a destined deacon to 
prove his orthodoxy. It really would give me plea- 
sure to see* you properly appreciated. I say really , 
as, being an author, my humanity might be sus- 
pected. 

" Believe me, dear H. yours always." 



LETTER LXXVIII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Newstead, Auorust 21, 1811. 

•' Your letter gives me credit for more acute feel- 
itgs than I possess ; for though I feel tolerably mis- I 
erable, yet I am at the same time subject to a kind 
of hysterical merriment, or rather laughter without 
merriment, which I can neither account for nor 
conquer ; and yet I do not feel relieved by it ; but 
an indifferent person would think me in excellent 
spirits. ' We must forget these things,' and have 
recourse to our old selfish comforts, or rather com- 
fortable selfishness. I do not think I shall retur^i 
to London immediately, and shall therefore accept 
freely what is offered courteously — your mediation 
between me and Murray. I don't think my name 
will answer the purpose, and you must be aware 
that mv plaguy Satire will bring the north and 
south (jrub-streets down upon the ' Pilgrimage ;' 
—but, nevertheless, if Murray makes a point of it, 
aud you comcide with him, I will do it daringly ; so 
let it be entitled, ' By the Author of English Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers.' My remarks on the Ro- 
maic, &c., once intended to iccompany the Hints 
from Horace,' shall go along with the other, as 
being indeed more appropriate ; also the smaller 
poems now in my possession, with a few selected 
from those published in Hobhouse^ Miscellany. I 
fiave found among my poor mother's papers all my 
letters from the East, and one in particular of some 
length from Albania. From this, if necessary, I 
pan work up a note or two on that subject. As I 
Kf. t no iournal, the letters written on the spot are 



the best. But of this anon, when we have deft 

nitely arranged. 

" Has Murray shown the work to any one ? He 
may — but I will have, no traps for applause. 01 
course there are little things I would wish to ailar, 
and perhaps the two stanzas of a buffooning cast on 
London's Sunday are as well left out. I much wish 
to avoid identifying Childe Harold's character with 
mine, and that, in sooth, is my second objection to 
my name appearing in the title-page. When vow 
■have made arrangements as to time, size, type, &c., 
favor me with a reply. I am giving you a universe 
of trouble, which thanks cannot atone for. I made a 
kind of prose apology for my skepticism at the head 
of the MS., which, on recollection, is so much more 
like an attack than a defence, that, haply, it might 
better be omitted : — perpend, pronounce. ' After all, 
I fear Murray will be in a scrape with thg orthodox; 
but I cannot help it, though I. wish him well 
through it. As for me, ' I have supped full of 
criticism,' and I don't think that the ' most dismal 
treatise' will stir and rouse my ' fell of hair' till 
' Bunam wood do come to Dunsinane.' * 

" I shall continue to write at intervals, and hopt 
you will pay me in kind. How does Pratt get on. 
or rather get off Joe Blackett's posthumous stock r 
You killed that poor man among you, in spite ol 
your Ionian friend and myself, who would have saved 
him from Pratt, poetry, present poverty, and post- 
humous oblivion. Cruel patronage ! to ruin a man 
at his calling ; but then he is a divine subject for 
subscription and biography ; and Pratt, who makes 
the most of his dedications, has inscribed the 
volume to no less than five families of distinction. 

" I am sorry you don't like Harry White ; with a 
grea* deal of cant, which in him was sincere, (in- 
deed., it killed him as you killed Joe Blankett,"* 
certes, there is poesy and genius. I don't say this 
on account of my simile and rhymes ;* but surely 
he was beywnd all the Bloomfields and Blacketts, 
and their collateral cobblers, whom Lofft and Pratt 
have or may kidnap from their calling into the service 
of the trade. You must excuse my flippancy, for I 
am writing I know not what, to escape from myself. 
Hobhouse is gone to Ireland. Mr. Davies has been 
here on his way to Harrowgate. 

"You did not know Mr. Matthews; he was a 
man of the most astonishing powers, as he suffi- 
ciently proved at Cambridge, by carrying off more 
prizes and fellowships, against the ablest candidates, 
than any other graduate on record ; but a most de- 
cided atheist, indeed noxiously so, for he pro- 
claimed his principles in all societies. I knew him 
well, and feel a loss not easily to be supplied to ray- 
self — to Hobhouse never. Let me hear from you> 
and *' Belicvve me, &c." 



LETTER LXXIX. 

TO MH. MUKllAY. 

" Newstead Abbey, NotU, Aueuat 23 1811. 
" SiK, 

" A domestic calamity in the death of a near rela- 
tion has hitherto prevented my addressing you on 
the subject of this letter. My friend Mr. Dallas 
has placed in your hands a manuscript poem writ- 
ten by me in Greece, whrch he tells me you do 
not object to publishing. But he also informed me 
in London that you wished to send the MS. to Mr. 
Gifford. Now, though no one would feel more grati- 
fied by the chance of obtaining his observations on 
a tpork than myself, there is in such a proceeding a 
kind of petition for praise, that neither my pride— 
or whatever you please to call it — will adn^t. Mr. 
G. is not only the first satirist of the day, but editoi 
of one of the principal Reviews. As such, he H 
1 

• Bee "En«IWi Ba/*." 



LETTERS. 



7S% 



the last man whose censure (however eager to avoid 
tt) 1 would deprecate by clandestine means. You 
will therefore retain the MS. in your own care, or, if 
it musJt needs be shown, send it to another. Though 
not very patient of censuie, I would fain obtain 
fairly any little praise my rhymes might deserve, at 
all events not by extortion and the humble solicita- 
tions of a bandied-about MS. I am sure a little 
consideration will convince you it would be wrong. 

" If you determine on publication, I have some 
femaller poems, (never published,) a few notes, and 
a short dissertation on the literature of the modern 
Greeks, (wi-itten at Athens, which will come in at 
the end of the volume. And if the present poem 
should succeed, it is my intention, at some subse- 
quent period, to publish some selections from my 
first work, — my Satire, — another nearly the same 
length, and a few other things, with the MS. now 
in your hands, in two volumes. But of these here- 
after. You will apprize me of your determination. 



am, sir, 



Your very obedient, &c.' 



LETTER LXXX. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" N.#gtead Abbty, August 25, 1811. 

"Being fortunately enabled to frank, I do not 
■pare scribbling, having sent you packets within the 
last ten days. I am passing solitary, and do not 
expect my agent to accompany me to Rochdale be- 
fce the second week in September, a day which 
perplexes me, as I wish the business over, and 
should at present Avelcome employment. I sent you 
exhordiums, annotations, &c., for the forthcoming 
quarto, if quarto it is to be ; and I also have written 
to Mr. Murray my objection to sending the MS. to 
Juvenal, but allowing him to show it to any others 
of the calling. Ilobhouse is among the types al- 
ready ; so, between his prose and my verse, the 
world will be decently drawn upon for its paper 
money and patience. "Besides all this, my ' Imita- 
tion of Horace,' is gasping for the press at Caw- 
thorn's, but I am hesitating as to the how and the 
whett, the single or the double, the present or the 
future. You must excuse all this, for I have noth- 
ing to say in this lone mansion but of myself, and 
yet I. would willingly talk or think of aught else. 

" What are you about to do ? Do vou think of 
perching in Cumberland, as you opined when I was 
in the metropolis ? If you mean to retire, why not 
occupy Miss * * *'s ' Cottage of Friendship,' late 
the seat of Cobbler Joe, for whose death you and 
others are answerable } His * Orphan Daughter' 
(pathetic Pratt !) will, certes, turn out a shoenuik- 
ing Sappho. Have you no remorse ? I think that 
elegant address to ^liss Dallas should be inscribed 
on the cenotaph which Mi.s8 • ♦ * means to stitch 
to his memory. 

"The newspapers seem much disappointed at his 
majesty's not dying, or doing sometnmg better. I 

Sesnnie it is almost over. If parliament meets in 
•ctobor, I shall be in town to attend. I am also 
invited to Cambridge for the beginning of that 
month, but am first to jaunt to JRochdale. Now 
Matthews is gone, and Ilobhouse in Ireland, I have 
hardly one left there to bid me welcome, except my 
inviter. At-thrce-and-twenty I am left alone, and 
what more can we be at seventy ? It is true, I am 
young enough to begin again, hut with whom can I 
retrace the laughing part of life? It is odd how 
fuw of my friends have died a quiet death. — I mcrtn, 
'•n their beds. Hut a quiet life is of more conse- 
jucnco. Yet one loves Hquabbling and jostling 
better than yawning. This last word admonishes 
me to relieve you from 

" Yours very truly, &o." 
97 



LETTER LXXXI. 



TO MB. DALLAS. 



"New8U;ad Abbe^, August 27, 1811. 

'* I was so sincere in my note on the late Charles 
Matthews, and do feel myself so totally unable to 
do justice to his talents, that the passage must 
stand for the very reason you bring against it. To 
him all the men I ever knew were pigmies. He was 
an intelleetual giant. It is true I loved W. better ; 
he was the earliest and the dearest, and one of the 
few one could never repent of having loved : but 
in ability — ah ! you did not know Matthews ! 

*' ' Childe Harold' may wait and welcome — books 
are never the worse for delay in the publication. 
So you have got our heir, George Anson Byron, and 
his sister with you. 

" You mav say what you please, but you are 5i» 
of the murderers of Blackett, and yet you won't 
allow Harry White's genius. Setting aside his 
bigotry, he surely ranks next to Chatterton. It is 
astonishing how little he was known ; and at Cam- 
bridge no one thought or heard of such a man, till 
his death rendered all notice useless. For my own 
part, I should have been most proud of such an ac- 
quaintance ; his very prejudices were respectable. 
There is a sucking epic poet at Granta, a Mr. Town- 
send, protpfie of the late Cumberland. Did you ever 
hear of him and his 'Armageddon? I tliini hi?, 
plan (the man I dou't know) borders on the sub- 
lime ; though, perhaps, the anticipation of the ' Last 
Day,' (according to you Nazarenes,) is a little too 
daring : at least, it looks like telling the Lord what 
he is to do, and might remind an ill-natured persou 
of the ^ine — 

" ' And fools nish in where angels fear to treRit.' 

•' But I don't mean to cavil, only other folks will, 
and he may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen 
about his ears. However, I hope he will bring it to 
a conclusion, though Milton is in his way. 

" Write to me — I dote on gossip — and make a 
bow to Ju — * and shake George by the hand for 
me ; but, take care, for he has a sad sea-paw. 

" P. S. I would ask George here, but I don't know 
how to amuse him; all my horses were sold when I left 
England^ and I have not had time to replace them 
Nevertheless, if he will come down and shoot in 
September, he will be very welcome ; but he must 
bring a gun, for I gave away all mine to Ali Pacha, 
and other Turks. ^ Dogs, a keeper, and plenty oi 
game, with a very large manor, I have — a lake « 
boat, house-room, and neat wines.*' 



LETTER LXXXII. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



" NeMrtknd AMnj, Brpc 4, Itni 

"My Dear Sir, 

" I am at present anxious, as Cawthorn seems l» 
wish, to have a small edition of the " Hints from 
Horace" published immediately; but the Latin (the 
most difficult poem in the language) renders it ne- 
cessary to be verv particular not only i* eorreoting 
the proofs with Horace open, but in adapting the 
parallel passages of the imitation in such places to 
the original as may enable the reader nt)t to lose 
sight of the allusion. 1 dou't know whether I 
ought to ask vou to do this, but I am too f.ar offte 
do it for myself; and if yon can condescend .; my 



770 



xiYRON'S 'W'URKS. 



11: lool boy erudition, you ■» 11 oblige me by setting 
this thing going, though } »u will smile at the im- 
pel tance I attach to it. 

" Believe me, ever yours, 

" Byron." 



LETTER LXXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY 



" Newstead Abbey, Noli, Sept. 5, 181: 

'Bib, 

'* The time seems to be past when (as Dr. John- 
son said) a man was certain to ' hear the truth from 
his bookseller,' for you have paid me so many coni- 
pliment.-^, tha* if I was not the veriest scribbler on 
earth, I should feel affronted. As I accept your 
complimeiits, it is but fair I should give equal or 
greater credit tc your objections, the more so, as I 
believe them to be well founded. With regard to 
the political and metaphysical parts, I am afraid I 
can alter nothing ; but I have high authority for my 
errors in that point, for even the yEncid was a poli- 
tical poem, and written for a political puroose ; and 
as to my unlucky opinions on subjects of more im- 
portance, I am too sincere in theui for recantation. 
On Spanish affairs I have said what I saw, and 
every day confirms me iu that notion of the result 
formed on the spot ; and I rather think honest 
John Bull is beginning to come round again to that 
sobriety which Massena's retreat had begun to reel 
from its centre — the usual consequence of M«usual 
success. So you perceive I cannot alter the senti- 
ments ; but if there are any alterations in the 
structure of the versification you would wish to be 
mnde, I will tag rhymes and turn stanzas as much 
as you please. As for the 'orthodox,'' let ^is hope 
they will buy on purpose to abuse — you will forgive 
the one, if they will do the other. You are aware 
that any thing from my pen must expect no quar- 
ter, on many accounts ; and as the present publica- 
tion is of a nature very different from the former, 
we must not be sanguine. 

"You have given me no answer to my question — 
tell me fairly, did you show the MS. to some of your 
corps ? — I sent an introductory stanza to Mr. Dallas, 
to be forwarded to you ; the poem else will open too 
abruptly.* The stanzas had better be numbered in 
Roman characters. There is a disquisition on the 
literature of the modern Greeks, and some smaller 
poems, to come in at the close. These are noAv at 
Newstead, but will be sent in time. If Mr. D. has 
lost the stanza and note annexed to it, write, and I 
mil send it myself. — You tell me to add two Cantos, 
but I am about to visit my collieries in Lancashire 
on the L5th inst., which is so unpoetical an employ- 
ment that I need say no more. I am, sir, 

" Your most obedient, &c." 



LETTER LXXXIV. 

TO MR. DA.LLA8. 

•« Newstead Abbey, Septer ber 7, 18U. 

" As Glfford has been ever my • Magnus Apollo,' 
any approbation, such as you mention, would, of 
course, be more welcome than ' all Bokara's vaunted 
gold, than all the gems of Samarkand.' But I am 
Borry the MS. was shown to him in such a manner, 
and I had vvritten to Murray to say as much, before 
[ ifvas awara that it was too late. 

"Your objection to the expression * central line,' 



'J'*» prawmt leMnd Slanu 'iii^aily Mood fine 



I can only meet by saying that, before Childe Harold 

left England, it was his full intention to traverse 
Persia, and return by India, which he could not ho, f* 
done without passing the equinoctial. 

" The other errors you mention, I must correct in 
tl 2 pi-ogress through the pres"^. I feel honored by 
the wish of such men that the p lem should be con- 
tinued, but to do that, I must r(. I urn to Greece and 
Asia; I must have a warm sun and a blue sky; I 
cannot describe scenes so dear to me by a sea-'^oal 
fire. I had projected an additional Canto ivhen I 
v,-as in the Troad and Constantinople, and if I saw 
them again, it would go on ; but under existing cir 
cumstances and sensations I have neither harp, 
' heart, nor voice ' to proceed I feel that you are 
all rifjht as to the metaphysical part ; but I also fee] 
that I am sincere, and that 'if I am only to write, 
' ad captamlum rulr/us," I might as well edit a maga- 
zine at once, or spin canzonettas for Vauxhall. 

'* My work must make its way as well as it can ; I 
know I have every thing against me — angry poets 
and prejudices ; but if the poem is a poem, it wilj 
surmount these obstacles, and if ?iot, it deserves its'- 
fite. Your friend's Ode I have read — it is no great 
compliment to pronounce it far superior to S**'s on 
the same subject, or to the merits of the new chan 
cellor. It is evidently the production of a man of 
taste, and a poet, though I should not be willing to 
say it was fully equal to what might be expected 
from the author of ' Horce lonicm.' I thank you fojr 
it, and that is more than I would do for any other 
Ode of the present day. 

"I am very sensible of your good wishes, and, 
indeed, I have need of them. My whole life has 
been at variance with propriety, not to say decency ; 
my circumstances are become involved ; my friends 
are dead or estranged, and my existence a dreary 
void. In Matthews I have lost my ' guide, philoso 
pher, and friend ; ' in Wingficld a friend only, but 
one whom I could have wished to have prece<led in 
his long journey. 

" Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man ; it 
has not entered into the heart of a stranger to con- 
ceive such a man ; th^re was the stamp of immor 
taiity in all he said or did ; and now what is he ? 
When we see such men pass away and be no more 
— men, who seem created to display what the Crea- 
tor could make his creatures, gathered into.oorrup. 
tion, before the maturity of minds that might have 
been the pride of posterity, what are we to conclude i 
For my own part I am bewildered. To me he wag 
much, to Hobhouse every thing. — My poor Hob- 
house doted on Matthews. For me, I did not love 
quite so much as I honored him ; I was indeed so 
sensible of his infinite superiority, that thoug-i I did 
not envy, I stood in awe of it. He, Hobhouse, 
Davies, and myself, formed a coterie of our own at 
Cambridge and elsewhere. Davies is a wit and man 
of the world, and feels as much as such a character 
can do ; but not as Hobhouse has been affected. 
Davies, who is not a scribler, has always beaten us 
all in the war of words, and by his colloquial pow- 
ers at once delighted and kept us in order. H. and 
myself always had the worst of it with the other 
two ; and even M. yielded to the dashing vivacity o 
fci. D. But I am talking to you of men, or boys, J»* 
if you cared about such beings. 

" I expect mine agent down on the 14th to proceed 
to Lancashire, where, I hear from all quarters, that 
I have a very valuable property in coals, &c. I then 
intend to accept an invitation to Cambridge in Oc- 
tober, and shall, perhaps, run up to town. I hav« 
four invitations — to Wales, Dorset, Cambridge, and 
Chester ; but I must be a man of business. I am 
quite alone, as these long letters sadly testify. I 
perceive, by referring to your letter, that the Odo u 
from the author; make my thanks accepta^de to 
hini. His muse is worthy a nobler tlieuio. Yov 
will write, as usual, I hope. I wish you a §,3or 
evening, '♦ And am. Vc " 



LETTERS. 



77] 



LETTER LXXXV. 

TO B. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

Newitead Abbey, September 10, 1811. 

'Dear Sia, 

** I rather think in one of the opening stanzas of 
Dhilde Harold there is this line — 

" ' 'TU said at times the sullen tear would start,' 

Now, a line or two after, I have a repetition of the 
epithet * sullen reverie ; ' so (if it be so) let us have, 
* speeohlq^s reverie,' or 'silent reverie ; ' but, at all 
events, do away the recurrence. 

" Yours ever, " B . 

" P. S. Perhaps, as ' reverie ' implies silence of it- 
ielf, w?.yward, downcast, gloomy, wrinkling, joyless, 
may be better epithets." 



LETTER LXXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



LETTER LXXXV^IIL 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



'Sir, 



Newstead Abbey, Notts, September 14, 1811, 



" Since your fowner letter, Mr, Dallas informs me 
that the MS. has been submitted to the perusal of 
Mr, Gifford, most contrary to my wishes, as Mr. D. 
could have explained, and as my own letter to you 
did, in fact, explain, with my motives for objecting 
to such a proceeding. Some late domestic events, 
T)f which you are probably aware, prevented my let- 1 
ter from being sent before ; indeed, I hardly con- 
ceived you would so hastily thrust my productions 
into the hands of a otranger, who could be as little 
pleased by receiving them, as their author is at their 
being offered in such a manner, and to such a man. 

" iSIy address, when 1 leave Newstead, will be to 
' Rochdale, Lancashire ; ' but I have not yet fixed the 
day of departure, and I will apprize you when ready 
to set off, 

" you have placed me i^ ?. ridiculous situation, 
Dut it is past, and nothing more is to be said on the 
subject. You hinted to me that you wished some 
alterations to be made; if they have nothing to do 
with politics or religion, I will make them with great 
readiness. "1 am, sir, &C,, &c. 



,, _. „ " Newstead At*ey, Sept. 18, 181 

"Dear Sir, 
" I send you a motto — * 

" ' L'univers est une dbp-sce de livre, Ac, 

If not too long, I think it will suit the book. Th« 
passage is from the French volume, a great faTorit« 
with me, which I pinked up in the Archipelago. 1 
don't think it is well known in England, Mou":-roD 
is the author, but it is a work sixty years ol'l « laod 
morning. I won't take up your time, 

'* Yours, ever, 

"Byron 



LETTER LXXXIX. 



to MR. MURRAY. 



" Newstead Abbey, Srpt, 16, 1811. 

"I retirn the proof, which I should wish to be 
shown to Mr. Dallas, who understands typographical 
arrangements much better than I can p'retend to do. 
The printer may place the notes in his o%cn way, or 
any nnvy, so that they are out of my way ; I care 
notliing about types or margins. 

" If you haye any communication to make, I shall 
be here at least a week or ten days longer. 

"I am, sir, &c,, &c.'* 



LETIER LXXXVIL 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESa. 



" Newstead Abbey, Sert. 15, 1811. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" My agent will not be here for at leas^a week, 
and even afterwards my letters will be forwarded to 
Rochdale, 1 am sorry that Murray should (jroan on 
«iy account, though ^Aa< is better than the anticipa- 
tion of applause, of whi' h nuni and books are gcn- 
eriilly disappointed. 

•' I'ho notes I sent are tncrchj matter to be divided, 
arranged, and ^\\h\\s\\v<\ for votes hereafter, in nroixM- 
places; at present I ani too iiiuch occupied with 
earthly cares, to waste time or trouble upon rhynu\ 
or its modern indis])ensabloH, annotations, 

'* Praj; lot me heiir from yoh, when at leistiro, I 
have written to abuse Murray for showing the MS. 
'o Mr. rjilford; who must certainly tlunk it was 
(Jr)j e by my wish, though you know the contrary, 
" Believe me, )t»ur8 ever, 



LETTER XC. 



TO MR. DALLAS. 



" Newstead Abtvy, Sept. 17, mi 

" I can easily exuse your not writing, as you have, 
I hope, someting better to do, and you must pardon 
my frequent invasions on your attention, because I 
have at this moment nothing to interpose between 
you and my epistles, 

" I cannot settle to anv thing, and my days pa.ss, 
with the exception of bodily exercise to some extent, 
with uniform indolence, and idle insipidity. I have 
been expecting, and still expect, mv ageiit, when I 
shall have enough to occupy my reflections in busi- 
ness of no very pleasant aspect. Before my jomney 
to Rochdale, you shall have due notice where to ad- 
dress nu> — I believe at the post-ofhce of that tt)wn 
ship. From Murray .1 received a secoiul proof o 
the sanu! pages, which 1 requested him to sho^'» 
you, that any thing wliich may have esca])ed my ob- 
servation may be detected tjifore the printer laya. th* 
corner-stone of an errata column. 

" I am now not quite silone^ having an (dd rp 
qmvintance and schoolfellow witli uu-, so oW, indeed, 
that we have nothing new to say on anv subject, and 
vawn at . ach other in a s«irt of qiiitt UKfuietorlt'. \ 
lieai nothing from Cawlhorn, or (';ipt.iin llobhouio, 
and their (/uttrfo — Lord have nu>rcy oii mankind 
We come on like Cert)erus with tiur triple puliliea- 
tions. As for nnjaelf, by mysclj\ I must be satisfied 
witli a comparison io Jauua. 

'* 1 am not at all pleased with Murray for showing 
the MS. ; and 1 am certain (lilford must s«>e it in tin 
same light that 1 do. His praiso is nothing to the 
purixise: what could he say ? He could not wpit in 
the face of one who had praised hin» in cNcry possi 
ble way. I must own that 1 wish to hav; the ini 
pression removed from his mind, that Fhad any con 
cern in such u paltry transnction. The more ' 



Fot " ChlMx HairM' 



7-2 



BYRON'S WORKS 



think, the more it disquiets me; so I will say no 
myri about it. It is bad enough to be a scribbler, 
rithout having recourse to such shifts to extort 
praise, or deprecnte censure. It is anticipating, it 
IS begging, kneeling, adulating — the devil! "the 
devil ! the devil ! and all without my wish, and con- 
trary to my express desire. I wish jNIurray had been 
tied to Payne's neck when he jumped into the Pad- 
ding ton Canal, and so tell him, — that is the proper 
receptacle for publishers. You have thoughts of 
BcttUng in the country, why not try Notts ? I think 
there are places which would suit you in all points, 
snd then you are nearer the metropolis. But of 
.'his anon '•! am yours, &c." 



LETTER XCI. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



Dear Sir, 



'Newsiead Abbey, Sept. 17, 1811. 



*' I have just discovered some pages of observa- 
Vions on the modern Greeks, written at Athens, by 
nie, under the title of ' Noctes Atticae.' They will 
do to cut ap into notes, and to be cut tip afterwards, 
which is all that notes are generally good for. They 
were written at Athens, as'you will see by the date 
*' Yours ever, 



LETTER XCII. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 21, 1811. 

" 1 have shown my respect for your suggestions by 
a«l.ipting them ; but I have made many alterations 
in the first proof, over and above; as, for example: 

" ' Oh Thou, in Htllaa deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Ac., &c.' 

" ' Since, shamed fuU oft by later lyret on earth. 
Mine, »c.' 

•' ' Yet there rve viander'd by the vaunted rill.' 

»nd so on. So I have got rid of Dr. Lowth, and 
'drunk to boot,' and very glad I am to say so. I 
have also suUenized the line as heretofore, and in 
short I have been quite comfortable. 

" Pray, write; you shall hear when I remove to 
Lanes. I have brought you and my friend Juvenal 
Hodgson upon my back, on the score of revelation. 
You are fervent, but he is quite gloioing ; and if he 
takes half the pains to save his own soul, which he 
volunteers to redeem mine, great will be his reward 
hereafter. I honor and thank you both, but am 
convinced by neither. Now for notes. Besides 
those I have sent, I shall send the observations on 
the Edinburgh Reviewer's remarks on the modern 
Greek, an Albanian song in the Albanian {not 
Greek) language, specimens of modern Greek from 
their New Testament, a domedy of Goldoni's trans- 
lated, one scene, a prospectus of a friend's book, 
Kid perhaps a song or two, all in Romaic, besides 
the.r Pater Noster; so there will be enough, if not 
too much, with what I have already sent. Have 
you received the ' Noctes Atticae ? ' I sent also an 
annotation on Portugal. Hobhouse is also forth- 
coming." 



LETTER XCIIl. 

TO MR. DALLAS. 

" Nowstead Abbey, Sept. 23, 1811. 

•* Liaboa is the Portuguese word, conseauently 
it* very best Ulissipont is pedantic; ana, as I 



have Hellas and Etvs not long before, there '"Ton U 

be something like an affectation of Greek terms, 
which I wish to avoid, since I shall have a perilous 
quantity of modern Greek in my notes, as speci- 
mens of the tongue ; therefore Lisboa may keep ita 
place. You are right about the ' Hints ; ' they 
must not precede the * Romaunt ; ' but Cawthorn 
will be savage if they don't; however, keep <Ae»i 
back, and him in good humor, if we can, but do not 
let him publish. • 

*' I have adopted, I believe, most of your sugges- 
tions, but ' Lisboa ' will be an exception, to prove 
the rule. I have sent a quantity of notes, and 
shall continue; but pray let them be c(5pied; no 
devil can read my hand. By-the-by, I do no c mean 
to exchange the ninth verse of the * Good Night.' 
I have no reason to suppose mv dog better than Lis 
brother brutes, mankind; and^ Argtis we know to 
be a fable.* The ' Cosmopolite' was an acquisition 
abroad. I do not believe it is to be found in Eng- 
land. It is an amusing little volume, and full ol 
French flippancy. I read, though I do not speak, 
the language. 

I will be angry with Murray. It was a book 
selling, backshop, Paternoster-row, paltry pro- 
ceeding, and if the experiment had turned out as it 
deserved, I would have raised all Fleet street, and 
borrowed the giant's staff from St. Dunstan's 
church, to immolate the betrayer of trust. I have 
written to him as he never was written to before by 
an author, I'll be sworn, and I hope you will am- 
plify my wrath, till it has an effect upon him. You 
tell me always you have much to write about. 
Write it, but let let us drop metaphysics ; — on that 
point vpe shall never agree. I am dull and drowsy, 
as usual. I do nothing, and even that nothing fa- 
tigues me. Adieu." 



LETTER XCIV. 

* TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 26, 1811. 

" My Dear Sir, 

" In a stanza towards* the end of canto first. there 
is, the concluding line, 

' Some bitter bubbles up, and e'en on roses tthigt.' 

1 have altered it as follows : — 

• Full from tlie heart of joy's delicious ipringi 

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.' 

*' If you will point out the stanzas on Cintra 
which you wish recast, I will send you mine answer. 
Be good enough to address your letters here, and 
they will either be forwaided or saved till my return. 
My agent comes to-morrow, and we shall set out 
immediately. 

" The press must not proceed of course without 
my seeing the proofs, as I have much to do. Pray 
do you think any alterations should be made in the 
stanza^ on Vathek .•• I should be sorry to make 
any improper allusions, as I merely wish to adduce 
an example of wasted wealth, and the reflection 
which arose in surveying the most desolate mansion 
in the most beautiful spot I ever beheld. 

* Pray keep Cawthorn back ; he was not to begin 
till November, and even that will be two monthi 
too soon. I am sorry my hand is unintelligible ; 
but I can neither deny your accusation, nor remove 
the cause of it. — It is a sad scrawl, certes. — A 
;«rilous quantity of annotation hath been sent; I 
thxuk almost enough, with the specimens of Romaic 
I mean to annex. 

'• I will have nothing to say to your metaphysics; 
and allegories of rocks and beaches ; we shall al' 
go to the bottom together, so ' let us eat and drink 



UETTifiKS. 



m 



for to-morrow, &c.' 1 am as comfortable in my 
creed as others, inasmuch as it is better to sleep 
»han to be awake. 

" I have heard nothing of Murray ; I hope he is 
ashamed of himself. He senit me a vastly com- 
plimentary epistle, with a request to alter the two, 
and finish another canto, I sent him <>^<« civil an 
answer as if I had been engaged to transxj.i;e by the 
sheet, declined altering any thing in sentiment, 
but offered to tag rhymes, and mend them as long 
as he liked. 

" I will write from Rochdale when I arrive, if my 
affairs allow me ; but I shall be so busy and savage 
all the time, with the whole set, that my letters 
will be as pettish as myself. If so, lay the blame 
on coal and coal-heavers. Very probably I may 
proceed to town by way of Newstead on my return 
from Lanes. I mean to be at Cambridge in Novem- 
ber, so that at all events we shall be nearer. I will 
not apologize for the trouble I have given, and do 
give you, though I ought to do so ; but I have worn 
lut my politest periods, and can only say that I am 
very much obliged to you. 

" Believe me, yours always, 

" Byron." 



LETTER XCVI. 



TO MB. DALLAS. 



LETTER XCV. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



" NewBtead Ahbey, Oct. 10, 1811. 

Dear Sir, 

"Stanzas xxiv., xxvi., xxix., though crossed, 
must stand with their alterations. The other three 
are cut out to your wishes.* "We must, however, 
have a repetition of the proof, which is the first. I 
will write soon. " Yours ever, 

" B." 

'P. S. Yesterday I returned from Lanes." 



• The following R e the »ix guii/as as they originally ^tood. Those 
ippeariiig Ijclow, an xxir., xxvi., xxix., apiieareil in the posrn, in a.n altered 
tatii, iiiimlicred there as xxiv., xxv , xxvi., ol' the first cauls. Tlie stanzas 
twrkeil below xxv,, xxvii., ajul xxviii., were those omitted: 

Behold tlie ball where chiefs were late convened 
Oh, doom displeasing unio British eye I 
Witli diadem bight Foolscap, lo t a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoUe incessantly, 
There sits in parchinent robe urniyf^d, and by 
His aide is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazoned glares a name spill Welleslcy : 
And sunilry sigiuitures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the urchin points and laughs with all hu »>ul. 

XXV, 

»tj «:olden charucters, right well dpsigned, 
first on the list appearelli one " Junot ; " 
Then certain otlvr glorious names we finil ; 
(Which rhyme compilleth me to place below: 
Dull victors I liaffieil by a vanqnish-d foe, 
Wheedled by couynge tongiirs ol laiin'ls due, 
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row, 
Sirs Arthur, Harry, and the dix/.ard H>-w 
Dairymplc, s«,-ly wight, sore dujie of t' other tew. 

XXVI. 
Canvetitlon is the dwarfy demon styled 
1 hat foiled the knigliU in Marialva's dome ; 
Of brains (it brains they had) he Uicm l»-g«Ue<l, 
And turned a nation's nhallow Joy to gloom. 
Kor well I wot, Whfii flr»i the news did come, 
That Vimii-ra's fli-ld by liaui was lo»i , 
JfVr puragTaph ne |«ipcr scarci- had room, 
Wurh pn-uns u-f m«d h>r our triumphant host, 
a Court r, Clironiclr, and i-ke in Morning Post. 

XXVII. 
But when (Convention wntW his haudy work, 
Pens, longncs, feet, hnnds, conitilned In wild upfot 
Iklsyor, ulderKiun, lull down th' upllfli'il fork ; 
1U Iwni'h of UUhops 'uill rorgi>t u> snoir ; ^ 

rliu IL Joe whole weuk for^re 



" Newstead Abbey, Oct. U, 1« .. 

** I have returned from Lanes, and ascertained 
that my property there may be made ver) valuable, 
but various circumstances very much circumscriba 
my exertions at present. I shall be in town ca 
business in the beginning of November, and perha| a 
at Cambridge before the end of this month ; but of 
my movements you shall be regularly apprized. 
Your objections I have in part done away ty altera* 
tions, which I hope will suffice ; and I have scut 
two or three additional stanzas for both ' Fyttes.^ ] 
have been again shocked with a death, and havt 
lost one very dear to me in happier times : but ' I 
have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and ' supped 
full of horrors ' till I have become callous, nor have 
I tear left for an event which five years ago would 
have bowed down my head to the earth. It seems 
as though I were to experience in my youth the 
greatest misery of age. My friends fall around me, 
and I shall be left a lonely trer before I am withered. 
Other men can always take refuge in their families ; 
I have no resource but my own reflections, and 
they present no prospect here or hereafter, except 
the selfish satisfaction of surviving my betters. I am 
indeed very wretched, and you will excuse my saying 
so, as you know I am not apt to cant of sensibility. 

"Instead of tiring yourself with my concerns, I 
should be glad to hear your plans of retirement. I 
suppose you would not like .to be wholly shut out 
of society ? Now I know a large village or small 
town, about twelve miles off, where your family 
would have the advantage of very genteel society, 
without the hazard of being annoyed by mercantile 
affluence ; where you would meet with men of infor- 
mation and independence ; and where I have frienda 
to whom I should be proud to introduce you. There 
are besides, a coffee-room, assemblies, &c., &c., 



To question aught, once more with transport leapt, 
And bit his dev'lish quill agen, and swor« 
With foe such treaty never should be kept. 
Then burst the blaunt* tjeasi, and roared and raged, and— *leol \ I 

XXVllI. 
Thus unto heaven appealed the ptjople ;'heav»'.. 
Which loves the liegi-s of our gracious king, 
Decreecl that ere our generals were forgiven, 
Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
But mercy cloaked the balxs Ix-m-aih her wing; 
And as ihey spared our foi-s so spared we them, 
(Where was the pity of our sires for Byng })t 
Yet knaves, not idiots, sliuidd the law coudemo. 
Then live, ye gallant knight- I ami bless yuur Judges' pblegnt. 

XXIX, 

But ever smce that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra I at thy name ; 
And folks iu uttice ai the mention sweat, 
And fain would blush, if blush they cuiild, fur sluune. 
How will jHisierity the de<'il proclaim I 
Will not oui'own ami fellow iiatiuus sneer, 
To view these cimnipiuna cheatiM of their fame, 
By lo»;» in fight o'erthrown, yet victors hers, 
Where scorn her finger poinu through nuui; a oviiii; *, 7«aj t 

Originally, the " little page " and " yeoman " of Childe lliuolrt, jMiii I 
were inlrwluci-d In the following slnnxas, which were ulterwaixli H MCd I 
And of his train tlierr was a henchman pagw, 
A peasant iHiy, who served his master well ; 
And olVn would his pranksume prate engng« 
Childe Burim'sear wlien hi* pr-Mnl he<- "d swell 
With sullen thunghU that he di»lain'd to t<<««. 
Then would he sniil» on him, and Alwyn } smllM, 



' Blatant hrast," a fliTire for the ni 



, I think first used by 

Adveniurea ol un Atom." HiTace has the " Hell* nndloni" 



n Kngliind, lonnnale enough, the illusthiuis mul.ilit) 
t Bv this query It is not meant that 



> CilflllUIk" 



lonlish ifi'nerMls should h»*« bMI 
that Hyng might have l»vn •imml : l' 



ugh the utie •iitVem) 
I, ■'uuur 



(Hhers esfapeil, prolNihly (or Candlde's re: 



I In th.- MH. the nsines •• Rohin " and • Uuprt " bad *e« I 
tuaertaU la>r« and tumMited Ml •^(•In. 



;74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



(vhich bring people logether. My mother had a 
house there some years, and I am well acquainted 
with the economy of Southwell, the name of this 
little commonwealth. Lastly, you will not be very 
remote from me ; and though I am the very worst 
companion for young people in the world, this ob- 
jection would not apply to you, whom I could see 
frequently. Your expenses, too. would be such as 
best suit your inclinations, more or less, as you 
thought proper ; but very little would be requisite 
to enable you to enter into all the gaye^ties of a 
country life. You could be as quiet or bustling as 
vou liked, and certainly as well situated as on the 
lakes of Cunibe.rland, unless you have a particular 
(vish to he picturesque. 

'* Pray, is your Ionian friend in town ? You have 
pv.nnisi cl me an introduction. -^You mention having 
consulted some friends on the MSS. — Is not this 
contrary to our usual way ? Instruct Mr. Murray 
not to allow liis shopman to call the work ' Child of 
Harrow's Pilgrimage !!!!!' as he has done to some 
of my astonished friends, who wrote to inquire after 
my sanity on the occasion, as well they might. I 
have heard nothing of Murray, whom I scolded 
heartily. — Must I write more notes ? — Are there 
not enough ? — Cawthorn must be kept back with 
the ' Hints.' — I hope he is getting on with Hob- 
house's quarto. Good evening. 

" Yours ever, &c." . 



When aught that from his young lips archly fell, 
T'he glooiiiy film from Harold's eye beguiled. 

Him and one yronian only did he take 
To travel eastward to a i\t coiintric ; 
And though the boy was grieved to leave the lake, 
On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 
Eftsoous his little heart beat merrily, 
With hoi)e of foreign nations to liehold, 
And many things right marvllous to see, 
Of which our vaunting lrivelli;rs oft have told, 
From MandeviUe •«««.♦ 

This stanza was also oiriitterl : 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
Sights, saints, aniiqups, arts, anecdotes, and war, 
Go, hie ye hence to Paternoster-row, — 
Are they not written in the boke ot (;arr ? 

Greer. Erin's knight, and Europe's wandering star I • 

Then listen, readers, to the Man of Ink, 
Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar — 
All tliese are coup'd within one Q,uarto's brink, 
This borrow, steal, (don't buy) and tell us what you think. 

The second paragraph in the preface was originally thus: 
' It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high 
»nlue, that in the firiitions ch:iracter of 'Childe Harold,' 1 may incur the sus- 
|ji-.jon of having drawn ' from myself.' This I beg leave, once for all, to dis- 
tlaini. 1 wanted a character to give-some connections to the poem, and the 
me adopted suifjd n.y purpose as well as any other. In some very trivial 
particulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds for snch un idea ; 
But, in the main points, I slwuld hope none whatever. My reader will ot> 
lerve that when the author speaks in his own person, he assumes a very dif- 
Vrent tone from that of 

• The cheerless thing, the man without a friend,' 

:* '*aft ':ill .isath had deprived him of his nearest connexions. 

»' 1 crave pardon for this egotism, which proceedt from my wish to discani 
iifiy probable imputation of it to the text." 

Tlie nJte to Canto 1., stanza xxi., was in the msnusciipt as follow* ; 

« It ii a well-known fact, '.hat in the year 1809, the assassinations in the 

t.eets of U»bon and it-s vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their 
|9jn:r>-men ; but that KngliLhmen wer^ daily butchered : and so far from re- 
ire&s being obtained, we were requr^sted not to interfere if we perceived any 
{ompairiot d'Tending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the 
way to the th'-atre at eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets wer? not 
more empty than they gi^nerally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, 
in<l in a carriage witti a Iriend : had we not 'i-rtunately been armed, I have 
nat the least doubt that we should have ' ailorned a tale ' insteati of telling 
»ne. We have h-ard wonders of th ■■ Portuguese lat<>ly, and their gallantry. 
Priv Ileavnn it continue I yet 'would it wer« lied-time, Hal, i»< all were 

/ell ! ' They must fiSlit a gr-at many hours ' by Shrewsbury clocK,' before 
Jif numlier of their slaj i equals that of o ir cuntrymen butchered by these 
«ind crealii. s, now metamorphosed in'o ' c.icadores,' and what not. I 
.iierely ai.iu a tact, not confined to Portugal ; for in Sicily and Malta we are 
knocked oi the head tta hai.dsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or 



LETTER XCVII. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



"Newstead Abbey, Oct. 13 ISll. 

" You will begin to deem me a most libei i] cot 
respondent ; but as my letters are free, you wilj 
overlook their frequency. I have sent you answers 
in prose and verse to all your late communications, 
and though I am invading your ease again, I don't 
know why, or what to put down that you are not 
acquainted with already. I am growing nervoiu 
(how you will laugh !)— but it is true, — really, 
wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladic^Uy 7iervous,-^ 
Your climate kills me ; I can neither read, write, 
nor amuse niyself, or any one else. My days are 
listless, and my nights restless ; I have very seldom 
any society, and when I have, I run out of it. At 
' this present writing,' there are in the next room 
three ladies, and I have stolen away to write this 
grumbling letter. I don't know that I shan't end 
with insanity, for I find a want of method in arrang- 
ing my thoughts that perplexes me strangely ; bu' 
this looks more like silliness than madness, as 
Scope Davies would facetiously remark in his con- 
soling manner. I must try the hartshorn of your 
company ; and a session of Parliament would suit 
me well, — any thing to cure me of conjugating the 
accursed verb * ennuyer.^ 



Maltese is ever punished 1 The neglect of protection is disgraceful to our 
government and governors; for the murders are as notorious as the moon 
that shines upon them, and the apathy that overlooks them. The Porwguese, 
it is to be hoped, are complimented with the ' Forlorn Hope,' — ^it'the cowardl 
are become brave, (like the rest of their kind, in a corner,) pray let them dis- 
play it. But there is a subscription lor these ' ^p(i(TV-6toXoit' (they need 
not be ashamed of the epithet once applied to the Spartans ;) and all the 
charitable patronymics, from ostentatious A. to ditfidi nt Z., and \l. it. Od. 
from an ' Admirer of Valur,' are in requisition for the lists at Lloyd's, aiid 
the honor of Eriiish benevolence. Well ! we have fought, and suliscribed, 
and bestowed peerages, and buried the killed by their friends and foes ; and, 
lo I all this is to be done over again ! Like Lien C.'ii, (in Goldsmith's Citizen 
of the World,) as we ' grow older, we grow never the better.' It would be 
pleasant to lArn who will sulscribe for us, in or about the year 1815, and 
what nadon will send fifty thousand inen, first to be decimated in the capital, 
and then ilecimat d again (in the Irish fashion, nine out of Un) in the ' bed 
of honor ; ' which, as Sergeant Kite say s, is considerabl y larger and more 
conm.odious than the ' bed of Ware.' Then they must have a poet to write 
the ' Vision of Don Perceval,' and generously bestow the profits of the weli 
and widely printed quarto, to rebuild the ' Backwynd ' and the ' Canoogate,' 
or furnish new kilts lor the half- roasted Highlanders. Lord Wellington, 
however, has enactei.1 marvels ; and so did his oriental brother, whom I saw 
ch.iri'-"ering over the French flag, and heard clipping bad Spanish, alter list- 
ening CO the speech of a patriotic cobbler of Caitiz, on the event of his own 
entry into that city, and tlie exit of some five thousand bold Britotis out (A 
this ' best of all possible worlds.' Sorely were we puzzled how to dispose ol 
tliat saine victory of Talavera ; and a victory it surely was somewhere, fol 
^>ery body claimed it. The Spanish despatch and mob called it Cuestu's, 
and made no great meirtion of the Viscount ; the French called it theirs, (t* 
my great discomfilure, — lor a French consul stopped my mouth in Greece 
with a Paris iJazeue, just as I had killed Sebasiina ' in buckram,' and King 
Joseph 'in Kend.ill green ') — and we have not yet determined vhat to call 
it, or whose ; lor, certes, it was none ol our own. Howbeil, Masse»a'i re- 
treat U a great com.fort ; and as we have not been in the habit of pursuing 
for sitne years past, no wonder we are a littlt awkward at first. No doubt 
shall improve ; or, if not, we have only to take tj our old way of rct"»^ 
grading, and there we are at home." 

The following note to Canto II., stanza viii., was in .the original saoo- 
script, but omitted in the publication : 

' In this age of bigotry, when the puritan and priest have changed placM 
and the wretched catholic is visited with the ' sins of his fatliers,' even unt3 
generations far byond the pale of the commandments, the ca-t cf opinion in 
these stanzas will doubtless meet with many a contemptuous i oalhema. Bi 
let it be remembered, that the spirit they breathe is desponding, not sneeiing 
skepticism ; that he who has seen the Greek and Moslem superstitions con- 
fiding for mastery over the former shrines of Polytheism, — who has left in 
is own country ' Pharisees thanking Gotl that they were not publicans and 
sinners,' and Spaniards in theirs, abhorring the heretics, who have holpen 
them in theu" need ;— will be not a liule liewildered, and begin to think thai 
as only one of them can t)e right, they may most of them be wrong. Witfc 
regard to morals, and the effect of reiigon on mankind, it aj pears, from <til 
historical testimony, to have had less effect in making tl»jrn love their neigb- 
Hjrs, than inducing that cordial Christian abhorrence between secwries and 
schismatics. The 'Purks and Q,uakers are the most tolerant. W an infida 
pays his heratik to the former, he may pray how, when, A.id where ne 
p^^ases ; and the mild tenet* and devout demeanor of the latter, make thek 
lives the truest comnieutary on the Sermon on the Mount. 



LETTERS. 



tic 



Wlien shal you tie at Cambridge ? You have 
amted, I think, that your friend Bland is returned 
from Holland. I have always had a great respect 
for his talents, end for all that I have heard of his 
character ; but of me, I. believe, he knows nothing, 
except that he heard my sixth-form repetitions ten 
months together, at the average of two lines a 
morning, and those never ^perfect. 1 remembered 
him and his ' Slaves ' as I passed between Capes 
Matapan, St. Angelo, and his Isle of Ceriga, and I 
always bewailed the absence of the Anthologv. I 
suppose he will now translate Vondel, the Dutch 
Shakspeare, and ' Gysbert van Amstel ' will easily 
be accommodated to our stage in its present state; 
and T presume he saw the Dutch poem, where the 
love of Pyramus and Thisbe is compared to the 
passion of Christ ; also the love of Lucifer for Eve, 
and other vari(^ties of Low Country literature. No 
doubt yea will think me crazed to talk of such 
thinirs but they are all in black and white and good 
repute on the bHi»ks of every canal from Amsterdam 
to Alkmaar. " Yours ever, 

"B. 

*' P. S. My Poesy is in the hands of its various 
publishers ; but the ' Hints from Horace,' (to which 
I have subjoined some savage lines on Methodism, 
and ferocious notes on the vanity of the triple Edi- 
tory of the Edin. Annual Register,) my ' Hints,'' I 
say, stand still ; and why } — I have not a friend in 
the world (but you and Drury) who can construe 
Horace's Latin, or my English, well enough to 
adjust them for the press, or to correct the proofs 
in a grammatical way. So that, unless you have 
bowels when you return to town, (I am too far off 
to do it for myself,) this ineffable work will be lost 
to the world for — 1 don't know how many weeks. 

" ' Childe Harold's Pilgrimage ' must wait till 
Mxirraifs is finished. He is making a tour in Mid- 
dlesex, and is to return soon, when high matter 
may be expected. He wants to have it in quarto, 
which is a cursed unsaleable size ; but it is pestilent 
long, and one must obey one's bookseller. I trust 
Murray will pass the Paddington Canal without 
Deiug seduced by Payne and Mackinlay'* example, 
— I say Payne and Mackinlay, supposing that the 
partnership held good. Drury, the villain, has not 
written to me ; 'I am never (as Mrs. Lumpkin says 
to Tony) to be gratified with the monster's dear 
wild notes.' 

'• So you are going (going indeed !) into orders. 
You must make your peace with the Eclectic Re- 
viewers — they accuse you of impiety, I fear, with 
injustice. Demetrius, the ' Sieger of Cities,' is 
here, with ' Gilpin Horner.' The painter is not 
necessary, as the portraits he already painted are 
(by anticipation) very like the new animals. — 
Write, and send me your ' Love Song ' — but I want 
*paulo majora' from you. Make a dash before you 
au:e a deacon, and try a dry publisher. 
" Yours always, 

"B." 



LETTER XCVIII. 

TO a. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

" October M, 18U. 

* DxA5 Sir, 
" Stanza ix., for Canto II. somewhat altered, to 
foid a recuirence in a former stanza. 

IX. 
" * Their thou I— whim- love mul llfc toui'lhcr fled, 
I'«ve loll ni« hen- to luvo uml llvn in »i»ln ! — 
1 wiiiril with my lifiirt, anil C4tii I iloriii ih(?« dead, 
Wlieii t>u»v iiifiiiiiry flinhi'iio>r my lirulii f 
Well— I will iln^iim ilmi w« iniiy iii<vt ii(fi»lii, 
And woo like tIiIuii tu luv rucout bttMut i 



f aught of young Tcmembrance then rt«>B«ta 
Be a< it may, 
Whate'er beside Futurity's behest; 
or, — Ilowe'er may oe 

For me 'twere bliss enough to see thy spirit U ;»t 

"I think it proper to state to you, that thu 
stanza alludes to an event which has taken place 
since my arrival bere, and not to the death of anj 
male friend ** Yours, 



LETTER XCIX. 

TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

"Newsieaa Abbey, Oa. .8; lill. 

*• I am on the wing for Cambridge. Thence, after 
a short stay, to London. Will you be good enougfe 
to keep an account of all the MSS. you receive, foi 
fear of omission ? Have you adopted the "-hree 
altered stanzas of the latest proof ? I can di. noth- 
ing more with them. — I am glad you like the new 
ones. — Of the last, and of the trio, I sent you a 
new edition — to-day z. fresh note. The lines of the 
second sheet I fear must stand , I will give you 
reasons when we meet. » 

" Believe me, yours ever, 

" BVBON." 



LETTER C. 



TO R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 



Cambridge, Oct. 2t, IMl. 

In a 



"Dear Sir, 

'* I send you a conclusion to the whole 
stanza towards the end of Canto I., in the line, 

• Oh, known tlie eariieat and beloved the most,' 

I shall alter the epithet to ' esteemed the most.' 
The present stanzas are for the end of Canto II 
In the beginning of the week I shall be at No. U, 
uiy old lodgings, in St. James's street, where i 
hope to have the pleasure of seeing you. 
•' Yours ever, 



LETTER CI. 



TO R. 0. DALLAS, ESQ. 



"8, St. JamitstrrH, Oct. 81, >M. 

"Dear Sir, 

"I have already taken up so much of your \ra«; 
that there needs no excuse on your part, hut a great 
many on mine, for the present interruption. I have 
altered the passages according t3 your wish. With 
this note I send a few stanzas on » -:*;?:'•- wh-.cL 
has lately occupied much of my thoughts. They 
refer to the death of one to whose name you are a 
stranger, and, consequently, cannot be interested- 
I mean them to complete the nresent volume. They 
relate to the same perst)n whom 1 h;i\e iiientionta 
in Canto II., and at the conclusion of the poiui.* 

" I by no means intend to identifv myself with 
Harolds but to dvinj all eonnexioii with him. It in 
parts I may be thought to have drawn from myself, 
l)elieve me it is but in parts, and I shall not own 
even to that. As to the ' Monnstic dome,' ikv., 1 
thought those cireumstunees wouKl suit liim as well 
as any other, and I eould describe what 1 liad sfen 
better than 1 could invent. I wouUl not be such • 
fellow :\a I have nuide my hero for the woiUl. 
*' Yours ever, 



Mr.GdIeMon. 8m Um LeUvr follnviiw. 



776 



I YRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CII. 



TO MT««» PTGOT. 



"Cambridge, Oct. 23, 1811. 

'•Dear Madam, 

" 1 am about to WTite to you on a silly subject, 
and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may re- 
member a cornelian,* which some years ago I con- 
signed to Miss * * * *, indeed gave to her, and now 
[ am going to make the most selfish and rude of 
requests. The person who gave it to me, when I 
was very young, is dead, and though a long time 
has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial 
I possessed of that person, (in whom I was very 
much interested,) it bus acquired a value by this 
event I could have wished it never to have borne in 
my eyes. If, therefor''. Miss * * * * should hare 
preserved it, I mu'^'., under these circumstances, 
beg her to excuse .ay requesting it to be transmitted 
to me at No. 8, St.' James's street, London, and I 
will replace it by something she may remember me 
by equf lly well. As she was always so kind as to 
feel interested in the fate of him that formed the 
subject of our conversation, you may tell her that 
the giver of that cornelian died in May last of a 
consumption, at the age of twenty-one, making the 
sixth, within four months, of friends and relatives 
that I have lost — between May and the end of 
August. '* Believe me. dear Madam, 

"Yours very sincerely, 
•' Byron. 

" P. S. I go to London to-morrow." 



LETTER CIIl.T 

MR. MOOKE TO LORD BYRON. 

«• Dublin, January 1, 1810. 

"My Lord, 

*' Having just seen the name of ' Lord Byron ' 
prefixed to a work, entitled ' English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers,' in which, as it appears to me, 
the lie is given to a public statement of mine, re- 
specting an affair with Mr. Jelfery some years since, 
I beg you will have the goodness to inform me 
whether I may consider your lordship as .the author 
of this publication. 

" I shall not, I fear, be able to relurn to London 
for a week or two ; but, in the mean time, I trust 
your lordship will not deny me the satisfaction of 



* See Letter xvii. 

t The aboTe letter was transmitted by Mr. Moore to a friend of his in 
London, with a requuat that he would ileliver it in person ; but as it did not 
reach l^ondon uniil a few days after Lord Byron's departure for the Conti- 
nent, Mr. Moore's Iriend placed it in the hands of Mr. Hodgson, who undei^ 
VxiK to forwarj it, !iut, as appears by the correspondence to which it gave 
lUe, neg-lected to do so. On Lord Byron's n-ttirn tu Kiig-jaiKl, Mr. Moore 
aia.ri wroti; to hiin referring to hii lorinei Icttfr, expressing doubts of its 
having reached bin., and reslaUng in nearly the same words the nature of the 
!K«ult which, as it appeared to him, the passage in qmstion Wiis calculated to 
fr-yjvey. "It is now ua-less," he continued, "to speak of the steps witli 
which it was my intention to follow up that lett';r. The tiiae which ha» 
(liipeed since then, though it has done a'Kay neither the injury nor the teeling 
•f it, has, in many respccls, materially altered my situation ; and the only 
object which I hiive now in writing to your lordship, is, to preserve some con- 
BWency with that former letter, and to prove to you that the injured feeling 
•till exisu, however circumstances may compel me to be deaf to its dictates at 
present. When 1 say ' injured feeling,' let me assure your lordship that 
:iiere is not a single vindictive sentiment in my mind towards you. I mean 
^ut to exnress that uneasiu'ss, under (what I consider to be) a charge of 
htaehood, which must haunt a man of any f-eling to his grave, unlesi the 
Ininit be retracted or atoned for ; and which, if I did wot feel, I should, indeed, 
leeerve far worse than your lordship's Satire coulil inflia upon me." In 
inclusion he added, " tliMt so far from being influenced by any angry or re- 
lenttul feeling towards him, it wouki give him sincere pleasure, if, by any 
Ki'.uifactor'r explanation, he would enable him to seek the honor of being 
Senceforward ranked amcng his acquai: t*nce." 'I'o this letter, Lord Byron 
e above auiwei. 



knowing whether you avow the insult contained lu 

the passages alluded to. 

"It is needl*^ss to suggest to your lordship th« 
propriety of kt.jping our correspondence secret 
" I have the honor to be, 
" Your lordship's very humble servant, 
"Thomas Moobj" 
" 22, Molesworth street." 



LETTER CIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



Sir, 



' Cambridge, Oot. 27, 1811. 



" Your letter followed me from Notts, to thi« 
place, which will account for the delay of my reply. 
Your former letter I never had the honor to receive ; 
— be assured, in whatever part of the world it had 
found me, I should have deemed it my duty to re- 
turn and answer it in person. 

"The advertisement you mention, I know noth- 
ing of. At the time of your meeting with Mr. 
Jeffrey, I had recently entered College, and remem- 
ber to have heard and read a number of squibs on 
the occasion, and from the recollection of these I 
derived all my knowledge on the subject, without 
the slightest idea of ' giving the lie' to an address 
which I never beheld. When I put my name to 
the production which has occasioned this corre- 
spondence, I became responsible to all whom it 
might concern, — to explain where it requires ex- 
planation, and where insufficiently or too suffi- 
ciently explicit, at all events to satisfy. My situa- 
tion leaves me no choice ; it rests with the injured 
and the angry to obtain reparation in their own 
way. 

" With regard to the passage in question, you 
were certainly not the person towards whom I felt 
personally hostile. On the contrary, my whole 
thoughts were engrossed by one whom I had reason 
to consider as my worst literary enemy, nor could I 
foresee that his former antagonist was about to be- 
come his champion. You do not specify what you 
would wish to have done : I can neither retract noi 
apologize for a charge of falsehood which I nevei 
advanced. 

" In the beginning of the week, I shall be at No. 
8, Sto. James's street. Neither the letter nor the 
friend to whom you stated your intention ever made 
their appearance. 

"Your friend Mr. Rogers, or any other gentle- 
man delegated by you, will find me most ready to 
adopt any conciliatory proposition which shall not 
compromise my own honor — or, failing in that, to 
make the atonement you deem it necessary to re- 
quire. " I have the honor to be, sir, 

" Your most obedient, humble servaht, 
" Byron." 



LETTER CV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

" 8, St. James's street, Oct. 29, ISll. 

"Sir, 

" Soon after my return to England, my friend, 
Mr. Hodgson, apprized me tbat a letter for me waa 
in his possession ; but a domestic event hurrying 
me from London immediately after, the lettei 
(which may most probably be' your own) is still 
unopened in his keeping. If, on examination of the 
address, the similarity of the handwriting should 
lead to such a conclusion, it shall be opened in yom 
presence, for the satisfaction of all parties. Mi . B 



LETTERS 



771 



iH at present out of town ; — on Friday I shall see 
him, and request him to forward it to my address. 

'< Wilh regard to the latter part of both your let- 
ters, until the principal point was discussed between 
tts, I ft It myself at a loss in what manner to re- 
ply. A\ as I to anticipate friendship from one who 
conceived me to have charged him with falsehood ? 
Were not advances under such circumstances, to be 
misconstrued, — not, perhaps, by the person to whom 
they were addressed, but by others ? In my case, 
such a stei4 was irap/acticable. If you, who con- 
ceived yourself to be the otfended person, are satis- 
fied that you had no cause for offence, it will not be 
difficult to convince me of it. My situation, as I 
have before stated, leaves me no choice. I should 
have felt proud of your acquaintance, had it com- 
menced under other circumstances ; but it must 
rest with you to determine how far it may proceed 
^fter so auspicious a beginning. 

" I have the honor to be, &c." 



LETTER CVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



OIB, 



" 8, St. James'i rtreet, Oct. 30, 1811. 



** You must excuse my troubling you once more 
upon this very unpleasant subject. It would be a 
satisfaction to me, and I should think, to yourself, 
ihat the unopened letter in Mr. Hodgson's posses- 
sion, (supposing it to prove your own,) should be 
returned ' in statu quo' to the writer, particularly 
ds you expressed vourself ' not quite easy under the 
manner in which \ dwelt on its miscarriage.' 

" A fc« words more, and I shall not trouble 
you fuither. I felt, and still feel very much flat- 
tered by those parts of your correspondence which 
held out the prospect of our becoming acquainted. 
If I did not meet them in the first instance as per- 
haps I ought, let the situation in which I was 
placed be my defence. You have now declared 
and on that pohit we arc no 
therefore, you still retain any 
jfish to do me the honor you hinted at, I shall be 
most hapjjy to meet you, when, where, and how you 
please, and I presume you will not attribute my 
saying thus nnich to any unworthy motive. 

" I have the honor to leniain, &c." 



LETTER CVII. 



vourself satisjled, a 
onger at issris. If, 



TO MR. MOORE. 

8, Si. Jame«'i ilreet, N.- . 1811. 

'Sir, 

" As I should be very sorry to interrupt yoar Sun- 
(Jays's engagement, if Monday, or any other day 
of the ensuing w(>(k, would be equally convenient 
to yourself and friend, 1 will then have the honor 
of accei)ling his invitation. Of the professions of 
esteem with which Mr. llogors has honored n»e, 1 
oannot but feel proiid, though undeserving. I 
Bh<mld be wanting to myself if insensible to the 
praise of sucli a man : and should my approaehing 
Interview wiHi him and his friend lead lo any degree 
of intimacy with l)olh or either, 1 shall regard our 
past correspondence as one of the happiest events 
(jf my life. " 1 havt- the honor to be. 

♦♦ Youl very HJn:ero and obedient servant, 

" Byuox.' 
96 



LETTER CVIII 



TO MR. HARNESS 



8, Sl Jamea's rj^eet, )ec. 8, Itkt. 

*< My Dear Harness, 

" I will write again, but don't suppose I mean t« 
lay such a tax on your pen and patience as to ex 
pect regular replies. When you are inclined, 
write ; when silent, I shall have the consolation ol 
knowing that you are better employed. Yesterday, 
Bland and I called on Mr. Miller, who, being then 
out, will call on Bland to-day or to-morrow. I shall 
certainly endeavor to bring them together. You are 
censorious, child ; when you are a little older, you 
will learn to dislike every body, but abuse nobody. 

" With regard to the person of whom you speak, 
your own good sense must direct you. I never pre- 
tend to advise, being an implicit believer in the old 
proverb. This present frost is detestable. It is the 
first I have felt these three years, though I longed 
for one in the oriental summer, when no such 
thing is to be had, unless I had gone to the top of 
Hymettus for it. 

" I thank you most truly for the concluding part 
of your letter. I have been of late not much ac- 
customed to kindness from anv quarter, and I am 
not the less pleased to meet with it again from one 
where I had known it earliest. I have not changed 
in all my ramblings, — Harrow and, of course, your 
self never left me and the 

' Dulcea reminiscitur Argos ' 

attended me to the very spot to which that sentence 
alludes in the mind of the fallen Argive. Our inti- 
macy began before we began to date at all, and \\ 
rests with you to continue it till the hour which 
must number it and me with the things that xcere. 

" Do read mathematics. — I should think A' plu» 
Y at least as amusing as the Curse of Kehama, and 
much more intelligible. Master S.'s poems are, in 
fact, what parallel lines might be — viz., prolonged 
ad infinitum without meeting any thing half so ab- 
surd as themselves. 

' Whut news, what new* f Q,iieen Oreaca, 
What news of scribbler* five f 

S , W , C e, Lr— d, and l^—t i— 

All damn'd, though yet alire.' 

• Coleridge is lecturing. * Many an old fool,' 
said Hannibal to some such lecturer, • but such as 
this, never.' " Ever yours. &c." 



LETTER CIX. 

TO MR. HARNESS. 

8, St. JwnM't ■tire', Dec 8, 1811. 

<' Behold a most formidable sheet, without gilt or 
black edging, and consequently very vulgar ami in- 
decorous, particularly to one of your precision: 
buMhis being Sunday, I can procure no better, and 
will atone for i%<i length by not filling it. Bland 1 
have not seen siiK.e mv last letter ; but on 'liu'sdu^ 
he dines with me Mid will nu'et M * • e, the epi- 
tome of all that is exquisite in poetical or personal 
acc(un])lishment8. How Blnnd has settled with 
Miller, 1 know not. I have very little interest with 
fit her, and they must arrange their etujeeruH uo 
( ording to their own gusto. I have done ujy en 
deavors, at yuur rn/ucst, to bring them together, 
and hope they may agree to their mutual advan 
tiigc. 

•' Coleridge has been lecturing against Campbell 
Rogers was present, and from him I d«>rive the in- 
forjuation. We are going to nuke a party to heaj 
this Manithean of poesy. Pole is to marry Mi«f 
Long ui>d will bo u very miuerublo dog for all that 



778 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The present ministers ars to ««onfinue, and his 
majesty does continue in the same state. So there's 
folly and madness for you both in a breath. 

" I never heard of but one man truly fortunate, 
and he was Beaumarchais, the author of Figaro 
who buried two mves and gained three lawsuits be 
fore he was- thirty. 

" And now, child, what art thou doing ? Reading, 
X trust. I want to see you take a degree. Remem 
Der, this is the most important period of your life 
and don't disappoint your papa and your aunt, and 
all your kin — besides myself. Don't you know that 
all male children are begotten for the express purpose 
of being graduates? and that even I am "an A. M., 
though how 1 became so the Public Orator only can 
resolve, Besides, you are to be a priest ; and to con- 
fate Sir William Drummond's late book about the 
Bible, (printed, but not published,) and all other 
infidels whatever. Now leave master H.'s gig, and 
master S.'s Sapphics, and becomes as immortal as 
Cambridge can make you. 

" You see, Mio Carissimo, what a pestilent cor- 
respondent I am likely to become; but then you 
shall be as quiet at Newstead as you please, and I 
won't disturb your studies, as I do now. When do 
you fix the day, that I may take you up according 
to contract ? Hodgson talks of making a third in 
our journey : but we can't stow irim, inside at 
least. Positively you shall go with me as was 
agreed, and don't let me have any of your politesse 
to H. on the occasion. I shall manage to arrange 
for both with a little contrivance. I wish H. was 
not quite so fat, and we should pack better. Has 
he left off vinous liquors > He is an excellent soul ; 
but I don't think water would improve him, at 
least mternally. You will want to know what I am 
doing — chewing tobacco. 

" You see nothing of niy allies, Scrope Davies 
and Matthews — they don't suit you ; and how does 
it happen that I — who am a pipkin of the same 
pottery — continue in your good graces "i Good 
flight, — I svill go in the morning. ^ 

" Dec. 9.— In a morning I'm always sullen, and 
to-day is as sombre as myself. Rain and mist are 
worse than a sirocco, particularly in a beef-eating 
and beer-drinking cotintry. INIy bookseller, Caw- 
thorne, has just left me, and tells me, with a most 
important face, that he is in treaty for a novel of 
Madame D'Arblay's, for which one thousand gui- 
neas are asked ? He wants me to read the MS. (if 
he obtains it,) which I shall do with pleasure; but 
I should be very cautious in venturing an opinion 
on her whose Cecilia Dr. Johnson superintended. 
If he lends it to me, I shall put it into the hands of 
Rogers and Moore, who are truly men of taste. I 
have filled the sheet, and beg your pardon ; I will not 
do it again. I shall, perhaps, write again, but if 
not, believe, silent or scribbling, that I am, 

" My dearest William, ever, &c." 



LETTER ex. 



TO MR. HODGSON. 



London, Dec. 8, 181 U 

" 1 sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other 
day and now take a dose in another style. 1 wrote 
It a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former 
days. 

' Away, away, ye notes of wo,* 4e., &c.' 

*' I have gotten a book by Sir W. Drummond, 
^printed, but not published,) entitled (Epipus Ju- 
aaicus, in which he attempts to prove the greater 
part of the Old Testament an allegory, ' ' 

Genesis and Joshua. He professes himself a 




theist in the preface, and nandles the literal Inter 
pretation very roughly. I wish you could see it 
Mr. W * * has lent it me, and I confess, to me il 
is worth fifty Watsons. 

" You and Harness must fix on the time foi 
your visit to Newstead ; I can command mine at 
your wish, unless any thing particular occurs in tha 
interim * * Bland dines with me on Tuesday to 
meet Moore. Coleridge has attacked the ' Pleasured 
01 Flope,' and all other pleasures whatsoever. Mr. 
Rogers was present, and heard himself, indirectly 
owed by the lecturer. We are going in a paify to 
hear the new Art of Poetry by this reformed scr.is- 
matic ; and were I one of these poetical luminaries, 
or of sufficient consequence to be noticed by the 
man of lectures, I should not hear him without an 
ansvv'er. For, you know, ' an' a man will be beaten 
with brains, he shall never keep a clean doublet.* 
Campbell will be desperately annoyed. I never savf 
a man (and of him I have seen very little) so sensi- 
tive ; — what a happy temperament ! I am soiry for 
it ; what can he fear fr>»m criticism ? I don't know 
if Bland has seen Miller, who was to call on him 
yesterday. 

" To-day is the Sabbath, — a day T never pass pleas- 
antly, but at Cambridge ; and, even there, the or- 
gan is a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant 
enough in town, — as long as they don't retrograde, 
'tis all very well. Hobhouse writes, and writes, and 
writes, and is an author. I do nothing but eschew 
tobacco. I wish parliament were assembled, that I 
may hear, and perhaps some day be heard ; but on 
this point I am not very sanguine. I have many 
plans ; sometimes I think of the East again, and 
dearly beloved Greece. I am well, but weakly. 
Yesterday Kinnaird told me I looked very ill, and 
sent me home happy. 

" You will never give up wine ; — sec what it is to 
be thirty ; if you were six years younger you might 
leave off any thing. You drink and r.epent, you re- 
pent and drink. Is Scrope still interesting and in- 
valid ? And how does Hinde vnth his cursed chem- 
istry ? To Harness I have written, and he has writ- 
ten, and we have all written, and have nothmg now 
to do but write again, till death splits up the pen/ , 
and the scribbler. , l' 

" The Alfred has three hundred and fifty- four can- 
didates for six vacancies. The cook has run away 
and left us liable, which makes our committee very 
plaintive. Master Brook, our head serving man, has 
the gout, and our new cook is none of the best. I 
speak from report, — for what is cookery to a legumi- 
nous-eating ascetic ? So now you know as much of 
the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still there, 
and they may dress their dishes in their own way foi 
me. Let me know your determination as to New- 
stead, and believe me, *' Yoms ever, 

"NcuUt/JoSl'.' 



LETTER CXI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" 8, St. James's street, Dec. 12, VSil. 

'* Why, Hodgson ! I fear you have left off wiae ■ 
and me at the same time, — I have written, and wait- 
ten, and written, and no answer ! My dear Sir Edgar, 
water disagrees with you, — drink sack and write. 
Bland did not come to his appointment, being un- 
well, but Moore supplied all other vacancies mos* 
delectably. I have hopes of his joining us at New- 
stead. I am sure you would like him more and more , 
as he developes, — at least I do. 

' How Miller and Bland go on, I don'tHsnow. Caw- 
thome talks of being in treaty for a novel of M* 
D'Arblay's, and if he obtains it (at one the -sand 
guineas ! !) wishes me to see the MS. This I should 
read with pleasure, — not that I should ever dare to 
venture a criticism on her whose writings Dr. John- 



LETTERS 



77S 



Ben once revised, b.it for the pleasure of the thing. 
If my wcrthv publisher wanted a second opinion, I 
should send the MS. to Rogers and MoOic, as men 
most alive to true taste. I have had frequent letters 
from Wm. Harness, and y<ni are silent; certes, you 
ar" not a schoolboy. However, I have the consola- 
tion of knowino; you are better»employed, viz. review- 
mg. You don't deserve that I should add another 
ry liable, and I won't. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I only wait for your answer to fix our 
metting." 



LETTER CXII. 



TO MR. HARNESS. 



" 8, St. JamesS street, Dec. 15, 1811. 

** I wrote you an answer to your last, which on re- 
flection, pleases me as little as it probably has 
pleased yourself. I will not wait for your rejoinder ; 
but proceed to tell you, that I had just then been 
greeted with an epistle of **'s, full of his petty 
grievances, and this at the moment when (from cir- 
cumstances it is not necessary to enter upon) I was 
bearing up against recollections to which his imagi- 
nary suiferings are as a scjatch to a cancer. These 
things combined, put me out i>f humor with him and 
fi.ll mankind. The latter part of my life has been a 
perpetual struggle against affections which embit- 
tered the earliest portion ; and though I flatter my- 
self I have in a great measure conquered them, yet 
there are moments (and this was one) wheu I am 
as foolish as formerly. I never said so much before, 
nor had I said this now, if I did not suspect myself 
of having been rather savage in my letter, and wish 
to inform you thus much of the cause. You know 
I am not one of your dolorous gentlemen : so now 
let us laugh agUiu. 

" Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to 
visit Campbell. He was not visible, so we jogged 
homeward, merrily enough. To-morrow I dine with 
Rogers, and am to hear Coleridge, Avho is a kind of 
rage at present. Last night I saw KeTuble in Corio- 
lanus ; — he was f/lorions, and exerted himself won- 
derfully. By good luck, I got an excellent place in 
the best part of the' house, which was more than 
overflowing. Clare and Delaware, who were there 
on the same s])eculation, were less fortunate. I saw 
them by accident, — we were not togetlier. I wished 
for you, to gratify y( \ir love of Sluikspeare and of 
fine acting to its fnHc; t extent. Last week 1 saw 
an exhibition of a di!Fc;ent kind in a Mr. Coates, at 
the Haymarket, who pci formed Lothario in a damned 
and damnable manner. 

"I told you of the fate of B. and H. in my last. 
So much for these stntimentalists, who console 
themselves in their stews for the loss — the never to 
be recovered loss — the despair of the refined attach- 
ment of a couj)le of ('rabs! You censure rnij life, 
Harness : when I co' pare myself with these men, 
my elders and my b( ttcrs, I really begin to conceive 
n^yself a nionunicnl of prudence — a walking statue 
— without feeling oi- failing ; and yet the world in 
geneial hath givtn me a proud prei'minencc over 
them in i)rofligiicy. Yet I like the men, and, God 
knows, ought not to condemn their aberatitms. Hut 
I own I feel proNokcd when they dignify all this by 
tlie name of /ore— romantic attachments for things 
marketable for a (Ujllar ! 

"Dec. 16. — I h..\e just received your letter. I 
feel yor.r kindness vtry decnly. The foregoing part 
of mv letter, written vesteraay, will, 1 liope, account 
for the tone df the i'l " nier, though it cannot excuse 
it. 1 do //^<? to \iv:<T from you — more than ///f. 
Next to seeing you. I have no greater satisfaction. 
But you havf ()'!.•. duties and greater pleasures, 
and I should regi' to take a moment from either. 
IT • ♦ \\\< to c;il! ' -day, but 1 have not seen hiuj.j 
Thecircuu stai\((s vou mention at the close of your' 



letter is another proof in favor of i-y cpinioh o. 
mankind. Such you will always find them — selfisU 
and distrustful. I except none. The cause of thii 
is the state of society. In the world, everv one is 
to stir for himself — it is useless, perhaps selfish, to 
expect any thing from his neighbor. But I do not 
think we are born of this disposition ; for you find 
friendship as a schoolboy, and love enough before 
twenty. 

" I went to see * « ; he keeps me in town, where 
I don't wish to be at pfesent. He is d g: >d man, 
but totally without conduct. And now, my dearest 
William, I must wish you good mon-ow, and reaai» 
ever most sincerely and affectionately yours, &c " 



LETTER CXIII. 

TO ME. MOORE. 

December 11, 1811. 

" My Dear Moore, 

" If you please, we will drop our formal monosyl- 
lables, and adhere to the appellations sanctioned by 
our godfathers and godmotners. If you make it a 
point, I will withdraw your name; at the same time 
there is no occasion, as I have this day postponed 
your election ' sine die,' till it shall suit your wishei 
to be among us. I do not say this from anv awk 
wardness the erasure of your proposal would occa 
sion to nie, but simply such is the state of the case ; 
and, indeed, the longer your natne is up, the strongei 
will become the probability of success, and yoiu 
voters more numerous. Of course you will decide 
— your wish shall be my law. If my zeal has already 
'' utrun discretion, pardon me, and attribute my otfi- 
ciousness to an excusable motive. 

" I wish you would go down with me to Newstead. 
Hodgson viill be there, and a young friend, named 
Harness, the earliest and dearest I ever had, from 
the third form at Harrow to this hour. I can-promise 
you good wine, and, if you iike shooting, a manoi 
of four thousand acres, fires, books, your own free 
will, and my own very indifferent company. ' Ba^ 
nea, vina * *' * * * 

" Hodgson will plague you, I fear, with verse ;- 
for my own part, I will conclude, with Martini, 'nil 
recitabo tibi ; ' and surely the last induceuK-nt is not 
the least. Ponder on my prf)position, and beliec« 
me, my dear Moore, " Yours ever, 

" Byron 



LETTER CXIV. 

Tq MR. MOORE. 

January, •:*, 181 ^ 

'« M-v Dear Moore, 

"I wish very much I could have seen you; 1 un 
in a state of ludicrous tribulation. 

" Why do you say that I dislike your poesvi I 
have expressed no such opinion, either in jiritU oi 
elsewhere. In scribbling, niyself, it was necessary 
for me to fitid fault, and I fixed upon the trite charfi:i 
of immorality, because I could disccner no other, 
and was so perfectly qualified, in the innocence ol 
my heart, to ' pluck that mote from my neighbor'! 
eye.' 

" I feel very, very much obliged by your approba- 
tion ; but, at this ninnunt, praise, even >,<>tir niaise, 
passes by me like ' the idle wind ' I ineint and mean 
to seiul you a copy the moment of pulilu'.ition ; but 
now. I can think of nothing but damiM>d, decritful. 
— (liliirbtt'ul woman, as Mr. Listousays in theKnighf 
of Sr.owd(m. 

" Believe me, my dear Moore, 

•• Ever yours, luu^t atSectionatrly, 

•• BvaoM 



780 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CXV. 



TO ROBERT RUSHTON. 



" 8, St. James's gtreet, Jan. 21, 1812. 

*• Tho'cgh. I have no objection to your refusal to 
carry leltars to Mealey's, you will take care that the 
letters are taken by 8pero at the proper time. I 
have also to observe, that Susan [a servant in the 
family] is to be treated with civility, and not insulted 
by any person over whom I huve the smallest con- 
trol, or, indeed, by any one whatever, while I have 
the power to protect her. I am truly sorry to have 
any subject of complaint against you ; I have too 
good an opinion of you to think I sh.ill have occa- 
sion to repeat it, after the care I have taken of you, 
and my favorable intentions in your behalf. I see 
ao occasion for any communication whatever, be- 
tween you and the women., and wish you to occupy 
yourself in preparing for the situation in which you 
vvill be placed. If a common sense of decency can- 
not prevent you from conducting yourself towards 
them with rudeness, I should at least hope that your 
own interest, and regard for a master who has never 
treated you with unkindness, will have some weight. 
"Yours, &c., 

"Byron. 

<* P. S.— I wish you to attend to your arithmetic, 
to occupy your-self in surveying, measuring, and 
making yourscif acquainted with every particular 
relative to the land of Newstead, and you will write 
to me 07ie letter every week, that I may know how 
you go on." 



LETTER CXVI. 

TO ROBERT RUSHTON. 
* " 8, St. James's street, Jan. 25, 1812. 

"Your refusal to carry the letter was not a sub- 
ject of remonstrance ; it was not a part of your 
Dusiness ; but the language you used to the girl was 
(as she stated it) highly improper. 

"You say that you also have something to com- 
plain of; then state it to me immediately ; it would 
be very unfair, and very contrary to my disposition, 
not to hear both sides of the question. 

" If any thing has passed between you before or 
since my "last visit to Newstead, do not be afraid to 
mention it. I am sure you would not deceive me, 
though she would. Whatever it is, you shall be for- 
given. I have not been without some suspicions on 
the subject, and am certain that, at your time of 
life, the blame could not attach to you. You will 
not consult any one, as to your'answer, but write to 
me immediately. I shall be more ready to hear 
what you have to advance, as I do not remember 
ever to have heard a word from you before agaiyist 
any human being, which convinces me you would 
not maliciously assert an untruth. There is not any 
one who can clo the least injury to you while you 
conduct yourself properly. I shall expect your 
iaswer immediately. " Yoms, &c., 

"Byron." 



LETTER CXVIL 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

«« 8, St. James's street, Feb. 16, 1812. 

•Dear Hodgson, 

"I send you a proof. Last week I was very ill 
tni confined to bed with stone in the kidney, but I 
van now quite recovered. If the stone had got into 



my heart instead of my kidneys, it would Ljivii beet 

all the better. The women are gone to their rela 
tives, after many attempts to explain what wab 
already too clear. However, I have quite recovered 
that also, and only wonder at my folly in excepting 
my own strumpets from the general' corruption,— 
albeit, a two months' weakness is better than ten 
years. I have one request to make, which is, nevei 
mention a woman again in any letter to me, or even 
allude to the existence of the sex, I won't even 
read a word of the feminine gender ; it must all be 
' propria quae maribus.' 

" In the spring of 1813 I shall leave Eng]i,.nd ioi 
ever. Every thing in my affairs tends to this, and 
my inclinations and health do not discourage it, 
Neither my habits nor constitution are improved by 
your customs or your climate, I shall find employ- 
ment in making myself a good oriental scholar. I 
shall retain a mansion in one of the fairest islands, 
and retrace, at intefvals, the most interesting por- 
tions of the East. In the mean time, I am adjust- 
ing my concerns, which will (when arranged) leave 
me with wealth — sufficient even for home, but 
enough for a principality in Turkey. At present 
they are involved, but I hope, by taking some neces- 
sary but unpleasant steps, to clear every thing. 
Hobhouse is expected daily in London ; we shall 
be very glad to see him ; and, perhaps, you will 
come up and 'drink deep ere he depart,' if not, 
' Mahomet must go to the mountain ; ' but Cam- 
bridge will bring sad recollections to him, and worse 
to me, though for very ditferent reasons. I believe 
the only human being that ever loved me in truth 
and entirely was of, or belonging to, Cambridge, and, 
in that, no change can now take place. There is 
one consolation in death — where he sets his s'eal, 
the impression can neither be melted or broken, but 
endureth for ever. " Yqurs always, 



^ 



B, 



LETTER CXVIII. 



TO MASTER JOHN COWELL. 



8, Su James's street, Feb. 12, 1S12. 

"My Dear John, 

" You have probably long ago forgotten the writei 
of these lines, who would, perhaps, be unable to recog- 
nize yourself, from the difference which must natural- 
ly have taken place in your stature and appearance 
since he saw you last. I have been rambling through 
Portugal, Spain, Greece, dSrc, &c., for some years, 
and have found so many changes on my return, that 
it would be very unfair not to expect that you should 
have had your share of alteration and improvement 
with the rest. I write to request a favor of you : ^fT~~\\ 
little boy of elev en ye ars, the son of Mr.* *, my' \ 
particular frieiid^ls about to become an Etonian,! \ 
and I should esteem any act of protection or kind-V^ j 
uess to him as an obligation to myself: let me be^ ^/ 
of you then to take some little notice of him at 
first, till he is able to shift for himself. 

" I was happy to hear a very favorable account o. 
you from a schoolfellow a few weeks ago, and should / 
be glad to learn that your family are as wejl as I / 
wish them to be. I presume you are in the upper / 
school; as an JSc .Wan, you will look down upon a ] 
Harroto man ; but I never, even in my boyish days, / 
disputed your superiority, which I once experienced ,' 
in a cricket match, where I had the honor of making 
one of eleven, who were beaten to their hearts' con- 
tent by your college in one innings. 

" Believe me to be, with great truth, &c., d 



LETTERS 



781 



LETTER CXIX 



TO MR. ROQKKS. 



My Dear Str, 



' Pebniiry 4, 1812. 



'* With my best acknowledgments to Lord Holland, 
f have to offer my perfect concurrence in the pro- 
ftiety of the question previously to be put to minis- 
ters. If their answer is in the negative, I shall, with 
his lordship's approbation, give notice of a motion 
for a Committee of Inquiry. I would also gladly 
avail myself of his most able advice, and any infor- 
mation or documents with which he might be 
pleased to intrust me, to bear me out in the state- 
ment of facts it may be necessary to submit to the 
House. 

" From all that fell under my own observation 
during my Christmas visit to Newstead, I feel con- 
vinced that, if conciliatory measure are not very soon 
adopted, the most unhappy consequences may be 
appreherded. Nightly outrage and daily depreda- 
tion arr already at their height, and not only the 
maste' «j of frames, who are obnoxious on account 
of tb jir occupation, but persons in no degree con- 
nec ed with the malcontents or their oppressors, 
are liable to insult and pillage. 

" I am very much obliged to you for the trouble 
you have taken on my account, and beg you to 
believe me ever your obliged and sincere, &c." 



LETTER CXX. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



• "8 St James's street, Feb. 25, 1812. 

'« My Lord, 

** With my best thanks, I have the honor to return 
the Notts, letter to your lordship. I have read it 
with attention, but do not think I shall venture 
to avail myself of its contents, as my view of the 
question differs in some measure from Mr. Cold- 
ham's. I hope I do not wrong him, but his objec- 
tions to the bill appear to me to be founded on 
certain apprehensions that he and his coadjutors 
might be mistaken lor the ^original advisers' (to 
quote him) of the measure. For my own part, I 
consider the manufacturers as a much injured body 
of men, sacrificed to the views of certain individuals 
who have enriched themselves by those practices 
which have deprived the frame-workers of employ- 
ment. For instance ; — by the adoption of a certani 
kind of frame, one man performs the work of seven 
— six are thus thrown out of business. But it is to 
be observed that the work thus done is far inferior 
jr y' in quality, hardly marketable at home, and hurried 
^ over with a view to exportation.-' Surely, my lord, 
however we may rejoice in any improvement in the 
arts which may be beneficial to mankind, we must 
not allow mankind to be sacrificed to improvements 
in mechanism. The maintenunce and well-doing 
of the industrious poor is an object of greater con- 
BCquence to the community than the enrichment of 
& few monopolists by any improvement in the 
implements of trade, wliicli deprives the workman 
of his breid, and rendcis the laborer ' unworthy t f 
his hire.' M^ own motive for opposing the bill is 
founded on its palpable injustice, and its certain 
inefficacy. I have seen the state of these miserable 
men, and it is a disgrace to a civilized country. 
Th^'ir excesses may be condemned, but cannot be 
eufjject of wonder. The effect of the nrcsent bill 
would be to drive them into actual rebellion. The 
few words I shall venture to offer on Thursday will 
be founded upon these opinions fornied from my 
5wn observations on the spot.* By previous 



^\ 



inquiry, 1 am convinced these men would have 
been restored to employment, and the county to 
tranquility. It is, perhaps, not yet too late, an'' ia 
surely worth the trial. It can never oe too late to 
employ force in such circumstances. I believe you- 
lordship does not coincide with me entirely on thil 
subject, and most cheerfully and sincerely shall I 
submit to your superior judgment and experience, 
and take some other line of argument against the 
bill, or be silent altogether, should you deem i* 
more advisable. Condemning, as every one mu»c 
condemn, the conduct of these wretches, I bciieve 
in the existence of grievances which call rathei f jr 
pity than punishment. I have the honor to be, 
with great respect, my lord, 
" Your lordship's 

" Most obedient and obliged servan*, 

" Bi-UON. 
" P. S, — I am a little apprehensive that youT 
lordship will think me too lenient towards tnese 
men, and half z. frame-breaker myself y 



LETTER CXXI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

" 8, St. James's street, March 5, l«l!t. 

" My Dear Hodgson, 

'' We are not answerable for reports of speechec 
in the papers, — they are always given incorrectly 
and on this occasion more so than usual, from the 
debate in the Commons on the same night. The 
Morning Post should have said eighteen years. 
However, you will find the speech, as spoken, in 
the Parliamentary Register, when it comes out 
Lords Holland and Grenville, particularly the iat 
ter, paid me some high compliments in the course 
of "^heir speeches, as you may have seen in the 
papers, and Lords Eldon and Harrowby answered 
me. I have had many marvellous eulogies repeated 
to me since, in person and by proxy, fro;j» divera 
persons ministerial — yea ministerial ! — as well as 
oppositionists ; of them I shall only mention Sir 
Y. Burdett. He says, it is the best speech by a 
lord since the ^ Lord knows when,' probably from a 
fellow-feeling in the sentiments. Lord II. tells me 
I shall beat them all if I persevere, and Lord O. 
remarked that the construction of some of my 
periods are wry WVe Burke's ! ! And so Much foi 
vanity. I spoke very violent sentences witn a sort 
of modest impudence, abused every thin^: and every 
body, and put the Lord Chancellor very much out 
of humor ; and if I may believe what I h.^ai hav« 
not lost any character by the experiment. As to 
my delivery, loud and fluent enough, perhaps a 
little theatriacal. I could not reconize myself oi 
any one else in the newspapers. • • ' • 

" My poesy comes out on Saturday. HobhoLse 
is here ; 1 shall tell him to wi'ite. My stone is goue 
for the present, but I fear is part of luy habit. W» 
all talk of a visit to Cambridge. •' Yours ever. 



LETTER CXXII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

• *• SL Jamca's iUMl, Mnrch ft, 18 « 

♦• My Lord, 

" May I request your Lordship to accept a cony* 
of the thing which accompanies this note ? Yov 



* Chllilr lUrolil. To his statrr, Mrs. I.<-I(rh, on« of (be Anl prMenlatn 
coplps wu nls<i ■rtU, tth (In- Iblltivliif tns(rli<ik>n In ll : — 

" Tu Au(iisu, mj ilrsraM siaor, siid my biwt frirnd, who Km trtr !••• < 
me much bottvr than I dasTrrrd, this toIuiim Is praeotod bjr hst >Mfear 
■on. »ail niuM sftitetloiMt* brotbrr. " ■ 



782 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



have already so fully proved the truth of the first 
liae of Pope's rovplet, 

' Foigiventss to the injur^sl doth belong,' 

that I long for an opportunit)' to give the lie to the 
verse that follows. If I were not perfectly eon- 1 
vinced that any thing I may have formerly uttered ^ 
in the boyish rashness of my misplaced resentment t 
had made as little impression as it deserved to 
make. I should hardly have the confidence — por- 
ha])s your lordship may give it a stronger and 
more appropriate appellation — to send you a quart > 
of the same scribbler, lint your lordship, I am 
Bon-y to observe to-,day, is troubled with the gout: 
if my book can p/oduce a lau(/h against itself or 
the author, it will be of some service. If it can set 
you to sleep, the benefit will be yet greater ; and as 
some facetious personage observed half a century 
ago, that ' poetry is a mere drug,' I ofler you mine 
as an humble assistant to the * eau m dicinale.' I 
trust you will forgive this and all my other buffoon- 
eries, "and believe me to be, with great respect, 
" Your lordship's obliged and sincere servant, 
% '< Byron." 



In relation to the following note of Lord Byron, 
Mr. Moore says : — 

*' Not long after the publication of Childe Harold, 
the noble author paid me a visit, one morning, and, 
putting a letter into my hands, which he had just 
received, requested that I would undertake to 
manage for him whatever proceedings it might 
render necessary. This letter, I found, had been 
delivered to him by Mr. Lerkie, (a gentleman well 
known by a work on Sicilian affairs,) and came 
from a once active and popular member of the 
fashionable world, Colonel Greville, — its purport 
being to require of his lordship, as author of ' Eng- 
lish Bards, &c.,' such reparation as it was in his 
power to make for the injury which, as Colonel 
Greville conceived, certain passages in that Satire, 
reflecting upon his coudu( t, as manager of the 
Argyl; Instit^Ttion, were calculated to inflict upon 
his ch iraeter. In the appeal of the gallant colonel, 
there were some expressions of rather an angry 
cast, which Lord Byron, though fully conscious of 
the length to which he himself had gone, was but 
little inclined to brook, and on my returning the 
letter into his hands, he said, ' To such a letter as 
that there can be but one sort of answer.' He 
agreed, however, to trust the'matter entirel i to my 
discretion, and I had, shf rtly after, an interview 
with the friend of Colonel Greville. By this gen- 
tleman, v^ho was then an utter stranger to me, I 
w'as received with much courtesy, and with every 
disposition to bring the affair intrusted to us to an 
amicable issue. On my premising that the tone of 
his friend's letter stood in the way of negotiation, 
ijid that some obnoxious expressions which it con- 
taint d must be removtKl before I could proceed a 
single step towards explanation, he most readily 
3 .iisented to remove this obstacle. At his request 
[ drew a pen across the parts I considered objec- 
tionable, and he undertook to s(>nd me the letter, 
'e-written, next morning. In the mean time, I 
•peeived from Lord Byron the following paper for 
u\j guiaance 



the President of the Institution can ivrdly :onj 
plain of being termed the 'Arbiter of Play,' — oi 
what becomes of his authority } 

" Lord B has no personal animosity to Colonel 
Greville. A public institution, to which he, him 
self, was a subscriber, he considered himself to 
have a right to notice publicly. Of that institution 
Colonel Greville was the avowed director ; — it is too 
late to enter into the discussion of its merits or 
demerits. 

" Lord B. must leave the discussion of the 
reparation, for the real or supposed injury, to Col- 
onel G.'s friend, and Mr. Moore, the friend of Lord 
B. — begging them to recollect that, while they 
consider Colonel G.'s honor. Lord B. must ah.o 
maintain his own. If the business can be settl^'d 
amicably. Lord B. will do as much as can and 
ought to be done by a man of honor towards con- 
ciliation ; — if not, he must satisfy Colonel G. 13 
the manner most conducive to his further wishes." 



** "With regard to the passage on Mr. Way's loss, 
Qo unfair play was hinted at, as may be seen by 
referring to the book ; and it is expressly added 
that the managers were ignorant of that transactiqp. 
As to the prevalence of play at the Argyle, it can 
not be denied that there were billiards and dice ; — 
Lord B. has been a witness to the use of botk at 
the A rgyle Rooms. These, it is presumed, come 
inc ir the denomination, of play If play be allowed, 



" In the morning I received the letter, in its ne^ 
form, from Mr. Leckie, with the annexed note. 

" 'My Dear Sir, 

"'I found my friend very ill in bed; he has, 
}-ovt"ever, managed to copy the enclosed, with the 
alterations proposed. Perhaps you may wish to 
j see me in the morning ; I shall therefore be glad 
to see you any time ' till twelve o'clock. If you 
rather wish me to call on you, tell me, and I shall 
obey your summons. " ' Yours, very truly, 

" ' G. T. Leckie.' " 

" With such facilities towards pacification, it is 
almost needless to add, that there was but littlo 
delay in settling the matter amicably." 



LETTER CXXIII. 

TO MR. WILLIAM: BANKE8. 

" A owl iM, 1812. 

" My Dear Bankes, 

" I feel rather hurt (not savagely) at the speech 
you made to me last night, and my hope is that it 
was only one of your profane jests. I should be very 
sorry that any part of my behavior should give you 
cause to suppose that I think higher of myself, or 
otherwise of you, than I have always done. I can 
assure you that I am as much the humblest of your 
servants as at Trin. Coll. ; and if I have not been at 
home when you favored me with a call, the loss was 
more mine than yours. In the bustle of buzzing 
parties, there is, there can be, no rational con versa 
tion ; but when I can enjoy it, there is nobody's J 
can prefer to your own. 

'• Believe me ever faithfully 

"And most affectionately yours, 

" Bybon " 



LETTER CXXIV. 

to mr. william bankes. 

"My Dear Bankes, 

" My eagerness to come to an explrjiation has, 1 
trust, convinced you that whatever my unlucky 
manner might inadvertently be, the change was as 
unintentional as (if intended) it would have been 
ungrateful. I really was not aware that, while we 
were together, I had evinced such caprices ; that we 
were not so much in each other's company <)8 I could 



LETTERS. 



'sa 



Dare wished, I well know, but 1 think so acute an 
observer as yourself must have perceived enouf};h tc 
explat't this, without supposing any slight fo one in 
whose society I have pride and pleasure. Recollect 
that I do not allude here to ' extended ' or ' extend- 
itig' acquaintances, but to circumstances, you will 
mderstaud, I think, on a little '•etlection. 
,'^\ <♦ And now, my dear Bankes, do not distress me 
by supposing that I can think of you, or you of me, 
otherwise th.in I trust we have long thought. You 
fu!d mo not long ago thiit my temper w'fes improved, 
md I should be sorry that opinion should be re- 
roked. Believe me, yoiu- friendship is of more ac- 
count to ni€ than all those absurd vanities in which, 
I fear, you conceive me to take too much interest. 
1 have never disputed your supciiority, or doubted 
(«erioUvsly) your good will, and no one shall ever 
make 'mischief between us' without the sincere 
(egret on the part o! your ever affectionate, &c. 

" P. S. I shall see you, I hope, at Lady Jersey's. 
Hobhouse goes also." 



NOTES TO MR. MOORE. 

".March as, 1812. 

■ Anow all men by these present, that you, 
fhomas Moore stand indicted — no — invited, by 
special and particular solicitation, to Lady Caro- 
line Lamb's, to-morfow even, at half-past nine 
o'clock, where you will meet with a civil reception 
and decent entertainment. Pray, come — I was so 
examiiM.'d after ^ :u this morning, that 1 entreat you 
to answer in person. Believe me, &c." 



"I should have answered your note yesterday, 
nut I hoped to have seen you this morning. I 
must consult with you about the day we dine with 
Sir Francis. I suppose we shall meet at Lady Spen- 
cer's to-night. I did not know that you ware at 
Miss Berry's the other night, or I should have 
cevtaiuly gone there. 

"As usual, I am in all sorts of scrapes, though 
none, at present, of a martial description. Believe 
ra.^, &c." 

'"May 8, 1812. 

" I am too proud of being your friend to care 
witli whom I au\ linked in your estimation, and. 
God knows, I want friends more at this time than 
at any other. I am « taking care of myself to no 
great purpose. If you knew my situation in every 
point of view, you would excuse apparent and unin- 
tentionil negleit. « * * * I shall leave town, 
I think ; but do not you leave it without seeing me. 
I wish you, from my soul, every happiness you can 
wish yourself; and I think you have taken the road 
to spfiire it. Peace i)c with you ! I fear she has 
abandoned me. Ever, X:c." 

" Mrtv 20, 1812. 

•' On Monday, after sitting up all night, I saw 
l3,.'iingham laum^hed into eternity, and at three thrf 
«*me«day I saw * * launched into the country. * * 

•'I believe in the beginning (»f June, I shall be 
do\Mi f(n- a few days in Notts. If so, I shall beat 
you up 'en passant' with Hobhouse, who is en- 
deavoring like you and every body else, to keep me 
ovit of scrapes. 

" I meant to have written you a hmg letter, but I 
find I cannot. If any thing remarkable occurs, you 
will hear it from nie — if good ; if l>ad, there are 
plenty to tell it. In the luean time do you be 
nappy Ever yours, &.c. 

V a. Mv best wishes and roHpeots to Mrs. 
Moore, — sue is beautiful. I mav say %<\ even to 
you, fcr I ne'er was more struck with a counte- 



LETTER CXXV. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



ana Z, WI3. 



"My Deak Lord, 

" I must appear very ungrateful, and have, indeed, 
been very negligent, but till las^t night I was no* 
apprized of Lady Holland's restoration, f.nd I shall 
call to-morrow to have the satisfaction, I trust, ol 
hearing that she is well. — I hope that neither ^f^!.*- 
tics nor gout have assailed your lordship since I 
last saw you, and that you also are ' as well as 
could be expected.' 

"The other night, at a ball, I was -presented b> 
order, to our gracious Regent, who honored me wito 
some conversation, and professed a predilec*;irn foi 
poetry. I confess it was a most unexpectccf horor. 
and I thought of poor Brummell's adveutUje, with 
some appreliensions of a similar blunder. I have 
now great hope, in the event of Mr. Pye's decease, 
of • Avarbling truth at court,' like Mr. Mallet t, o 
indifferent memory. — Consider one hundred marks 
a year ! besides the wine and the disgrace ; but then 
remorse would make me drown myself in my own 
butt before the year's end, or the finishing of my 
first dithyrambic. So that, after all, I shall not 
meditate our laureate's death by pen or poison. 

" Will you present my best respects to Lady Hol- 
land, and believe me hers and yours very sincerely " 



LETTER CXXVI. 



TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 



" St. James's street, July 6, 1812. 

"Sir, 

" I have just been honored with your letter. — I 
feel sorry that you should have thought it worth 
while to notice the 'evil works of im' n<»n-ago,' as 
the thing is suppressed voliuitanli/, and your ex- 
phination is too kind not to give me pain. The 
Satire was written when I was very youny and very 
angry, and fully bent on displaying my wrath atio 
my wit, and now I am haunted by the ghosts of my 
wholesale assertions. I cannot sutHciently thank 
you for your praise; and now, waiving myself, let 
me talk to you of the Prince Regent. He ordered 
me to be presented to him at '. ball ; and after some 
sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, us to my 
own attempts, he talked to me of you and your im- 
mortalities: he preferred you to every bard past and 
present, and asked whicli of your works pleased me 
most. It was a difficult question. I answered, I 
tiiought the ' Lav.' He said his own o])ini(in was 
nearly similar, tn speaking of the others. 1 told 
him that I thought you more partiou'.aily the 
poet of Prittrcs, as (/ict/ never ai)ppared nioro fasci- 
nating th:in in •Mannion," and ti\e 'Lady of the 
Lake.' He was pleased to coinciile, and to dwell 
on the description of your Jameses as no less r">yAl 
than poetical. He S])oke alternately of Honur and 
yourself, and seemed well ae(|miintcd with both; so 
tliat (with tne exception of the Turks and your 
humble s(>rvant) you were in very good comnaiiy. 
I defy Murriiv to have exaggeratcci his royal niijli 
ness'a ojiinion of your powers, nor can T i^reteml tu 
enumerate all he said on tlu' subject; but it may 
give you pleasure to hear that it was conveyed in 
language which would only sulfcr by my attempting 
to trail serlbe it, and with a tone and taste whicn 
gave me a verv high idea of his aVililies and acconi- 
plisliments, wliich I had hitherto considt-red as con- 
(Mied to moniirrs, certainly superior to those of any 
living (/('n/lrnian. 

This interview was accidental. I never w«;nt tj 
the levee; for haviuj( BC«n the court* of MuhsuIilap 



84 



BYRON'S WOKKS 



and Catholic sovereigns, my curiosity was suflBcient- 
ly allayed, and my politics being as perverse as my 
rhymes, I had, in fact, * no business there.' To be 
thus praised by your Sovereign must be gratifying 
to you: and if tVat giratification is not alloyed by 
the communicati ia being made through me, the 
bearer of it will consider himself very fortunately 
and sincerely 

" Your obliged and obedient servant, 

"Byron. 

♦'P. S. Excuse this scrawl, scratched in a great 
hurry, and just after a journey." 



LETTER CXXVII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" Cheltenham, September 10, 1812. 

•My Dear Lord, 

" The lines* which I sketched off on your hint 
are still, or rather were, in an unfinished state, for 
I have just committed them to a flame more decisive 
than that of Drury. Under all the circumstances, 
I should hardly wish a contest with Philo-drama — 
Philo-Drury — Asbestos, H * *, and all the anony- 
mes and synonymes of the Committee candidates. 
Seriously, I think you have a chance of something 
much better ; for prologuizing is not my forte, and, 
at all events, either my pride or my modesty won't 
let me incur the hazard of having my rhymes buried 
in next month's Magazine, under ' Essays on the 
Murder of Mr. Perceval,' and ' Cures for the Bite 
of a Mad Dog,' as poor Goldsmith complained of 
the fate of far superior performances. 

" I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know 
the successful candidate ; and, among so many, I 
have no doubt some will be excellent, particularly 
in an age whSn writing verse is the easiest of all 
attainments. 

" I cannot answer your intelligence with the * like 
comfort,' unless, as you are deeply theatrical, you 
may wish to hear of Mr. * *, whose acting is, I 
fear, utterly inadequate to the London engagement 
into which the marja-iers of Covent Garden have 
lately entered. His figure is fat, his features flat, 
his voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful, and, 

as Diggory says, ' I defy him to eartort that d d 

muffin face of his into madness.' I was very sorry 
to see him in the character of the ' Elephant on the 
slack rope;' for, when I last saw him, I was in 
raptures with his performance. But then I was 
sixteen, — an age to which all London then conde- 
scended to subside. After all, much better judges 
have admired, and may again ; but I venture to 
•prognosticate a prophecy '.(see the Courier) that 
he will not succeed. 

"So, poor dear Rogers has stuck fast on 'the 
Drow of the mighty Helvellyn ' — I hope not for 
ever. My best respects to Lady H. — her (feparture, 
with that of my other friends, was a sad event for 
me, now reduced to a state of the most cynical 
solitude. ' By the waters cf Cheltenham I sat dowii 
and drank; when I remembered thee, oh, Georgiana 
Cottage ! As for our harps, we hangp''. them upon 
the willows that grew thereby Then they said. 
Sing us a song of Drury Lane,' &c. — but I am dumu 
and dreary as the Israelites. The waters have 
disordered me to my heart's content, — you were 
■^ght as you always are. 

"Believe me ever your obliged 

" And affectionate servant, 

" Byron." 



AHrltea at (be 0|>eaiii|t fH Dnuy-Lane Theatie. 



LETTER CXXVIII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



"September 22, Sia. 

"My Deap Lord, 

" In a da\ or two I will send you something which 
you will still have the liberty to reject if you dislike 
it. I should like to have had more time, but will 
do my best, —but too happy if I can oblige you, 
though I may offend one nundred scribblers and 
discerning public. «« Ever yours. 

" Keep my name a secret; or I shall be beset by 
all the rejected, and perhaps damned by a party.' 



LETTER CXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

*• " Cheltenham, September 23, 1812. 

" Ecco ! — I have marked some passages with 
double readings — choose between them — cut — add 
— reject — or destroy — do with them as you will— 
I leave it to you and the Committee — you cannot 
say so called a ^ nan committendo.' ^ What will they 
do — (and I do) with the hundred and one rejected 
Troubadours ? ' With trumpets, yea, and with 
shawms,' will you be assailed in the most diabolica. 
doggerel. I wish my name not to transpire till the 
day is decided. I shall not be in town, so it won't 
much matter ; but let us have a good deliverer. I 
think Elliston should be the man, or Pope; not 
Raymond, I implore you by the love of Rhythmus ! 

" The passages marked thus = =, above and be- 
low, are for you to choose between epithets, and 
such like poetical furniture. Pray write me a line, 
and believe me ever, &c. 

"My best remembrances to Lady H. Will you 
be good enough to decide between the various read- 
ings marked, and erase the other ; or our deliverer 
may be as puzzled as a commentator, and belike 
repeat both. If these versicles won't do I will ham- 
mer out some more endecasyllables. 

" P. S. Tell Lady H. I have had sad work tc 
keep out the Phoenix — I mean the Fire-Office ol 
that name. It has insured the theatre, and why 
not the Address ? 



LETTER CXXX. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" September St. 

" I send a recast of the first four lines of the 
concluding paragraph. 

" This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The driima's homage by her Herald piiid, 
Recsive our welcome too, whose every tcne 
Springs from our hearts occf fain would win your own 
The eurtajn rises, &c., Sk. 

And do forgive aU this trouble. See what it is to 
have to do even with the genteelest of us. 

" Ever, &c ' 



LETTER CXXXI. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

"Cheltenham, Sept. 25, 1313 

" Still 'more matter for a May morning.' Hav 
ing patched the middle and end of the Address, I 
send one more couplet for a part of the beginning, 
which, if not too turgid, you will have the gondnest 



LETTERS. 



78A 



10 add. After that flagrant image of the Thames, 
(I hope no unlucky wag will say I have set it on 
tire, though Dryden, in his ' Annus Mirabilis,' and 
Churchill, in his 'Times,' did it before me,) I mean 
to insert this : 

' As flashing far the new Volcano dhone 
meteora 
And sweep the skies with liglitnings not tlieir own, 
While thousands throng'd around the burning dome, &c,, &e. 

I think * thousands ' less flat than ' crowds collect- 
ed ' — but don't let me plunge into the bathos, or 
rise into Nat. Lee's Bedlam metaphors. By-the-by, 
the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw 
from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at West- 
minster Bridge, from the reflection on the Thames. 

" Perhaps the present couplet had better come in 
after ' trembled for their homes,' the two lines after ; 
as otherwise the image certainly sinks, and it will 
run just as well. 

" The lines themselves, perhaps, may be better 
thus — (' choose,' or ' refuse ' — but please yourself, 
and don't mind ' Sir Fretful ') — 

$adly 
" As flash'd the volumed blaie, and ghasUy shone 
The skies with liglitnings awful as their own. 

The last runs smoothest, and, I think, best; but 
vou know better than best. ' Lurid ' is also a less 
indistinct epithet than ' livid wave,' and, if you think 
so, a iash of the pen will do. 

"1 expected one line this morning; in the mean 
time, I shall remodel and condense, and if I do not 
hear ^rom you, shall send another copy. 

" I am ever, &c." 



LETTER CXXXII. 

TO LOKD HOLLAND. * 

" September 26, 1812. 

' ' You will think there is no end to my villanous 

araendations. The fifth and sixth lines I think to 
alter thus : 

•' Ye who beheld— «h sight admir'd and moum'd I 
Whose radiunce mock'd the ruin it adorn 'd ; 

because ' night ' is repeated the next line but one ; 
and, as it n'nv stands, the conclusion of the para- 
graph, ' worthy him (Shakspeare) and you,' appears 
to apply the ' you ' to those only who were out of bed 
and in Covent-Garden Market on the night of con- 
flagration, instead of the audience or the discerning 
public at large, all of whom are intended to be com- 
prised in that comprehensive and, I hope compre- 
hensible pronoun. 

" By-the-by, one of my corrections in the fair copy 
Bent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty 
fathom — 

" When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write. 

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and 
cught not to be first ; therefore I will let the old 
couplet stand, with its half rhymes ' sought ' and 
* wrote.'* Second thoughts in every thing are best, 
but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come aniisa. 
I am very anxious on this business, and I do hope 
that the very trouble I occasion you will plead its 
own excuse, and that it will tend to show my endea- 
vor to make the most of the time allotted. I wish 
^ had known it months ago, for in that case I had 
not left one line standing on another. I always 
scrawl in this way, and smooth as much as I can, 



* " Such are the names that here your plamlita souyht. 
When Ourrick iietej, anJ when Brinsley wtoIa" 

At pf«Mnt the oonplet stands thai i 

" Dear are '.he dnys that made our innaU bdghl, 
En Oarrlck fled, or JUriiialey ooaMd to wrka." 



but never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a 
nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which 
measure I have not the cunning. When I began 
' Childe Harold,' I had never tried Spenser's mea- 
sure, and now I cannot scribble in any other. 

" After all, my dear lord, if you can get a decent 
Address elsewhere, don't hesitate to put this aside. 
Why did you not trust your own Muse i I am very 
sure she would have been triumphant, and saved 
the Committee their trouble — ' 'tis a joyful one ' to 
me, but I fear I shall not satisfy even myself. After 
the account you sent me, it is no compliment to say 
yQU would have beaten your candidates ; but I mean 
that, in that case, there would have been no occa- 
sion for their being beaten at all. 

" There are but two decent prologues in oui 
tongue — Pope's to Cato — Johnson's to Drury-L.ine. 
These, with the epilogue to the ' Distressed Mother,' 
and, I think one of Goldsmith's, and a prologue of 
old Colman's to Beaumont and Fletcher's Philaster, 
are the best things of the kind we have. 

" P. S. I am diluted to the throat with medicine 
for the stone ; and Boisragon wants me to try a 
warm climate for the winter — but I won't." 



LETTER CXXXIII. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" September 37, lai*. 

" I have just received your very kind letter, Mid 
hope you have met with a second copy corrected and 
addressed to "Holland House, with some omissiona 
and this new couplet, 

" As glared each rising flash,* and ghastly shono 
The skies with lightnings awful as their own. 

As to remarks, I can only say I will alter and acqui- 
esce in any thing. With regard to the part which 
Whitbread wishes to omit, I believe the Address 
will go ofl" quicker without ft, though like the agility 
of the Hottentot, at the expense of its vigor. I 
leave to your choice entirely the different specimens 
of stucco-work ; and a brick of your own will also 
much improve my Babylonish turret. I should like 
EUiston to have it, with your leave. ' Adorn ' and 
' mourn ' are lawful rhymes in Pope's death of the 
unfortunate Lady — Gray has * forlorn ' and ' mourn' 
— and ' torn ' and ' mourn ' are in SmoUet's fan\oua 
Tears of Scotland. 

" As there will probably be an outcry among the 
rejected, I hope the Committee will testify (if it be 
needful) that I sent in nothing to the congress what- 
ever, with or without a name, as your lordship well 
knows. All I have to do with it is with and through 
you ; and though I, of cmirse, wish to satisfy the 
audience, I do assure you my first object is to com 
ply with your request, and in so doing to show the 
sense I have of the many obligations you have con- 
ferred upon me. *• Yours ever, 

••B" 



LETTER CXXXIV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

•• Septemtwr «7, tmt. 

' I believe this is the third scrawl since ye«terday 
— all al)out ei)ithot9. I think the epithet ' intelleo- 
tual ' won't convey the meaning I intend ; and 
though I hnte compounds, for the present I will trj 
(col' permesHo) the word * gemus-^ifted patriarokl 



Tiito 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



of our line '* instead. Johnson has * many-colored 
life,' a compound — but they are always best avoided. 
However, it is the only one in ninety lines, but ■will 
be happy to gi% e way to a better. I am ashamed to 
intrude any more remembrances on Lady H. or let- 
ters upon you ; but you are, fortunately for me, 
gilted with patience already too often tried by 

'* Yours, &c,, &c." 



LETTER CXXXV. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" September 28, 1812. 

• ""Will this do better ? the metaphor is more com- 
plete. 

lava of tht 
*' Till slowly eob'd the spent volcanic ware, 
Aod blackening allies mark'd the ftluje's grave. 

If not, we will say * burning ' wave, and instead of 
' burning clime,' in the line some couplets back, 
have ' glowing.' 

" Is Whitbread determined to castrate all my 
tavalry lines .^t I don't see why t'other house should 
be spared; besides, it is the public, who ought to 
know better ; and you recollect Johnson's was 
igainst 'similar buliboneries of Rich's — but, certes, I 
am not Johnson. 

" Instead of ' eflfects,' say ' labors ' — ' degenerate ' 
will do, will it? Mr. Betty is no longer a babe, 
therefore the line cannot be personal. 

" Will this do ? 

the burning 
" Till ebb'd the lava of that molten wave.J 
» 

mth * glow\ng dome,' in case you prefer 'burning ' 
added to th's 'wave' metaphorical. The word 
' fiery pillar " was suggested by the ' pillar of fire ' 
in the book ;f Exodus, which went before the Israel- 
ites through ^e Red Sea. I once thought of saying 
' like Israel's pillar,' and making it a simile, but I 
did not know, — the great temptation was leaving 
the epithet ' fiery ' for the supplementary wave. I 
want to work up thav passage, as it is the only new 
ground us prologuizers can go upon — 

" This is the plai;e, where, if a poet 
Shined in description, he' might show it. 

It 1 part witluthe possibility of a future conflagra- 
tion, we le^jSen the compliment to Shakspeare. 
However, we will e'en mend it thus : 

" Fes, It shall be -the magic of that name, 
That scorns the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame, 
On the same spot, &c,, &c. 



This,. 



I finally altered, is 

" Immortal iwmes, emblazoned on our line.' 



t The lines he here ulludes to^pfinally were omitted by the 'IJomraittee \ 
ktsf were these : 

" Nay, lower itUl, the Drama yet deplores 
TTiat late the deigned to crawl upon all -four g. 
When Richard roara in Bosworth for a horse, 
If you command, the steed must come in course. 
If yria decree, the Stage must condescend 
To idothc the sickly taste we dare not mend. 
Blame nt! our judgment should we acquiesce, 
Awi gratify you more by showing less. 
Oh, since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
fn»tiear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
That public praise be ne'er again disgraced, 

brutes to man recall 
fVom babes and brutes redeem a nation's tost*. 
Then pride shall doubly nerve the actors' powers 
WtRQ Reason's voice is echoed back by ours." 
M» Wit couplet but one was again altered in a subsequent copy thus:— 
" Th*pastreprocu:h Itt present scenes refute, 
So* shift from, man tc babe, from babe to brutt. ' 
t Tht fct'4 af this couplet, as printed, is as follows : — 
' TUl blBckeoing ashes and the lonely wall 
Tfnip'd the M ms's realm, and mark'd ber h_ 



There — the deuce is in it, if that is not an improve 
ment to Whitbread's content. Recollect, it is the 
'name,' and not the 'magic,' that has a noble con- 
tempt for .those same weapons. If it were the 
' magic,' my metaphor would be somewhat of the 
maddest — so the ' name ' is the antecedent. But, 
my dear lord, your patience is not quite so immortal 
— therefore, with many and sincere thanks, I am 
"Yours ever, most affectionately. 
"P. S. I foresee there will be charges of par 
tiality in the papers ; but you know I sent in no 
Address ; and glad both you and I must be that ] 
did not, for, in that case, their plea had been piaa 
sible. I doubt the pit will be testy ; but couscioui 
innocence (a novel and pleasing sensation) makes 
me bold." 



LETTER CXXXVL 



TO LOKD HOLLAND. 



«• September 28. 

" I have altered the middle couplet, so as I hope 
partly to do away with W.'s objection. I do thmk, 
in the present state of the stage, it has been unpar - 
donable to pass over the horses and Miss Mudie, ' 
&c. As Betty is no longer a boy, how can this be 
applied to him ? He is now to be judged as a man. 
If he acts still like a boy, the public will be more 
ashamed of their blunder. I have, you see, now 
taken it for granted that these things are reformed 
I confess, I wish that part of the Address to stand ; 
but if W. is inexorable, e'en let it go. I have also 
new cast the lines, and softened the hint of future 
combustion,* and sent them off' this morning. Will 
you have the goodness to add, or insert, the approved 
alterations as they arrive ? They ' come like shad- 
ows, so depart ;' occupy me, and, I fear, disturb 
you. 

"Do not'et Mr. W. put his Address into Ellis- 
ton's hands till you have settled on these altera- 
tions. E. will think it too long : — much depend? 
on the speaking. I fear it will not bear much cur 
tailing, without chasms in the sense. 

" It is certainly too long in the reading; but il 
EUiston exerts himself, such a favorite with the 
public will not be thought tedious. I should think 
it so, if he were not to speak it, 

"Yours ever, &c. 

"P. S. On looking again, I doubt my idea of 
having obviated W.'s objection. To the other 
house, allusion is a ' non sequitur ' — but I wish to 
plead for this part, because the thing really is not 
to be passed over. Many after -pieces at the Lyceum 
by the same compq^ny, have already attacked this 
' Augean Stable ' — and Johnson, in his pi'ologue 
against 'Lunn,' (the harlequin-manager, Rich,)— 
' Hunt,' — ' Mahomet,' &c., is surely a fair prece 
dent." 



LETTER CXXXVll. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Sept. 4 isia. 
" Shakspeare certainly ceased to reign in one of \ 
his kingdoms, as George III. did in America, and -y 
George IV. may in Ireland. f Now, we have noth- j 
ing to do out of our ow^n realms, and when the .' 
monarchy was gone, his majesty had but a barren . 
sceptre. I have cut away, you will see, and altered, 



* It had been, orifcnally, 

" Though other piU$ may sink in future f%me. 
On the same spot," &c., kc. 
t Some objection, h appeon from this, had been made to the paieajpi *^«atf 
Bh« kn)e«ie CMscd 10 rti/pi. 



LETTERS. 



7%\ 



but make it what you please ; only I do implore, for 
my own gratification, qjie lash on those accursed 
quadiupeds — ' a long shot, Sir Lucius, if vou love 
me.' I have altered ' wave,' &c., and the ' fire,' and 
60 forth, for the timid. 

" Let me hear from you when convenient, and 
believe me, &c. 

" P. S.-^I)o let tJiat stand, and cut out elsewhere. 
I shall choke, if we must overlook their d — d me- 
nagerie." 



LETTER CXXXVIII. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Sept. 30, 1812. . 

" I send you the most I can make of it ; for I am 
ftot so well as I was, and find I 'pall in resolution.' 

"I wish much to see you, and will be at Tetbury 
by twelve on Saturday ; and from thence I go on to 
Lord Jersey's. It is impossible not to allude to the 
degra(fed state of the stage, but I have lightened it, 
and endeavored to obviate your other objections. 
There is a new couplet for Sheridan, allusive to his 
Monody. All the alterations I have marked thus |, 
— as you will see by comparison ■with the other copy. 
I have cudgelled my brains with the greatest wil- 
lingness, and onb wish I had more time to have 
done better. 

" You will find a sort of clap-trap laudatory 
couplet inserted for the quiet of the Committee, 
and 1 have added, towards the end, the couplet you 
were pleased to like. The whole Address is seventy- 
three line^, still perhaps too long, and, if shortened, 
you will save time, but, I fear, a little of what I 
meant for sense also. 

" With myriads of thanks, I am ever, &c. 

" My sixteenth edition of respects to Lady H. 
How she must laugh at all this ! 

" I wish Murray, my piiblisher, to print off some 
copies as soon as your lordship returns to-town — it 
v^riU ensure correctness in the papers afterward," 



LETTER CXXXIX. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

" Far be from him that hour which asks in vain 
Teara such as flow tor Girrick in his alriin ; 

or, 
Par be that hour that vainly asks in turn 

crovm'fl hia 
Such verse for him as wept o'er Garrick's urn." 

" Sf>pt. 30, 1812. 

*• Will yon choose between these added to the 
lines on Sheridan ? * I think they will wind up the 
panegyric, and agree witl^the train of thought pre- 
ceding them. 

" Now one word as to the Committee — how could 
they resolve on a rough copy of an Address never 
•ent in, unless you had been good enough to retain 
in u:3mory, or on paper, the thing they have been 
good enough to adopt ? By-thc-by, the circuin- 
atances of the case should make the committee less 
' avidus gloriae,' for all praise of them would look 
plaguy auspicious. If necessary to be stated nt all, 
the Himple facts bear them out. They siirely had a 
right to act as they pleased. My sole object is one 
which, I trust, my whole conduct has shown; viz. 
that I did nothing insidious — sent in no Address 
whatever — but, when applied to, did my host for them 
and myself; but above all, that there was no undue 
partiality, which will be what the reje,jtcd will endea- 
vor to make out. Fortunattdy — most fortunately — 
I sent in no liuei on the occasion. For I am sure tnat 



* Tl^^M arlJeJ Unei la may be aM by rafureiiM lo 
•«w no. rotftJti*!. 



printed Aditrpai, 



had they, in that case, been prefcired, it wanld hava 
been asserted that / was known, and owed the pre- 
ference to private friendship. This is what we shall 
probably have to encounter, but, if once spoken and 
approved, we shan't be much embarrassed by theil 
brilliant conjectures, and, as to criticism, an old au- 
thor, like an old bull, grows cooler (or ought) at 
every baiting. 

" The only thing would be to avoid a party on th« 
night of delivery — afterward, the more the better, 
and the whole transaction inevitably tends to a 
good deal of discussion. Murray tells me there are 
myriads of ironical Addresses ready — some, in imi- 
tation of what is call'd my style. If they are as gooi 
as the Probationary Odes, or Hawkins' Pipe of To 
bacco, it will not be bad fun for the imitated. 

"Ever. &c." 



LETTER CXL. 

TO LORD HOLLAND. 

'« October 2, 1812. 

" A copy of this still altered is sent by the post, 
but this will arrive first. It must be ' humbler '— 
'yet aspiring' does away the modesty, and, after 
all, truth is tncth. Besides, there is a putf direct 
altered, to please yowx plaguy renters. 

" I shall be at Tetbury by twelve or one — but send 
this for you to ponder over. There are several little 
things marked thus\altered for your perusal. I 
have dismounted the cavalry, and, I hope, arranged 
to yowx (/eneral satisfaction. " Ever, &c. 

" At Tetbury by noon. I hope, after it is sent, 
there will be no more elisions. It is not now so 
long — seventy-three lines — tAvo less than allotted. 
I will alter all committee objections, but I hope you 
won't permit Elliston to have any voice whatever 
except in speaking it." 



LETTER CXLT. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Hi?h street, Cheltenham, Sept. 5, 1812. 

* Pray have the goodness to send those despatch- 
es, and a No. of the Edinburgh Review M-ith the 
est. I hope you have written to Mr. Thompson, 
thanked him in my name for his present, and told 
him that I shall be truly happy to comply with his 
request. How do you go on .' and when is the 
graven image, 'tcith hays and wicked rhyme uj)on'tf' 
to grace, or disgrace, some of our tardy editions ? 

'* Send me * Rokvhy.' Who the devil is he ? — no 
matter, he has good connexions, and will be well 
introduced. I .thank you for your iiuiuiries : I am 
so so, but my thermometer is sadly below the poeti- 
cal point. What will you give me or mine for a po- 
em of si.\ cantos, (when complete — no rhyuie, no re- 
couipense,) as like the last two as I can make them ? 
I have some ideas th.it one dav may bo embodied, 
and till winter I shall have much leisure. 

" P. S. My last question is in the true styla o/ 
Grub street; but, like Jeremy Diddlcr, I only 'ask 
for information.' Send lue .Vdair on Diet and Kegi> 
men, just republished by liidgway." 



LETTER CXLTL 

TO MR. MIUUAY. 

" Chrltrr.hum, rtopt U, W*X 

•' The parcels contained some letters and verter | 
uU (but oue^ anonymous and complimeutury, aofl . 



788 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



very anxious for my conversion from certain infidel- 
ities into which my good-natured correspondents 
conceive me to have fallen. The books were pres- 
ents of a convertible kind. Also, • Christian know- 
ledge ' air.d the ' Bioscope,' a religious Dial of Life 
explained ; and to the author of the former, (Cadell 
publisher,) I beg you will forward my best thanks 
for h:s letter, his present, and, above all, his good 
intentions. The ' Bioscope ' contained a MS. copy 
of very excellent verses, from whom I know not, 
but evidently the composition of some one in the 
habit of writing, and of writing well. I do not know 
if he be the author of the ' Bioscope ' which accom^ 
panied them ; but whoever he is. if you can discover 
him. thank him for me most heartily. The other 
letters were from ladies, who are welcome to convert 
me when they please ; and if I can discover them, 
and they be young, as tnry say they are, I could 
convince them perhaps of my devotion. I had also 
a letter from Mr. Walpole on matters of this world, 
which I have answered. 

'*So you are Lucien's publisher ? I am promised 
an interview with him, and think I shall ask you for 
a letter of introduction, as ' the gods have made 
him poetical.' From whom could it come with a 
better grace than from his publisher and mine .'' Is 
it not somewhat treasonable in you to have to do 
with a relative of the ' direful foe,' as the Morning 
Post calls his brother ? 

♦' But my book on * Diet and Regimen,' where is 
it ? I thirst for Scott's ' Rokeby ; ' let me have 
your first-begotten copy. The Antijacobin Review 
is all very well, and not a bit worse than the Quar- 
terly, and at least less harmless. By the by, have 
vou secured my books ? I want all the Reviews, at 
least the critiques, quarterly, monthly, &c., Portu- 
guese and English, extracted, and bound up in one 
volume for my old age ; and pray, sort my Romaic 
books, and get the volumes lent to Mr. Hobhouse — 
he has had them now a long time. If any thing oc- 
curs, you will favor me with a line, and in winter 
we shall be nearer neighbors. 

** P. S. I was applied to, to vrrite the Address for 
Drury Lane ; but the moment I heard of the con- 
test, I gave up the idea of contending against all 
Grub street, and threw a few thoughts on the sub- 
ject into the fire. I did this ovit of respect to you, 
being sure you would have turned off any of your 
authors Avho had entered the lists with such scurvy 
competitors. To triumph would have been no glory ; 
and to have been defeated — 'sdeath ! — I would have 
choked myself, like Otway, with a quartern loaf; 
BO, remember I had, and have, nothing to do with 
it, upon tny honor ! " 



LETTER CXLIII. 



TO MR. WILLIAM BANK.ES. 



"My Dear Bankbs, 



■ Cheltenham, Bept. 2S, 1812. 



" ^Fhen you point out to one how people can be 
Intimate at the distance of some seventy leagues, I 
will plead guilty to your charge, and accept your fare- 
well, but not wittingly, till you give me some better 
reason than my silence, which merely proceeded 
from a notion founded on your own declaration of 
old, that you hated wr-iting and receiving letters. 
Besides, how was I to find out a man of n,any resi- 
dences ? If I had addressed you now, it had been 
to your borough, where I must have conjectured you 
were among your constituents. So now, in despite 
of Mr. N. and Lady W., you shall be as 'much 
better ' as the Hexam post-office will allow me to 
make you. I do assure you I am much indebted to 
fou frr thinking of me a^U, and can't spare you 



even from among the superabvindance H friendu 
with whom you suppose mr surrounded. 

"You have heard that Newstead * is sold — the 
sum 140,000A ; sixty to remain in mortgage on the 
estate for three years, paying interest, of course, 
Rochdale is also likely to do well — so my worldly 
matters are mending. I have been here some time, 
drinking the waters simply because thefe are waters 
to drink, — and they are very medicinal, and suffi- 
ciently disgusting. In a few days I set out for Lord 
Jersey's, but return here, where I aih quite alone, 
go out very little, and enjoy in its fullest extent the 
' dolce far niente.' What you are about, I cannot 
guess, even from your date; not dancing to the 
sound of the gitourney in the Halls of the Lowthers ? 
one of whom is here, ill, poor thing ! with a phthisic. 
I heard that you passed through here (at the sordid 
inn where I. first alighted) the very day before I ar- 
rived in these parts. We had a very pleasant set 
here ; at first the Jerseys, Melbournes, Cowpers, 
and Hollands — but ail gone ; and the only persons 
I know are the Rawdons and Oxfords, with some 
later acquaintances of less brilliant descent. 

"But I do not trouble them much; and as for 
your rooms and your assemblies, ' they are not 
dreamed of in our philosophy ! ! ' Did you read of 
a sad accident in the Wye t' other day .' — a dozen 
drowned, and Mr. Rossoe, a corpulent gentleman; 
preserved by a boat-hook or an eel-spear, begged, 
when he heard his wife was saved — no — lost — to be 
thrown in again ! ! — as if he could not have thrown 
himself in, had he wished it ; but this passes for a 
trait of sensibility. What strange beings men are, 
in and out of Wye ! ' 

" I have to ask you a thousand pardons for not 
fulfilling some orders before I left town ; but if you 
knew all the cursed entanglements I had to wade 
through, it would be unnecessary to beg your forgive • 
ness. When will Parliament (the new one) meet r 
— in sixty days, on account of Ireland, I presume ; 
the Irish election will demand a longer period for 
completion than the constitutional allotment. Yours 
of course, is safe, and all your side of the question 
Salamanca is the ministerial watchword, and all will 
go well with you. I hope you will speak more fre- 
quently — I am sure at least you ought, and it '^'ill 
be expected. I see Portman means to stand again. 
Good night. 

" Ever yours most affectionately, 

" iitiiaipu)V "f 



LETTER CXLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Cheltenham, Sept 27, 1812. 

" I sent in no address whatever to the committee ; 
but out of nearly one hundred, (this is conjidential,) 
none have been deemed worth acceptance ; and in 
consequence of their subsequent application to me, I 
have written a prologue, which has been received, 
and will be spoken. The MS. is now in the handa 
of Lord Holland. 

" I write this merely to say that (howevgr it is re- 
ceived by the audience) you will publish it in the 
next edition of Childe Harold ; and I only beg you 
at present to keep my name secret till you hear 
farther from me, and as soon as possible I wish you 
to have a correct copy to do with as you thank 
proper. 

" P. S. I should wish a few copies printed ofl 
before, that the newspaper copies may be correct 
after the delivery." 



* I'he nie wu afterwarcti cancelled. 

t A rooUe of liguatiue be firequenH/ adostMl. 



LETTEKb. 



789 



LETTER CXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Cheltenham, Oct. 12, 1812. 

• 1 have a very strong objection to the engraving 
:»f the portrait, and request that it may, on no ac- 
count, be prefixed ; but let all the proofs be burned, 
and tlie plate broken. I will be at the expense 
which has been incurred ; it is but fair that / should, 
since I cannot permit the publication. I beg, as a 
particular favor, that you will lose no time in having 
this done, for which I have reasons that I will state 
when I see you. Forgive all the trouble I have 
occasioned you. 

" 1 have received no account of the reception of 
the Address, but see it is vituperated in the papers, 
which does not much embarrass an old author. I 
leave it to your own judgment to add it, or not, to 
your next edition when required. Pray comply 
strictly with my wishes as to the engraving, and be- 
lieve me, &c. 

" P. S, Favor me with an answer, as I shall not be 
easy till I hear that the proofs, &c., are destroyed. 
I hear that the Satirist has reviewed Childe Harold, 
in what manner I need not ask ; but I wish to know 
if the old personalities are revived ? I have a better 
reason for asking this than any that merely con- 
cerns myself; but in publications of that kind, 
others, particularly female names are sometimes 
introduced." 



LETTER CXLVI. 



TO LORD HOLLAND. 



" Cheltenham, Oct. 14, 1812. 

- My De^tr Lord, 

*' I perceive that the papers, yea, even Perry's, 
are somewhat ruiBed at the injudicious preference 
of the Committee. My friend Perry has, indeed, 

♦ et tu Bute'-d me rather scurvily, for which 1 will 
send him, for the M. C* the next epigram I scrib- 
ble, as a token of my full forgiveness. 

*' Do the Committe mean to enter into no expla- 
nation of their proceedings t You must see there 
is a leaning towards a charge of partiality. You 
will, at least, acquit me of any great anxiety to 
push' myself before so many elder and better anon- 
ymous, to whom the twenty guineas (which I take 
to be about two thousand pounds Bank currency) 
and the honor would have been equally welcome. 

* Honor,' I see, ' hath no skill in paragraph- 
writing.' 

•' I wish to know how it went off at the second 
reading, and whether any one has had the grace to 
give it a glance of approliation. I have seen no pa- 
per but Perry's, nnd two Sunday ones. Perry is 
severe, and the others silent. If, however, you and 
your Comni'ittce are not now dissatisfied with your 
own juflgments, I shall not nmcli embarrass myself 
about the brilliant remarks of the journals. My 
own opiliion upon it is what it always was, per- 
haps pretty near tliat of the public. 

" Believe me, my dear lord, (fee. 8:c. 

" P. S. My best respects to Lady H. whose smiles 
will be very consolatory, even at this distance." 



LETTER CXLYH. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Cholt;-lhiim, Oct. 18, 1812. 

•* Will you have the goodness to get this Parody 
9l a peculiar kindf (for all the first lines are 



The M >Tnrir Chronicle, of which Mr. Porry wii« th<" proprlptor. 
AT.nnff M Av. IroMut miiI iu U> llio Drury-Lnue CuiuiniUoe wua ana Ur 



Busby's entire) inserted in several of the papers 
{correctly, and copied correctly ; my hand is diffi 
cult,) — particularly the Morning Chronicle ? Tell 
Mr. Perry 1 forgive him all he has said, and maj 
say agamst my acldre-fs, but he will allow me to deaf 
with the doctor — {audi alteram partem.) and nol 
betray me. I caifnot think what has befallen Mr. 
Perry, for of yore we were very good friends ; — bu' 
no matter, only get this inserted. 

" I have a poem on Waltzing for yoii, of which 1 
make you a present ; but it must be anonymous. It 
is in the old style of English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers. 

" P. S. With the next edition of Childe Harold 
you may print the first fifty or a hundred opening 
lines of the ' Curse of Minerva,' do\vn to the couplet 
beginning 

" Mortal ('twas thiifl she spake) &c. 

Of course, the moment the Satire begins there yon 
will stop, and the opening is the best part." 



LETTER CXLVIIl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

♦ 1. 19, 1815. 

" Many thanks, but I must pay the damac/e, and 
will thank you to tell me the amount for the en- 
graving. I think the * Rejected Addresses' by far 
the best thing of the kind since the Rolliad, and 
wish you had published them. Tell the author * I 
forgive him, were he twenty times over a satirist ;' 
and think his imitations not at all inferior to the 
famous ones of Hawkins Browne. He must be a 
man of very lively wit, and less scurrilous than 
wits often are: altogether, I very much admire the 
performance, and wish it all success. The Satirist 
has taken a new tone, as you will see : we have now, 
I think, finished with Childe Harold's critics. I 
have in hand a Satire on Waltzitu/* which you must 
publish anonymously ; it is not long, not quite two 
hundred lines, but will make a very small boarded 
pamphlet. In a few days you shall "have it. 

" P. S. The editor of the Satirist ought to be 
thanked for his revocation ; it is done handsomely 
after five years' warfare." 



LETTER CXLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Oe>. », isr. 

" Thanks, as usual. You go on boldly ; bnt 
have a care of f/liUfint/ the public, who have by this 
time had enough of Childe Harold. ' Waltzing' 
shall be prepared. It is rather above two hundred 
lines, with an introductory Letter to the Publisher. 
I think of publishing, with Childe lluroUl. tha 
<ipeniug lines of the ' Curse of Minerva, 'f us farm 
the first speech of Pallas, — because smne of tht 
readers like that part better than any I have ev(i 
written, and as it contains nothing toalfect the 8ul> 



Dr. Bualiy, i-niilli'il n Mnnolujpw, of which the Piiitxiy wiia PiioIaMd ti ' 
letlar. Thf lir*t limr lhii>« of the Diictur'i AililrtMs iir» at luliuw* i 
" When ffnrrjtixinif olijoci* men pnreiw, 
Wliiil imt Ihi- prmhs1<'« thry ciiiiiot ilof 
A niii^ic edincc ymi hi<n< iiirvpy, 
Shot Irom ihf rwhn of th(» other day I " 
Which vct»M UTT thu. ri.Uculfil In the Pnro,ly ;— 

<• ' Whrn rni»rsk.lnjr i>li)ivu n\rn pni«u»,' 
The l.iinl knoui wlmi in writ l)y Uml know* wfMl 
' A MiiMtcrit Miiinoliiifiie you here iiirrey,' 
lllit'i fiQin the thcntiT the ' oUier liav *** 
• 8<'e rornvs p. 480, 
t 8w Pn^iiia, p. iSi, 



790 



BYRON'S WORKS 



ject of the sah sequent portion, it will find a place 
as a Descriptive Fragment. 

'* T\ie jilate is broken ! — between ourselves, it was 
'znlike the picture, and besides, upon the whole, the 
frontispiece of an author's visage is but a paltry 
exhibition. At all events, tJiis would have been no 
recommendation to the book. I am sure Sanders 
would not have survived the engraving. By-the- 
by, the picture may remain with you or him (which 
you please) till my return. The one of two re- 
maining copies is at your service till I can give you 
a better ; the other must be burned peremptorily. 
Again, do not forget that I have an account with 
you, ai.J that this is included. I give you too much 
trouble to allow you to incur expense also. 

"Y'-.n best know how far this * Address riot' will 
affrot the future sale of Childe Harold. I like the 
volume of * Rejected Addresses' better and better. 
The other parody which Perry has received is mine 
also, (I bi Hove.) It is Dr. Busby's speech versified. 
Ygu are removing to Albemarle street, I find, and I 
rejoioe that we shall be nearer neighbors. I am 
going to Lord Oxford's, but letters here will be for- 
warded. When at leisure, all communications from 
you \vill be willingly received by the humblest of 
your scribes. Did Mr. Ward ^wite the review of 
iiorne To( ke's Life in the Quarterly ? it is ex- 
cellent." 



LETTER CL. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



" Chpltenliam, Not. 22, 18W. 

"On ray return here from Lord Oxford's I found 
vour obliging note, and will thank you to retain the 
letters, and other subsequent ones to the same ad- 
dress, till I arrive in town to claim them, which will 
probably be in a few days. I have in charge a cu 
rious and very long MS. poem written by Lord 
Brooke, (the friend of Sir 'Philip Sidney,) which I 
wish to submit to the inspection of Mr. Gifford, 
with the following queries : — ^first, whether it has 
ever been published, and, secondly (if not,) whether 
it is worth publication. It is from Lord Oxford's 
library, and must have escaped or been overlooked 
among the MSS. of the Harleian Miscellany. The 
writing is Lord Brooke's, except a different hand to- 
wards the close. It is very long, and in the six-line 
stanza. It is not for me to hazard an opinion upon 
its merits ; but I would take the liberty, if not too 
troublesome, to submit it to Mr. Gifford's judgment, 
which, from his excellent edition of Massinger, 1 
should conceive to be as decisive on the writings of 
that age as on those of our own. 

" Now for a less agreeable and important topic. 
How came Mr. Mac-Somebody , without consulting 
you or me, to prefix the Address to his volume* of 
' Dejected Addresses ?' Is not this somewhat lar- 
cenous ? 1 think the ceremony of leave might have 
been asked, though I have no objection to the thing 
itself; and leave the 'hundred and leeven' to tire 
themselves with 'base comparisons.' I should 
think the ingenuous public tolerably sick of the 
subject, and, except the Parodies, I have not inter- 
fered, nor shall ; indeed I did not know that Dr. 
Bisby had published his Apologetical Letter and 
Postscript, or I should have recalled them. But I 
confess I looked upon his conduct in a different light 
before its appearance. I see some mountebank has 
taken Alderman Birch's name to vituperate Dr. 
Busby ; he hud much better have pilfered his pastry, 
which I should imagine the more valuable ingredi- 
pnt — at least for a puff. Pray secure me a copy of 
Woodfall's new Junius, and believe me, &c." 



• "T.ie ^enane Rejecvd Addresses, presented to the Committee of Man- 
t^ine^t for LriNry-Lane Theatre : preceded by that written ty Lord Byron, 
lad adopted by the Coirunittoe : *'— publia'ied by B. McMillan. 



LETTER CLI 

TO MR. WILLIAM EANKES. 

" The mukitude of your recommendations has al 
ready superseded my humble endeavors to be of use 
to you, and, indeed, most of my principal friend* 
are returned. Leake from Joanina, Canning and 
Adair from the city of the faithful, and at Smyrnf 
no letter is necessary, as the consuls are always 
willing to do every thing for personages of respecta 
bility. I have sent you th^'ee, one to Gibralter, 
which, though of no great necessity, will, perhaps, 
put you on a more intimate footing Avith a very 
pleasant family there. You will very soon find out 
that a man of any consequence has very little oc- 
casion for any letters but to ministers and bankers, 
and of them you have already plenty, I will be 
sworn. 

" It is by no means improbable, that I shall go in 
the spring, and if you will fix any place of rendez- 
vous about August, I will write or join you. When 
in Albania, I wish you would inquire after Dervise 
Tahiri and Vascillie, (or Basil,) and make my re- 
spects to the viziers, both there and in the Morea, 
If you mention my name to Suleyman of Thebes, I 
think it will not hurt you ; if I had my dragoman 
or wrote Turkish, I could have given you letters o 
real service ; but to the English they are hardly re • 
quisite, and the Greeks themselves can be of little 
advantage. Liston you know already, and I do not, 
as he was not then minister. Mind you visit Ephe- 
sus and the Troad, and let me hear from you when 
you please. I believe G. Forresti is now at Yanina, 
but if not, whoever is there will be too happy to as- 
sist you. Be particular -Abont Jirmauns ; never al- 
low yourself to be bullied, for you are better 
protected in Turkey than any where ; trust not the 
Greeks ; and take some kniaknakeries for presents 
— watches, pistols, &c., (Src, to the Beys and Pa- 
chas. If you find one Demetrius, at Athens or else- 
where, I can recommend him as a good dragoman, I 
hope to join you, however; but you will find swarms 
of English now in the Levant. 

"Believe me, &c." 



LETTER CLII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

••fsfcrjaryao, 1313. 

"In 'Horace in London,' I perceive some stan- 
zas on Lord Elgin, in which (waiving the kind 
compliment to myself), I heartily concur. I wish 
I had the pleasure of Mr. Smith's acquaintance, as 
I could communicate the curious anecdote you 
read in Mr. T.'s letter. If he would like it, h-^ can 
liave the substance for his second edition ; if not, I 
shall add it to our next, though I think ,we already 
have enough of Lord Elgin. 

" What I have read of this work stems admi- 
rably done. My praise, hoAvever, is not much 
worth the author's havhig; but you may thank him 
in my name for his. The idea is new— we have ex- 
cellent imitations of the Satires, &c., by Pope; but 1 
remember but one imitative Ode in his works, and 
none any where else. I can hardly suppose that 
they have lost any fame by the fate of ihe farce , 
but even should this be the case, the present 
publication will again place them on their pinnacle 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER CLIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" March 25, 1813, 

" I enclose you a draft for the usurious interest 
due Xo'Loidi* *'&protigi i — I also could wish yoj 



LETTERS. 



79J 



would stite thus much for me to his lordship. 
Though the transaction speaks plainly in itself for 
tne borrower's folly and the lender's usury, it never 
was my intention to quash the demand, as I legally 
might, nor to withhold payment of principal, or, 
perhapp, even unlaioful interest. You know what 
my situation has been, and what it is. I have parted 
\^ith an estate, (which has been in my family for 
nearly three hundred years, and was never di.^graced 
by being in possession of a lavyyer, a churchman, or 
a woman, during that period,) to liquidate this and 
similar demands ; and the payment of the purchase 
is still withheld, and may be, perhaps, for years. If, 
fherefore, lam under the necessitv of making those 
parsons wait for their money, (which, considering 
the terms, they can afibrd to suffer,) it is my mis- 
fortune. 

" When I an-ived at majority in 1809, I offered 
my own security on legal interest, and it was refused. 
Now, I will not accede to this. This man I may 
have seen, but I have no recollection of the names 
of any parties but the agents and the securities. 
The moment T can, it is assuredly my intention to 
pa) my debts. This person's case may be a hard 
one ; but, under all circumstaijces, what is mine ? 
I could not foresee that the purchaser of my estate 
was to demur in paying for it. 

** I am glad it happens to be in my power so far 
to accommodate my Israelite, and only wish I could 
do as much for the rest of the Twelve Tribes. 
" Ever yours, dear R. 

"Bn." 



LETTER CLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

** Westall has, I believe, agreed to illustrate 
vour book,* and I fancy one of the engravings will 
be from the pretty little girl you saw the other day,t 
though without her name, and merely as a model 
for some sketch connected with the subject. I 
would also have the portrait (which you saw to-day) 
of the frietid who is mentioned in the text at the 
close of Canto first, and in the notes, — which are 
subjects sufficient to authorize that addition." 



Early in the spring he brought out, anonymously, 
his poem on Waltzing, which, though full of very 
lively satire, fell so far short of what was now ex- 
pected from him by the public, that the disavowal 
of it, which, as we see by the following letter, he 
thought right to put forth, found ready credence. 



LETTER CLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April 21, 1818, 

•*I shall be in town by Sunday next, and will call 
and have some conversation on the 8ul)ject of West- 
all's designs. I am to sit to him for a picture at 
the request of a friend of mine, and aa Sanders's is 
not a good one, you will probably prefer the other. 
1 wish you to have Sanders's taken down and sent 
to my lodgings immodiately — before my arrival. 1 
hear that a certain nialicions publication on Waltz- 
,1 Ing.is attributed to me. This report, I suppose, 
' you will take care to contradict, as the author, I am 
lure, \nill not like that I should wear his cap and 



• A -viw ftlik) I 4' :i.Ud« HHroUI. 

t Liuiy JViiirlotve llnrtRy, to whom, under the niime a' Inntha, the iiilio- 
inciury IUim '.o ChUil{ ilaroM were ul«rw«nl •ddnMod. 



bells. Mr. Hobhouse's quarto w\ll be out immedi 
ately ; pray send to the author for an early copy, 
which I wish to take abroad with me. 

*'P. S. I see the Examiner threatens some ob- 
servations upon you next week. What can you 
have done to share the wrath which has heretofore 
been principally expended upon the Prince '' 1 
presume all your Scribleri will be drawn up in bat 
tie array in defence of the modern Tonson— Mr. 
Bucke, for instance. 

" Send in my account to Bennet street, as I wish 
to settle it before sailing." 



LETTER CLVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY 

" Maidenhead, June 13, 1813. 

«< * * « I have read the ' Strictures,'* which 
are just enoiigh, and not grossly abusive, in very 
fair couplets. There is a note against Massingcr 
near the end, and one cannot quarrel with one's 
company, at any rate. The author detects some 
incongruous figures in a passage of English Bards, 
page 23, but which edition I do not know. In the 
sole copy in your possession — I mean the ^fifth 
edition — you may make these alterations, that 1 
may profit (though a little too late) by his remarks : 
For ' hellish instinct,' substitute ' bmtal instinct ; ' 
' harpies ' alter to \felo?is ; ' and for ' blood-hounds ' 
write ' hell-hounds. 't These be ' very bitter words, 
by my troth,' and the alterations not much sweeter; 
but as I shall not publish the thing, they can do no 
harm, but are a satisfaction to me in the way ol 
amendment. The passage is only twelve lines. 

" You do not answer me about H.'s book ; I want 
to write to him, and not to sav any thhig unpleas- 
ing. If you direct to post-office, Portsmouth, till 
called for, I will send and receive your letter. Yo« 
never told me of the forthcoming critique on Co- 
lumbus, which is not too fair ; and I do not think 
justice quite done to the ' Pleasines,'+ which surely 
entitle the author to a higher rank than that assigned 
him in the Quarterly. But I must not cavil at the 
decisions of the invisible infallibles ; and the article 
is very well written. The general horror of \frag 
ments ' makes me tremulous for the * Giaour ; ' but 
you would publish it — I presume, by this time, to 
your repentance. But as I consented, whatever be 
its fate, I won't now quarrel with you, even though 
I detect it in my pastry ; but I shall not open a pie 
without a])prehension for some weeks. 

"The books which may be marked G. O., I will 
carry out. Do you know Clarke's Naufragia? 1 
am told that he assorts t\\e^first volume of Robinson 
Crusoe was written by the first Lord Oxford, when 
in ihe Tower, and given bv him to Defoe ; if true. 
it is a curious anecdote, ilavc you got buck Lc'tl 
Brooke's MS..' and .what does Heber say cf it? 
Write to me at Portsmouth. 

" Ever yours, &c. 



LETTER CLVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•«Jimr IS, IHIX 

'« Dkar Sir, 

" Will you forward the enclosed answer to Ih* 
kindest letter I ever received in my life, my sons* 
of wliich I can neither express to Mr. Gilford hiir 
self uor to any one else. 

*• Ever yours, 



Oo the Batiiv, bj Mr. (>/««. , Sm EnfUih BAtOt. 

X Poeni*, \ij Mr. Rogvm. 



792 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CLVIII. 



TO W. GIFFORD, ESQ. 

"June 18, 1813. 

'* My Dear Sir, 

" I feel greatly at a loss how to write to you at all 
—still more to thank you as I ought. If you knew 
the veneration with which I have ever regarded you, 
long before I had the most distant prospect of be- 
coming your acquaintance, literary or personal, my 
embarrassment would not surprise you. 

*' ^ny suggestion of yours, even were it conveyed 
in the less tender shape of the text of the Baviad, 
)i a Monk Mason note in Massinger, would have 
Deen pb^yed; I should have endeavored to improve 
myself by your censure : judge then if I should be 
less willing to profit by your kindness. It is not 
for me to bandy compliments with my elders and 
my betters : I receive your approbation with grati- 
tude, and will not return my brass for your gold, by 
expressing more fully those sentiments of admira- 
tion, which, however sincere, would, I know, be 
unwelcome. 

" To your advice on religious topics, I shall equal- 
ly attend. Perhaps the best way will be by avoiding 
them altogether. The already published objection- 
able passages have been much commented upon, 
but certainly have been rather strongly interpreted. 
I am no bigot to infidelity, and did not expect that, 
because I doubted the immortality of man, I should 
be charged with denying the existence of a God. 
It was the comparative insignificance of ourselves 
and otir world, when placed in comparison with the 
mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led 
me to imagine that our pretensions to eternity 
might be overrated. 

'~ '' This, and being early disgusted with a Calvan- 
istic Scotch school, when I was cudgelled to church, 
for the first ten years of my life, afflicted me with 
this malady ; for, after all, it is, I believe, a disease 
of the mind as much as other kinds of hypochon- 
dria." 



LET^L'R CLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'June 22, 1813. 



******** 

"Yesterday I dined in company with ***, the 
Epicene,' Avhose politics are sadly changed. She is 
for the Lord of Israel and the Lord of Liverpool — a 
vile antithesis of a Methodist and a Tory — talks of 
nothing but devotion and the ministry, and, I pre- 
sume, expects that God and the government will 
hslp her to a pension. 

******** 

"Murray, the ava^ of publishers, the Anac of 
stationers, has a design upon you in the paper line. 
Ha wants you to become the staple and stipendiarv 
editor of a periodical work. What say you } Will 
you be bound, like • Kit Smart, to write'for ninety- 
nine years in the Universal Visiter ?' Seriously, he 
talks of hundreds a year, and — though I hate prat- 
ing of -the beggoily elements— his proposal may be 
to your honor and profit, and, I am very sure, will 
be to our pleasure 

•* I don't know what to say about * friendship.' I 
never was in fric:idship but once, in my nineteenth 
year, and then ir gave me as much trouble as love. 
I am afraid, as AVhitbread's sire said to the king, 
when he wanted to knight him, that I am ' too old : ' 
but, nevertheless, no one wishes you more friends, 
fame, and felicity, than *' Yours, &c." 



LETTER CLX 



TO MR. MOORE. 



•« 4, Benedictine street, St. Jame*'* July 8, 1811. 

" I presume by your sixence that I have blundered 
into something noxious in my reply to your letter i 
for the which I beg leave to send, beforehand, a 
sweeping apology, which you may apply to any, oi 
all, parts of that unfortunate epistle. If I err in 
my conjecture, I expect the like from you, in put- 
ting our correspondence so long in quarantine 
Gc^ he knows what I have said ; but he also knows, 
(if he is not as indiff"erent to mortals as the nou' 
chalant deities of Lucretius,) that you are the last 
person I want to offend. So, if I have, — why the 
devil don't you say it at once, and expectorate your 
spleen ? 

"Rogers is out of town with Madame de Sta6l, 
who hath published an Essay against Suicide, 
which, I presume, will make somebody shoot him- 
self ; as a sermon by Blinkensop, in joroo/' of Chris- 
tianity, sent a hitherto most orthodox acquaintance 
of mine out of a chapel of ease a perfect atheist. 
Have you found or founded a residence yet } and" 
have you begun or finished a Poem ? If you 
won't tell me what I have done, pray say what 
you have done, or left undone, yourself. I am 
till in equipment for voyaging, and anxious tc 
hear from, or of, you before I go, which anxiety 
you should remove more readily, as you think I 
shan't cogitate about you afterward. I shall give 
the lie to that calumny by fifty foreign letters, par- 
ticularly from any place where the plague is rife,— 
without a drop of vinegar or a whiff" of sulphur to 
save you from infection. Pray write : I am sorry to 
say that * * * . 

'The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight^"" 
and my sister is in town, which is a great comfort— . 
for, never having been much together, we are nat- .y 
urally more attached to each other. I presume the 
illuminations have conflagrated to Derby (or wher- 
ever you are) by this time. We are just recovering 
from tumult, and train oil, and transparent frip- 
peries, and all the noise and nonsense of victory. 
t)rury Lane had a large M. W. which some thought 
was Marshal Wellington ; others that it might be 
translated into Manager Whitbrcad ; while the 
ladies of the vicinity and the saloon conceived the 
last letter to be complimentary to themsel<res. I 
leave this to the commentators to illuminate. H 
you don't answer this, I shan't say what you de- 
serve, but I think I deserve a reply. Do you con- 
ceive there is no Post-Bag but the Twopenny ? 
Sunburn me, if you are not too bad." 



LETTER CLXl. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" July IH, 1813. 
* » 



« * * * * * 

' Your letter set me at ease ; for I really thought 
(as I hear of your susceptibility) that I had said — I 
know not what — but something I should have been 
very sorry for, had it, or I, off"endod you ; though I 
don't see how a man with a beautiful wife, hin own 
children, quiet, fame, competency, and friends, (1 
will vouch for a thousand, which is more than I will 
for a unit in my own behalf,) can be offended with 
any thing. 

" Do you know, Moore, I am amazingly inclined 
■remember I say but inclined — to be seriously 
enamored with Lady A. F. — ^but this *■ * has ruined 
all my prospects. However, you know her ; is she 
clever, or sensible, or good-tempered ? either would 
do — I scratch out the ^vill. I don't ask as to hei 
beauty, that I see ; but my circumstances are mend- 
ing, and were not my other prospi)cts blackening, 1 



V 



LETTEKS. 



(9„ 



would take a wife, and that should be the woman, 
had I a chance. I do not yet know her much, but 
better than I did. 

*' I want to get away, but find difficulty in com- 
passing a passage in a ship of war. They Lad bet- 
ter let me go ; if I cannot, patriotism is the word — 
*nay, an' they'll mouth, I'll rant as well as they.' 
Now, what are ytu doing ? writing, we all hope, for 
our own sakes. Remember you must edit my 
posthumous works, with a Life of the Author, for 
which I will send you Confessions, dated ' Lazaret- 
to, Sir-yrna, Malta, or Palermo — one can die any 
where. 

"There is to be a thing on Tuesday ycleped a 
national fete. The Regent and * * * are to be 
there, and every body else, who has shillings enough 
for what wa.s once a guinea. Vauxhall is the scene 
—there are six tickets issued for the modest women, 
and it is supposed there will be three to spare. The 
passports for the lax are beyond my arithmetic. 

" p. S. The Stat'l last night attacked me most 
furiously — said that I had ' no right to make love — 
that I had used * * barbarously — that I had no 
feeling, and was totally msensible to la belle pas- 
sion, and had been all my life.' I am very glad to 
hear it, but did not know it before. Let me hear 
from you anon." 



LETTER CLXII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" July 25, 1813, 

1 am not well versed enough in the ways of sin- 
gle women to make much uiatrinionial progress. * * 

*' I have been dining like the dragon of Wantley 
for this last week. My head aches with the vintage, 
f ^ 3f various cellars, and. my brains are muddled as 
'' their dregs. I met your friends, the D * *s : she 
Bung one of your best songs so well, that, but for 
the appearance of affectation, I could have cried; 
he reminds me of Hunt, but handsomer, and more 
musical in soul, perhaps. I wish to God he may 
conquer his horrible anomalous complaint. The 
upper part of her face is beautiful, and she seom.' 
much attached to her husband. He is right, nev 
ertheless, in leaving this nauseous town. The first 
wiiter would infallibly destroy her complexion, and 
the second, very probably every thing else. 

*' I must tell you a story. M * * (of indifferent 
memory; was dining out the other day, and com- 
plaining of the Prince's coldness to his old wassail- 
crs. D' * * (a lea];ued Jew) bored him with ques- 
tions — why thus ? and wliy that ? ' Wliy did the 
Prince acit thus ? * ' Why, sir, on account of Lord 
* *, who ought to be ashamed of himself! ' 'And 
why o\ight Lord ** to be ashamed of himself?', 
, • Because the Prince, sir, * »***♦**.' 
/ * And why, sir, did the I'rince cut tjou f ' ' Because, 
G — d d — niuie, sir, I stuck to my principles.' 'And 
whj/ did you stick to your principles ? ' 

" Is not tliis last question the best that ever was 
put, when you consider to whom .-' It nearly killed 
M * *. Perhajjs you may think it 8tu|^id, but, as 
(ioidsmith said al)out the peas, it was a very good 
ioke when I heard it — as I did from an ear-vtnitness 
— and is only spoiled in my narration. 

"The season has closed "with a Dandy Ball; — but 
I have dinners with the Ilari.nvbvs, Rogers, and 
Frere and Mackintosh, where I s^iall drink your 
healtl in a silent bumper, ami regret your absence 
till 'too much canaries' wash away n)y memory, 
or render it superfluous by a vision of you at tljc 
opposite side of the 1al)le. Canning has disbanded 
party by a Hi)ceoh ft i)m his ♦ * ♦ » — 
the true throne of a Tory. Conceive his turning; 
them off" iji a formal harangue, and bidding tlnni 
^hiTik for themselves. * J have led my ragamulKns 
vhere they are well peppered. There oie but three of 



100 



the one hundred and fifty left alive, and they are 
for the Towri's-end fguery, might not Falstaff meat: 
the Bow-street officer ? I dare say Malone's post, 
humous edition will have it so) for life. 

"Since I wrote last, I have been into the country, 
I journeyed by night — no incident or accident, but 
an alarm on the part of my valet on the outside, 
who, in crossing Epping Forest, actually, I believe, 
flung down his purse before a mile-stone, with a 
glowworm in the second figure of number XIX.— 
mistaking it for a footpad and dark lantern. I can 
only attribute his fears to a pair of new pistols, 
wherewith I had armed him ; and he thought it 
necessary to display his vigilance by calling out to 
me whenever we passed any thing — no mattei 
whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles, 
with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you 
a fearfully long letter. This sheet must be blank, 
and is merely a wrapper, to pi-eclude the tabella- 
rians of the post from peeping. You once com- 
plained of my not writing ; — I will heap ' coals oJ 
fire upon your head ' by not complaining of your not 
reading. Ever, my dear Moore, your'n, (isn't tha* 
the Staffordshire termination ?) 

♦• Byrov 



LETTER CLXIIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"July 27, 1813. 

" When you next imitate the style of ' Tficitus,' 
pray add, ' de moribus Germanorum ; ' — this last 
was a piece of barbarous silence, and could only be 
taken from the Woods, and, as such, I attribute it 
entirely to your sylvan sequestration at Mayficld 
Cottage. You will find, on casting up accounts, 
that you are my debtor by several sheets and one 
epistle. I shall bring my action ; — if you don't dis- 
charge, expect to hear from my attorney. I have 
forwaixled your letter to Ruggiero ; but don't make 
postman of me again, for fear I should be tempted 
to violate your sanctity of wax or wafer. 

** Believe me ever yours, indignantly, 

"Bn. 



LETTER CLXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"jtiy, 08, ma, 
'* Can't you be satisfied with the pangs of my 
jealousy of Rogers, without actually making me 
the pander of your ei)istolary intrigue r This is 
the second letter you have enclosed to my address, 
notwithstanding a miraculous long answer, and a 
subseciuent one or two of your own. If you do s;> 
again, I can't tell to what pitch my fury may sosu. 
I shall send you verse or arsenic, us likely us any 
thing, — four thousand ccniplots on sheets beyonc' 
the privilege of franking; that privilege, sir, of 
whicn you take an undue advantage over a too 
susceptible senator, ty ft)rwarding your lu('ul)ralion? 
to every one but himself. I wont frank //(>«» yim, 
or for yon, or to you, may I be cursed if I do, unless 
you mend your manners. 1 disown yoti — I disclaim 
you — and by all the powers of I'lulogy, I will write 
a panegyric upon you — or dedicate a quaito — if you 
don't make me ample anuMids. 

" P. S. I am in training to dine with Sheridan 
and Rogers this evening. I liave n little sjute 
against R., and will shed his 'Clary wines potll* 
diep.' This is nearly my ultl'uate or pcnulvimutt 
letter; for I am quite ('(luippeil, and only w ilt | 
passage. Perhaps I mav wait » .ovr wouki *o» 
Sligo ; but not if I jau lu'lp it." 



794 



UiKOJ^'S WORKS. 



LETTER CLXV. 



TO MR. CKOCKEtt. 



"Bt.Str. Augusts, 1813. 

•*Dear Sir, 

*' I was honored with your unexpected and very 
obliging letter when on the point of leaving Lon- 
don, which prevented me from acknowledging my 
ttbligation as qnickly as I felt it sincerely. I am 
endeavoring all in my power to be ready before 
Saturday ; and even if I should not succeed, I can 
only blame my own tardiness, which will not the 
less enhance the benefit I have lost, I have only 
to add my hope of forgiveness for all my trespasses 
on your time and patience, and^with my best wishes 
for 'your public and private welfare, I have the 
bonor to be, most truly, 

'* Your obliged and most obedient servant, 

" Byron." 



The following notes to Mr. Murray, have reference 
to a fifth edition of the " Giaour," then in press. 
The poem first appeared in the May preceding, and 
contained originally but about four hundred lines, 
and was gradually increased through successive 
editions to its present number, nearly fourteen 
hundred. In a note wliich accompanied the man- 
uscript of the paragraph commencing 

" Fair clinie, where every season smiles," 

he says, " I have not yet fixed the place of insertion 
for the following lines, but will when I see you." 
The whole portion from the line 



down to 



' For there tlie rose o'er crag and vale," 
" And turn to groans liis roundelay," 



was inserted during the revision of the proofs. 
The passage stood originally thus : — 

" Fair clime I where ceaseless summer smiles 
Benignant o'er tliose blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad tiie heart thai hails the sight. 
And give to loneliness delight. 
There shhte the bright abodes ye seek, 
Like dimples upon Ocean's cheek,— 
So smiling round tlie toaters lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave. 
Or if, at times, the transient breeze 
Break the smooth crystal of the seas, 
Or brush one blossom from the trees, 
How grateful is the gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the fragrance there." 

The several passages beginning — 



and 



' He who hath bent him o'er the dead : 

' The cygnet proudly walks the water : 

" My memory now is but the lomb : " 



were added to the fourth edition, between which 
and the first, only six weeks intervened. 
The verses commencing — 

" The browsing cameU' belli arc tiukling : " 

and the passage 

" Yes, love indeed is light from heaven," 

were inserted in the fifth edition, and subsequently 
Ihe following — 

«' She was a form of life and light. 
That, seen, became a pan of sight, 
And rose, where'er I turn'd n^'ne eye, 
The Moruiiig-star of memory I " 

' If yon send more proofs, I shall never finish 
chis infernal story — ' Ecce signum ' — thirty-three 
Unes more enclosed ! to the utter discomfiture of 
the prii-te^ and, I fear, not to your advantage. 

* B." 



" H df pan tv> ic -k moivdng, Aug 10, WS. 

Dear Sir, 

" Pray suspend the proofs, for I am hiUen ^aiu 
and have quantities for other parts of the braviua. 
" Yours ever, 

" B." 
' P. S. You shall have them in the course of thft 
day." 



LETTER CLXVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"AiiguKSJ, ISIS. 

'* I have looked over and corrected one proof, but 
not so carefully (God knows if you can read it 
through, but I can't) as to preclude your eye froai 
discovering some omission of mine or commission 
of your printer. If you have patience, look it 
over. Do you know any body who can stop — I 
mean point — commas, and so forth ? for I am, I 
hear, a sad hand at your punctuation. I have, but 
with some difficulty, ?iot added any more to this 
snake of a Poem, which has been lengthening its 
rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, 
being more than a canto and a half of Childe 
Harold, which contains but eight hundred and 
eighty-iwo lines per book, with all late additions 
inclusive. 

" The last lines Hodgson likes. It is not often 
he does, i^nd when he don't, he tells me with great 
energy, and I fret and alter. I have thrown them 
in to soften the ferocity of otir Infidel, and, for a 
dying man, have given him a good deal to say for 
himself. * * * * 

" I was quite sorry to hear you say you stayed in 
town on my account, and I hope sincerely you do 
not mean so superfluous a piece of politeness. 

" Our six critiques ! — they would have made hali 
a Quarterly by themselves ; but this is the age ot 
criticism." 



The following refer apparently to a still latex 
edition. 

LETTER CLXVIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Stilton, Oct. 3, 1813. 

**I have just recollected an alteration you may 
make in the proof to be sent to Aston. — Among 
the lines on Hassan's Serai, not far from the begin- 
ning, is this — 

" Unmeet for Solitude to share. 

Now to share, implies more than one, and Solitude 
is a single gentleman ; it must be thus — 

" For many a gilded chamber's there, 
Which Solitude might well forbear ; 

and so on. — My address is Ashton Hall, Rotherham. 
" Will you adopt this correction ? and pray accept 
a Stilton chftjse from me for your trouble. • 
" Ever yourSj 

" B." 

"If* the old line stands, let the other run thus— 

" Nor there will weary traveller halt, 
To bless the sacred bread and salt. 

" Note. — To partake of food — to break bread and 
taste salt with your host, ensures the safety of the 
guest ; even though an enemy, his person from thai 
moment becomes sacred. 

" There is another additional note sent yesterday 
— on the Priest in the Confessional. 



* This te written on a separate slip piece of paper enclcmd. 



LETTERS. 



79c 



P. S. I leave this to your discretion: if anyinage, and, — after a long struggle between th« 
oody thinks'the old line a good one, or the cheese a j natural desire of destroying one's fe. low-creatures, 

and the dislike of seeing men play the fool foi 
nothing, — I got one to make an apology, and the 
other to take it, and left them to live happy evei 



ftad one, don't accept either. But, in that case 
the word share is repeated soon after in the line — 

" To share the roaster's bread and salt j 

and must be altered to — 

" To break the maslet's bread and gait. 

Tkis ^s not so well, though — confound it ! " 



LETTER CLXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•' Oct. 12, 1813. 

*' \ on must look the * Giaour' again over carefully ; 
there arc a few lapses, particularly in the last page. 
— ' I know 'twas ^alse ; she could not die ; ' it was, 
and ought to be-- ' I knew.^ Pray observe this and 
Bimilar mistakes 

" I have received and read the British Review. I 
really think the writer in most points very right. 
The only mortifying thing is the accusation of 
imitation. Crabbe's passage I never saw, and Scott 
I no further meant to follow than in his lyric 
mea'^ure, which is Gray's, Milton's, and any one's 
who likes it. The ' Giaour ' is certainly a bad 
character, but not dangerous ; and I think his fate 
and his feelings will meet with few proselytes. I 
shall be very g ad to hear from or of you, when you 
please ; but don't put yourself out of your way on 
my account." 



LETTER CLXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Bennet street, Aug. 22, 1813. 
m * * * * * 

" As our late — I might say, deceased — correspon- 
dence iiad ijoo much of the town-life leaven in it, 
we will now ' paulo majora,' prattle a little of 
literature in all its branches ; and first of the first — 
criticism. The Prince is at Brighton, and Jackson, 
the boxer, gone to Margate, having, I believe, 
decoyed Yarmouth to see a milling in that polite 
neighborhood. Mad«. de Stajl Holstein has lost 
one of her young barons, who has been carbona- 
doed by a vile Teutonic adjutant, — kilt and killed 
in a coffee-house at Scrawsenhawsen. Corinne is, 
Df course, what all mothers must be, — but will, I 
venture to prophesy, do what few mothers could — 
wr'te an Essay upon it. She can not exist without 
a grievance — and somebody to see, or read, how 
much grief becomes her. I have not seen her since 
the event ; but merely judge (not very charitably) 
from prior observation. 

" In a ' mail-coach copy ' of the Edinburgh, I 
perceive the 'Giaour' is second article. The numbers 
are still in the Leith smnck—prai/ , which irau in the 
uiindl The said article is so very mild 'and senti- 
mental, that it must be written by Jelfrey in love; 
—you know he is gone to America to marry some 
fair one, of whom he has been for several qitariers, 
''j)erdiirn»nt ainoureux. Seriously — as Winifred Jen- 
kins says of Lisinahago — Mr .^elfrt'y (or his dfputy) 
'has done the handsome thing by me,' and I say 
nothiiKj* But tills I will say, — if you and I had 
knocked one another on the head in this qviarrcl, 
how he would have laughed, and what a mighty 
bad figure we should have cut in our posthumous 
works. By-t,lie-by, I was eallcd in the other day to 
mediate between two gentlemen bent upon car- 

* ••• Don J\UM. CanU. >., tttuam xtU 



after. One was a peer, the other a friend untitled, 
and both fond of high play ; — and one, I can swear 
for, though very mild, 'net fearful,' and so dead a 
shot, that, though the othei is the thinnest of men, 
he would hcive split him like a cane They both 
conducted themselves very well, and I put them out 
of paht as soon as I could. • * * * « 

•'There is an American Life of G. F. Cook 5^ 
Scurra deceased, lately published. Such a book ! — j. 
believe, since Drunken Barnaby's Journal, nothing 
like it has drenched the press. All green-room and 
tap-room — drams and the drama — brandy, whiskey- 
punch, and, latter/ 1/, toddy, overflow every page. 
Two things are rather marvellous — first, that a man 
should live so long drunk, and, next, that he should 
have found a sober biographer. There are some 
very laughable things in it, nevertheless : — but the 
pints he swallowed, and the parts he performed, are 
too regularly registered. 

'' All this time you wonder that I am not gone; 
so do I ; but the accounts of the plague are Very 
perplexing — not so mup h for the thing itself as the 
quarantine established in all ports, .and from all 
places, even from England. It is true the forty or 
sixty days would, in all probability, be as foolishly 
spent on shore as in the ship ; but one likes to have 
one's choice, nevertheless. Town is awfully empty : 
but not the worse for that. I am really puzzled with 
my perfect ignorance of what I mean to do ; — not 
stay, if I can help it, but where to go ? Sligo i& for 
the North, — a pleasant place, Petersburgh, in 
September, with one's ears and nose in a muff' or 
else tumbling into one's neckclotlf or i)ocket hand 
kerchief! If the winter treated Bonaparte with so 
little ceremony, what would it inflict upon your 
solitary traveller ? give me a stm, I care not how 
hot, and sherbet, I care not how cool, and my 
Heaven is as easily made as your Persian's.* The 
Giaour is now one thousand and odd lines. ' Loro 
Fanny spins a thousand such a day,' eh, Moore ?•— 
thou vnlt needs be a wag, but I forgive it. 

" Yours ever, " Bn.'' 

"P. S. I perceive I have written a flippant ana 
rather cold-hearted letter : let it go, however. I 
have said nothing, either, of the brilliant sex ; but 
the fact is, I am at this moment, in a far more seri- 
ous, and entirely new scrape than any of the last 
twelvenu)nth, — and that is saying a good deal. * ♦ 
It is unlucky we can neither live with or without 
these women. 

" I am now thinking and regretting that just as I 
have left Newstead, you rwside near it. Did you 
ever see it ? do — but don't tell me that you like it. 
If I hud known of such intellectual neighborhood, I 
don't think I should have quitted it. You could 
have come over so often, as a bachelor, — for it was 
a thorough bachelor's mansion — i)lentY of wine and 
such sordid sensualities — with books enough, room 
enough, and an air of antiquity about all (except 
the lasses) that wouhl have suited you, when pen- 
sive, and served you to laugh at when in ulec. I 
had built myself a bath and a vault — an^ now 1 
shan't even be buried in it. It is odd that we can't 
«>ven be certain of n (/rave, at least a particular one 
I ri'meml)er, when about fifteen, readiuii your nocins 
there,— which I can repeat almost now. — .\na ask- 
ing all kinds of qu»>stions about thf author, wlien I 
heard he was not dead according to the luefnco 
wondering if I slunild ever s(>c hinj — and though 
at that time, without the smallest poetical pro;-. 11- 
sity mvsrlf, very much taken, us you may imai;iiie, 
with tliat volume. Adieu — I commit you to th< 




796 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



«are of the gods— Hindoo, Scandma\'ian, and 
Hellenic ! 

•*P. S. 2d. There is an exellent review of Grimm's 
Correspondence and Made, de Stael in this No. of 
the Edinbm-gh Review. ***** 
Jeffrey, himself, was my critic last year ; but this 
is. I believe, by another hand. 1 hope you are proing 
on with your grmid coup — pray do — or that damned 
Lucien Bonaparte will beat us all. I have seen 
much of his poem in MS. and he really surpasses 
every thing beneath Tasso. Hodgson is translating 
him against another bard. You and (I believe, | 
Rogers) Scott, Gilford, and myself, are to be re- 
ferred to as judges between the twain ; that is, if you 
accept the office. Conceive our different opinions ! 
I think we, most of us (I am talking very impu- 
dently, you will think — us, indeed !) have a way of 
our own, — at least, you and Scott certainly have." 



LETTER CLXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Aug. 28, 1813. 

** Ay, my dear Moore, * there was a time ' — I have 
heard of your tricks when ' you was campaigning 
at the king of Bohemy.' I am much mistaken if, 
some fine Lond n spring, about the year 1815, that 
time does not come again. After all we must end 
in marriage ; and I can conceive nothing more de- 
lightful than such a state in the country, reading 
the county newspaper, &c., and kissing one's wife's 
maid. Seriously, I would incorporate with any 
wonip.n of decent demeanor to-morrow — that is, I 
would a month ago, but, at present, * * * *. 

" Why don't yon , parody that Ode ? '* — Do you 
think I should be tetclajf or have you done it, and 
won't tell me ? — You are quite x'ight, about Giam- 
schid, and I have reduced it to a dissyllable within 
this half-hour. t I am glad to hear you talk of 
Richardson, because it tells me what you won't — 
that you are going to beat Lucien. At least, tell 
me how far you have proceeded. Do you think me 
less interested about your works, oV less sincere 
than our friend Ruggiero ? I am not — and never 
was. In that thing of mine, the 'English Bards,' 
at the time when I was angry with all the world, I 
never ' disparaged your parts,' although I did not 
know you personally ; and have always regretted that 
you don't give us an entire work, and not sprinkle 
yourself in detatched pieces — beautiful, I allow, and 
quite alone in our language, but still giving us a 
right to expect a iShafi Nameh (is that the name .^) 
as well as Gazels. Stick to the East ; the oracle, 
Stael, told me it was the only poetical policj'. The 
North, South, and West, have all been exhausted ; 
but from the East, we have nothing but Southey's 
unsaleables. — and these he has contrived to spoil, 
by adopting only their most outrageous fictions. 
His personages don't interest us, and yours will. 
You will have no competitor ; and if you had, you 
ought to be glad of it. The little I have done in 
that way is merely a * vP'.oe in the wilderness ' for 
you ; and, if it has had anv success, that also will 
prove that the public are orientalizing, and pave the 
path for you. 



• The Ode of Horace, 

" Natia in uaum Itetitiie," &c., 
vne passag-ps of which Mr. Moore told him might be paix>died, in aliuiioii 
n lome of liis late adveniures : 

" duanta laboras ir Charybdi I 
Digne puer meliore flamma I " 
■, Id hi» first edition of tl^ jiaour he had used tliis word as a trisyllable, — 
Bright as the (rem of Giam«)iid," — Iml on Mr. Moore's remarking to him, 
apon the aninooty of Richardajs'a Persian Dictionary, that this was incorrect, 
M> altered it to "Bright as the ruby of Gianischid." On sefii g this, how- 
»»«r. Mr. M. wrote to him, " that, aa the comparison of his heroine's eye to 
nifty ' might unlnckily call up the idea of its being bloodshot, he had 
Mtter e».ange je line to ' ririghl as the )ewel of Giamsehid ; ' "—which he 
iimntu^^ diQ c the ft) nring editioa 



" I have been thinking of a story, grafted on tiu 
amours of a Peri and a mortal — something like, 
only more phi I anthr apical, than Gazette's Diable 
Amoreaixx.* It would require a good deal of poesy ; 
and tenderness is not my forte. For that, and othe- 
reasons, I have given up the idea, and merelj 
suggest it to you be"'ause, in intervals of youi 
greater work, I think it a subject you might make 
much of. If vou want any more books, there is 
'Castellan's Mceurs des Ottomans,' the best com- 
pendium of the kind I ever met with, in six small 
tomes. I am really taking a liberty by talking ir. 
this style to my ' elders and my betters ; ' — ^pardon 
it, and don't Rockefoiccault my motives. 



LETTER CLXXL 



TO MB. MOORE. 

•' AnguEt — September, I mean — I, 1813. 

" I send you, begging your acceptance, Castellan, 
three vols, "on Turkish Literature, not yet looked 
into. The last I will thank you to read, extract 
what you want, and return in a week, as they are 
lent to me by the brightest of northern constella- 
tions. Mackintosh, — among many other kind things 
into which India has warmed him, for I am sure 
your /lome Scotsman is of a less genial description. 

" Your Peri, my dear M., is sacred and inviolable ; 
I have no idea of touching the hem of her petticoat. 
Your affectation of a dislike to encounter me is so 
flattering, that I begin to think myself a very fine 
fellow. But you are laughing at me — ' stap my 
vitals, Tam ! thou art a very impudent person ; ' 
and, if vqu are not laughing at me, you deserve tc 
be laughed at. Seriously, what on earth can you, oi 
have you, to dread from any poetical flesh breath- 
ins: ? It really puts me out of humor to hear you 
talk thus. ***** 

" The ' Giaour ' I have added to a good deal ; but 
still in foolish fragments. It contains about twelve 
hundred lines, or rather more — now printing. You 
will allow me to send you a copy. You delight me 
much by telling me that I am in your good graces, 
and more particularly as to temper ; for, unluckily, 
I have the reputation of a very bad one. But 
they sav the devil is amusing when pleased, and I 
must have been more venomous than the old ser- 
pent, to have hissed or stung in your company. It 
mav be, and would appear to a third person, an in- 
credible thing, but I know you will believe me when 
I say that I am as anxious for your success as one 
human being can be for another's, — as much as il 
I had never scribbled a line. Surely the field of fame 
is wide enough for all ; and if it were not, I would 
not willinglv rob my neighbor of a rood of it. Now. 
you have a pretty property of some thousand acres 
there, and when you have passed your present En- 
closure Bill, your income will be doubled (there's a 
metaphor, worthy of a Templar, namely, pert and 
low,) while my wild common is too remote to incom- 
mode vou, and quite incapable of such fertility. I 
send you (which return per post, as the printer 
would say) a curious letter from a friend of mine • 



• See Heaven and Earth, r ge 248. 

t The following letter of Lo.-d Sligo.^ 

" Albany, Monday, Aug. 31, 1813. 
" My Dear Byron, 

" You have requested rae :o tell you all that I heard at Athens about tba 
affiiir of that girl wh Vaa so near being put an end to while you were there ; 
you have aaked me to mention every circumsuance, in the remotest degree r^ 
laling to it, which I heard. In compliance with ycur wish-^e, 1 write to jo* 
all I heard, and 1 cannot imagine it to bo very far from the fact, as the cip- 
ciiinstance happened only a day or two before I arrived at Athens, and com 
sequpnlly was a matter of common convetsation at the time. 

" The new goviTnor, imaccustomed to have the same intercourse with tlM 
ChristiatJ as Ills predecewor, had, of wurse, the barbarous I'urkish ideas wi'tfc 
ie/ai\l .0 women. In consequence lud in wmpliance with th» Kricf l«t« 



LETTERS. 



797 



which will let you into the origin of the ' Giaour.' 
Write soon. 

" Ever, dear Moore, yours most entirely, &c. 
'• P. S. This letter was written to me on account 
of a different story circulated by some gentle women 
of our acquaintance, a little f^o close to the text. 
The part erased contained merely some Turkish 
names, and circumstantial evidence of the girl's 
detection, not very important or decorous." 



LETTER CLXXIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Sept. 5, 1813. 

** You need not tie yourself down to a day with 
Toderini, but send him at your leisure, having 
anatomized him into such anrotations as you want; 
1 do not believe he has ever undergone that process 
before, which is the best reason for not sparing him 

DOW. 

" Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recov- 
ered of the Quarterly. What fellows these review- 
er's are ! ' these bugs do fear us all.' They made 
you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, 
and will end by making Rogers madder than Ajax. 
I have been reading 'Memory' again, the other day, 
and 'Hope' together, and retain all my preference of 
the former. His elegance is really wonderful — 
There is no such thing as a vulgar line^n his book. 

** What say you to Bonaparte ? Remember, I 
, Jack him against the field, barring Catalepsy and 
/ the elements. Nay, I almost wish hhn success 
/ ftgainst all countries but this, — were it only to choke 
^the Morning Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, 
with that rebellious bastard of Scandinavian adop- 
tion, Bemidotte. Rogers wants me to go with him 
on a crusade to the Lakes, and to beseige you on our 
way. This last is a great temptation, but I fear it 
will not be in my power, unless you would go on 
with one of us somewhere — no matter where. It is 
too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some 
scheme, high life or low, — the last would be much 
the best for amusemei.t. I am so sick of the other, 
that I quite sigh for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a 
smuggler's sloop. 

" You cannot ^vish more than I do that the Fates 
were a little more accommodating to our parallel 
lines, which prolong ad infinitum without coming 
a jot the nearer. I almost wish I were married too, 
which is saying much. All my friends, seniors and 
juniors, are in for it, and ask me to be godfather, — 
the only species of parentage which, I believe, will 
ever come to my share in a lawful way ; and, in an 
unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can 
never be certain, — though the parish may. I sup- 



d( iy»? Mahommedan law, he ordered the girl to be iewfHl up In a iftclc, «nil 
lOKWH into t)io letu— lu la, Indned, quite cuitonrmry at (JnnsiBiitinople. A* 
fan ware irturr.Ing frim Uitlili)g In tlie Pirteua, you met the pmccMioii going 
iown to eifcute ti« sentence of the Waywodi on ihU luifortnnale girl. Ue- 
fOrt Cblitii-iuei to iKy, tliat on finding whiU the object ol tln-ir jonrut-y wai, 
«!itl wfco wae the lulaeruble •ulVerer, you itniuedhitely iiitrrfi'red ; and on 
tome delny In clieyiiig your onlnn, you were obligirtl to Inform the leader of 
Uw t'uacM that fnree ihonld make him comply ;— that, on further heiluiion, 
»mi clrew « pirtol, and told him, that If he did not Imniediatoly olwy your 
nden, and come back with you to tho Aga't honae, you would ahoot him 
dead. On thla, the man turned about and went with you to the govemor'a 
•onae ; hero you lucccfKled, partly by peraonal threala, and partly liy bribery 
and entfraty, to pn)cure her punlon on condition of her leaTJng Athena. I 
ma tolil that you then conveyed her In aolety to the convent, anJ daapntcbed 
Mr off at night to 'l'liel)e», where ahe fovind a ante uaylum. Such U tlie alory 
f heart, ua nearly aa I can recollect It at pn-aent. Shoulil you wUh to uak mo 
Miy lunher qiieatJona about 14, 1 ahall be very ready and willing to anawer 
iMm. " 1 remain, niy dear Dyron, 

" Youra, r«y iineerely, 

« SLICO. 
*' I am afrmld you will hardly be able to re«d thla acrnwl ; but I air. M hui^ 
ilaA «llk tk > piepMmliona Im mj Jeuraey, that you luuM exovMe Ic" 



pose I shall hear from you to-morrow. If not, this 
goes as it is ; but I leave room for a P. S., in case 
any thing requires an answer. Ever, &c. 

"No letter — ti'importe. Rogers thinks the Quar 
terly will be at me this time : if so, it shall be a wai 
of extermination — no quarter. From the youngest 
devil down to the oldest woman cf that Review, all 
shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of na- 
ture shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare 
my bookseller ; nay, if one were to include readers 
also, all the better.' 



LETTER CLXXlil. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Sept 8, 1TI8. 

" I am sorry to see Tod again, so soon, for fear 
your scrupulous conscience should have prevented 
you from fully availing yourself of his spoils. By 
this coach I send you a copy of that awful pamphlet, 
' the Giaour,' which has never procured me half so 
high a compliment as your modest alarm." You will 
(if inclined in an evening), perceive that I hav«» 
added much in quantity, — a circumstance which 
may truly diminish your modesty upon the subject 

"You stand certainly in great need of a 'lift' 
with Mackintosh. My dear Moore, you strangely 
underrate yourself. I should conceive it an affecta- 
tion in any other ; but I think I know you well 
enough to believe that you don't know your oa\ti 
value. However, 'tis a fault that generally mends ; 
and, in your case, it really ought. I have heard 
him speak of you as highly as your mfe could wish ; 
and enough to give all your friends the jaundice. 

"Yesterday I had a letter from yili Pacha. 
brought by Dr. Holland, who is just returned from 
Albania. It is in Latin, and begins ' Excellentis- 
sime, nee non Carissime,' and ends about a gun he 
wants made for him; — it is signed ' Ali Vizir.' 
What do you think he has been about ? H. telU 
me that, last spring, he took a hostile town, where, 
forty-two years ago, his mother and sisters were 
treated as Miss Cunigunde was by the Bulgarian 
cavalry. He takes the town, selects all the surviv 
ors of this exploit — children, grandchildren, &c., to 
the tune of six hundred, aud has them shot before 
his face. Recollect, he spared the rest of the city, 
and confined himself to the Tai-quin pedigree,— 
which is more than I would. So much for ' dear«»« 
friend.' " 



LETTER CLXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORB. 

"Sept.9, I9Ik. 

"I write to you from Murray's, and I may sar, 
from Murray, who, if you are not predisposed in 
favor of any other publisher, woula be hapny to 
treat with you, at a fitting time, for yowr wt)rK. 1 
can safely recommend him, as fair, liberal, and at- 
tentive, and certainly, in point of reputation, he 
stands among the first of * the trade.' I am next 
he would do you justice. I have written to you eo 
much lately that you will be glad to see so littta 
now. Ever, &c., &c." 



LETTER CLXXV. 
to mr. moorb. 
" Thomas Moorb, 

" (Thou wilt never be called ' 'n/4|Thoma«,' lik« 
he of Ercildounc,) why don't you write to me ?— ■• 
you won't, I must. I waa near you at Aaton tilt 



' 8«pc «r. mi. 



798 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



other day, and hope I soon shall be again. If so, 
you must and shall meet me, and go to Matlock and 
elsewhere, and, take Avhat, m flash dialect, is poeti- 
cally termed ' a lark,' with Rogers aad me for ac- 
complices. Yesterday, at Holland House, I was 
introduced to Southey — the best looking bard I have 
seen for some time. To have that poet's head and 
shoulders, I would almost have written his Sapphics. 
He is certainly a prepossessing person to look on, 
and a man of "talent, and all th^t, and — thei'e is his 
eulogy. 

" * * read m.e part of a letter from you. By the 
fool of Pharoah, I believe there was abuse, for he 
ST-'ipped short, so h» did, after a fine saying about 
our correspondence, and looked — I wish I could re- 
venge myself by attacking you, or by telling you 
that I have had to defend you— an agreeable way 
which one's friends have of recommending them- 
selves, by saying, — ' Ay, ay, / gave it Mr. Such-a- 
one for w'hat" he said about your being a plagiary, 
and a rake, and so on.' But do ycu know that you 
are one of the very few whom I never have the satis- 
faction of hearing abused, but the reverse ; — and do 
you suppose I wdll forgive that ? 

" I have been in the country, and ran away from 
the Doncaster races. It is odd, — I v?as a visitor 
in the same house which came to my sire as a 
residence with Lady Carmarthen (with whom he 
adulterated before his majority — by-the-by, remem- 
ber, she was not my mamma) — and they thrust me 
into an old room, with a nauseous picture OA-er the 
chimney, which I shoiild suppose my papa regarded 
with due respect, and which, inheriting the family 
taste, I looked upon with great satisfaction. I 
stayed a week with the family, and behaved very 
well — though the lady of the house is young, and 
religious, and pretty, and the master is my particu- 
lar friend. I felt no wish for any thing but a poodle 
dog, which they kindly gave me. Noav, for a man 
of my course, not even to have coveted, is a sign of 
great amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, 
and don't ' snub me when I'm in spirits.' 

" Ever yours, 

"Bn." 

" Here's an impromptu for you by a ' ffersorf of 
quality,' written last week, on being reproached for 
\iivf spirits. 

" When from Ae heart where sorrow sits,* &c. 



LETTER CLXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE, 

" October 2, 1813. 

"You have not answered some six letters of 
m ne. This, therefore, is my penultimate. I Avill 
wiite to you once more, but after that — I swear by 
all the saints — I am silent and supercilious. I have 
met Curran at Holland Houset — he beats every 
body ; — his imagination is beyond human, and his 
humor (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect. 
Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, 
when he mimics ; — I never met his equal. Now, 
were I a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man 
I should make my Scamander. He is quite fasci- 
Datifg. Remember, I have met him but once ; and 
you, who have known him long, may probably de- 
duct from my panegyric. I almost fear to meet 
him again, lest the impressien should be lowered. 
He talked a great deal about you — a theme never 
tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know. 
What a variety of expression he conjures into that 
naturally not very fine countenance of his ! He 
»bsolutely changes it entirely. I have done — for I 
can't describe him, and you know him. On Sunday 
\ return to * ♦, where I shall not be far from you. 
Perhaps I shall hear from you in the mean time, 
9ood night. 



• See Poerru, p. 544. 
t See M«norandu::M. 



" Saturday mom. — Your letter has cancellei a3 
my anxieties. I did not stispect you in earnest. 
Modest again ! Because I don't do a very shabby 
thing, it seems, I ' don't fear your competition.' n 
it were reduced to an alternative or preference, ^■ 
should dread you, as much as Satan does Michael.'- 
But is there not room enough in our respective 
regions ? Go on — it will soon be my turn to forgive. 
To-d'ay I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. Stale— a.9 
John Bull mey be pleased to denominate Corinne— < 
whom I saw last night, at Covent Garden, yawning 
over the humor of FalstafF. 

" The reputation of ' gloom,' if one's friends are 
not included in the reputants, is of great service; 
as it saves one from a legion of impertinents, in the 
shape of common-place acquaintance. But thav: 
knowest I can be a right merry and conceited fel- 
low, and rarely 'iarmoyant.' MYirray shall reinstate 
your line forthwith.* I believe the blunder in the 
motto was mine ; and yet I have, in general, a 
memory for you, and am sure it was rightly printed 
at first. 

" I do ' blush ' very often, if I may believe Ladies 
H. and M. — but luckily at present, no one sees me. 
Adieu." 



LETTER CLXXVn. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Nov. 30, 1813. 

" Since I last wrote to you, much has occurred, 
good, bad. end indifferent, — not to make me forget 
you, but to prevent me from reminding you of one 
who, nevertheless, has often thought of you, and to 
whom your thoughts, in many a measure, have fre 
qucntly been a consolation. We were once very 
near neighbors this autumn ; and a good and bad 
neighborhood it has proved to me. Suffice it to say, 
that your French quotation was confoundedly to the 
purpose, — though very unexpectedly pertinent, as 
you may imagine by what I said before, and my 
silence since. * * * However, ' Richard's himself 
again,' and, except all night and some part of the 
morning, I don't think very much about the matter. 

" All convulsions end with me in rhyme ; and to 
solace my midnights, I have scribbled another Turk- 
ish storyt — not a Fragment — which you will receive 



* The motto to the Giaour, which is taken from one of the Irish Melodies, 
hail been quoted by him incorrectly in the first editions of the Poems. He 
niiuie ofterwiird a similar mistake in the lines from Bums prefixe^ W the 
Bride of Al5ydos. 

t The Bride of Abydos. To this poem he made additions, in the course o( 
printing, amoiuitiiig' altog'ether to near two hundred lines ; and the opening 
lines, " Know ye the land," &c., — supposed to have been sug^sted to him 
by a son J of GoeRie's, — were among the number of these ne* insertions, aa 
were also those verses, " Who hath not proved how feebly words eesay," 
&c. Having at first written the line in stanza vi., 

" Mind on her lip and music in her face." 

he afterward altered it to — 

" The mind of music breathing in her fas/a," 

But, this not satisfying him, the next step of correction brought the line (o 
what it is at present — 

" The mind, the music breathing fmm her face." 

Tbe whole passage which follows — 

" Thou, my Zuleiia, share and ble« my bark," 

was sent in successive scraps to the printer, correction following correctino. 
The line. " And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray,"' was originally 
anavry 
" And tints to-morrow with a fancied ray," 

the following note being annexed : — " Mr. Murray, — Choose which of !&« 
two epithet*, 'fancied,' or 'airy,' may be the best; or, if neither w&l Jo, 
tell me, and I will dream another." In the long passage just referred 'a\ 
the six lines beginning " Blest as the Muezzin's strain," Ac, having beeu 
despatched to the printer too late for insertion, were, by his desire, added ■ 
au enata page ; the first couplet, in its original form, being i 
" Soft as the Mecca-Muezzin's strains inrite 
Uira who bath Joumey'd far to Join the nte." 



LETTERS. 



799 



(oon after this. It does not trench upon your kmg- 
.'lom in the least, and, if it did, you would soon re- 
duce me to my proper boundaries. You will think, 
and justly, that I run some risk of losing the little 
I have gained in fame, by this further experiment on 
public patience; but I have really ceased to care on 
that head. I have written this, and published it, for 
che sake of the employment, — to wring my thoughts 
from reality, and take refuge in 'imaginings,' how- 
ever ' horrible ; ' and, as to success ! those who suc- 
ceed will console me for a failure — excepting your- 
self and one or two more, whom luckily I love too 
well to wish one leaf of their laurels a tint yellower. 
This is the work of a week, and will be the reading 
of an hour to you, or even less, — and so let it go * 
• • 

" P. S. Ward and I talk of going to Holland. I 
want to see how a Dutch canal looks, after the Bos- 
pborus. Pray respond." 



LETTER CLXXVIII. 



TO LEIGH HUNT. 



" 4, Benuet street, Dec. 2, 1813. 

•My Dear Sia, 

" Few things could be more welcome than your 
note, and on Saturday morning I will avail myself of 
your permission to thank you for it in person. My 
time has not been passed, since we met, either profit- 
ably or agreeably. A very short period after my 
last visit, an incident occurred, with which, I fear, 
you are not unacquainted, as report, in many mouths 
and more than one paper, was busy with the topic. 
T/iat, naturally, gave me much uneasiness. Then 
1 nearly incurred a la^vsuit on the sale of an estate ; 
but this is now arranged : next — but why should I 
go on with a series of selfish and silly details ? I 
merely wish to assure you that it was not the frivo- 
lous forgetfulness of a mind occupied by what is 
called pleasure, i^not in the true sense of Epicurus,) 
that kept me away ; but a perception of my. then, 
unfitness to share the society of those whom I value 
and wish not to displease. 1 hate being larmoyant, 
and making a serious face among those who are 
cheerful. 

" It is ray wish that our acquaintance, or, if you 

f lease to accept it, friendship, may be permanent, 
have been lucky enough to preserve some friends 
from a very early period, and I hope, as I do not (at 
least now) select them lightly, I shall not lose them 
capriciously. 1 have a thorough cstecn for that in- 
dependence of spirit which you have maintained with 



In u few hoKrs after, another scrap wui sent ofl°, coiitiUnin^ the linei thui — 
" Blest ft* the Miieraln's strain from Mecca's 'lome, 
Which welcomes Faith to view h;r Hruphil's lomb," 

«ith the fol.'owhig note to Mr. Murray :— 

" December 3, 1813. 
' Ijook cat in the Encyclopedia, articre Mecca, wncther it Is there or ot 
dfeiftii Jie Propliet ii entomlieU. If ut Mediiia, the flrst liiiM of my 
»IIW»<J»» r.ust run— 

" Blent as the call which from Medina's dom* 
Invitis Devotion to ti(;r Projiliet's tomb, &o. 

4 ftt Mjcca (he lines loa/ staaJ nj before. Pago 45, Ciinto II., Bride of 
A »dj«. " Your», 

"B. 

" Tovi vlll And this out either by article Meeea, Mt'lina, or Motiammtd. 

hsTe no book of rfffi'rfiioc by mo." 

I?nm<illately after succt-edod anotliar •ote ;— 

" Did you look out t Is it MerUrui or Mecca that contains the Holy Sojv 
Jchrs? Don't mnVe ine bliisplirmo liy your iifjfli)fiMice. I hnvc no tiutik of 
••ferrnce, or I would save you the trouble. 1 bluth a* a fuo<l Miusulmun, 

hAve Hufused the point. " Yours, 

Not-r^thstandlng all these various changes, the couplet In quMtioo itamb, 

1 |<«ivi , thui:— 

«' Blest as^he Mueuln's strain from M'"*a'« wnU 
To rilrHm* P*ire and frmtnla at hi* uUI.'* 



sterling talent and at the expense of s^me Buffering. 
You have not, I trust, abandoned the poem you were 
composing, when Moore and I partook of your hos 
pitality in the isummer. I hope a time will come 
when he and I may be able to repay you in kind fo? 
the latter — for the rhyme, at least in qua?itity, you 
are in arrear to both. 

" Believe me very truly and affectionately yours 

" Byson " 



LETTER CLXXIX. 

TO MR MOORE. 

"Decs, 18W 

" Your letter, like all the best, and even kindest 
thinge in this world, is both painful and pleasing. 
But, first, to«%vhat sits nearest. Do you know [ was 
actually about to dedicate to you, — not in a f./rnial 
inscription, as to one's elders, — but throuijrh a short 
prefatory letter, in which I boasted myself your in- 
timate, and held forth the prospect of yotir Poem, 
when, lo ! the recollection of your strict injunctions 
of secrecy as to the said Poem, more than once re- 
peated by word and letter, flashed upon me, and 
marred my intents. I could have no motive for re- 
pressing my own desire of alluding to you, (and not 
a day passes that I do not think and talk of you,'^ 
but an idea that you might, vourself, dislike it. Yon 
cannot doubt my sincere admiration, waiving per- 
sonal fi'iendship for the present, wkich, by-the-by» 
is not less sincere and deep-rooted. I have you by 
rote and by heart; of which ' ecce signum ! ' When 
I was at * ♦, on my first visit, I have a habit, in 
passing my time a good deal alone, of — I won't call 
it singing, for that I never attempt except to myself 
— but of uttering, to what I think tunes, your ' Oh 
breathe not,' ' When the last glimpse,' and ' When 
he who adores thee,' with others of the same min- 
strel ; — they are my matins and vespers. I assured- 
ly did not intend them to be overboard, but, one 
morning, in comes, not La Donna, but II Marito, 
with a very grave face, saying, ' Byron, I must re- 
quest you won't sing any more, at least of f/iose 
songs.' I stared, and sai4, ' Certainly, but why } ' 
— ' To tell you the truth,' quoth he, ' they m^^ke my 
wife cry, and so melancholy, that I wish her to hear 
no more of them.' 

" Now, my dear Moore, the effect must have beeu 
from your words, and certainly not my music. 1 
merely mention this foolish story, to show you how 
much I am indebted to you for even your pastimes. 
A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects 
t)ut that which pleases — at least, in comptisition. 
Thoiigh I think no one equal to you in that depart- 
ment, or in satire, — and surely no one was ever so 
popular in both, — I certainly am of opinion that 
you have not yet done all you can do, though more 
than enough for any one else. I want, and the 
world expects, a longer work from you ; and I see 
in vou what I never saw in poet before, a strange 
diffidence of your own powers, which I cannol 
account for, and which must be uuaccountalile, 
when a Cossack like me can appal a cuirassier. 
Your story I did not, could not, know — I tht)ught 
only of a Peri. I wish you had confided in me, 
not for your sake, but mine, and to prevt>nt the 
world from losing a much better poem than my 
own, but which, I vet hone, this cUwiluny will not 
even now deprive tnem or. Mine is the work of a 
week, written, why I have partly told you, and 
partly I cannot tell you by lettei- — some day 1 will. 

" Go on — I shall really be very unhappy if I nt all 
interfere with you. The success of mine is yet 
problematical ; though the public will probably 
purchase a certain quantity, on the ])rosuinption of 
t 'r own pronensity for 'the Ctiaour' and suoh 
•horrid niystenos.' The only advantage I hav* U 



800 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



being on the spot; and that tj^rely amounts to 
savins me the trouble of turning -er books, which 
I haJ better read again. If yowr chamber was 
furnished in the same way, you have no need to go 
there to describe — I mean only as to accuracy — be- 
cause I drew it from recollection. 

**♦***»« 

'* This last thing of mine may have the same fate, 
and I assure you I have great doubts about it. But, 
even if not, its little day will be over before you are 
ready and mlling. Come out — ' screw your courage 
to the sticking-place.' Except the Post Bag (and 
surely you cannot complain of a want of success 
there), you have not been regularly out for some 
years. No man stands higher, — whatever you may 
think on a rainy day, in your provincial retreat. 
<Aucan homme, dans aucime langue, n'a, ete, 
peut-etre, plus completement le poete du coeur et le 
poete des- femmes. Les critiques lui rfeprochent de 
n'avoir represents le monde ni tel qu'il est, ni tel 
qu'il doit etre ; mais les femmes repondent qu'il I'a 
repy-esentp tel qu'elles le desirent. — I should have 
thought Sismondi had written this for you instead 
of Metastasio. 

" Write to me, and tell me of yourself. Do you 
remember what Rousseau said to some one — ' Have 
we quarrelled ? you have talked to me often, and 
never once mentioned yourself.' 

" P. S. The last sentence is an indirect apology 
for my own egotism, — but I believe in letters it is 
allowed. I wish it was mutual. I have met with 
an odd reflection in Grimm ; it shall not — at least, 
the bad part, — be applied to you or me, though one 
of us has certainly an indifferent name — but this 
it is : ' Many people have the reputation of being 
wicked, with whom we should be too happy to pass 
our lives.' I need not add it is a woman's saying — 
a Mademoiselle de Soramery's." 



LETTER CLXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Dec. 4, 1813, 

" I have redde through your Persian Tales,* and 
have taken the liberty of making some remarks on 
the blank pages. There are many beautiful passages, 
and an interesting story ; and I cannot give you a 
stronger proof that such is my opinion than by the 
date of the hour — two o'clock, till which it has kept 
me awake without a yawn. The conclusion is not 
quite correct in costume: there is no Mussulman 
suicide on record, — at least for love. But this mat- 
ters not. The tale must have been written by some 
one who has been on the spot, and I wish him, and 
he deserves, success. Will you apologize to the 
author for the liberties I have taken with his MS.? 
Had I been less awake to, and interested in, his 
theme, I had been less obtrusive ; but you know I 
always take this in good part, and I hope he will. 
It is difficult to say what will succeed, and still 
more to pronounce what will not. I am at this 
moment in that uncertainty, (on owxown score,) and 
it is no small proof of the author's powers to be 
able to charm and^a; a mind's attention on similar 
subjects and climates in such a predicament. That 
he may have the same effect upon all his readers is 
verj' sincerely the wish, and hardly the doubtt of 
fours truly, 

««B." 



UdMim, kc.,brJir.Kii%iiC 



LETTER CLXXX . 



TO MR. GIFFORD. 



"Not. 1^.1814. 



"My Dear Sir, 

,*' I hope you will consider when I venture on any 
request, that it is the reverse of a certain Dedica- 
tion, and is addressed not to ' The Editor of the 
Quarterly Review,' but to Mr. Gifford. You will 
understand this, and on that point I need trouble 
you no farther. 

" You have been good enough to look at a thing 
of mine in MS.* — a Turkish story, and I should 
feel gratified if you would do it the same favor in its 
probationary state of printing. It was written, 1 
cannot say for amusement, nor ' obliged by hunger 
and request of friends,' but in a state of ii^ind, 
from circumstances which occasionally occur to ' ua 
youth,' that rendered it necessary for me to apply 
my mind to something, any thing but reality ; and 
under this not very brilliant inspiration it was com- 
posed. Being done, and having at least divertei"^ 
me from myself, I thought you would not perhaps 
be offended if Mr. MuiTay forwarded it to you. He 
has done so, and to apologize for his doing so a 
second time is the object of my present letter. 

" I beg you will not send me any answer. I as- 
sure you veiy sincerely I know your time to be 
occupied, and it is enough, more than enough, if 
you read ; you are not to be bored vsdth the fatigue 
of answers. 

A word to Mr. Murary will be sufficient, and send 
it either to the flames, or 

' A hundred hawkers' load, 
On wings of winds to fly or fall abroad.' 

It deserves no better "than the first, as the worK 
of a week, and scribbled ' stans pede in uno,' (by- 
the-by, the only foot I have to stand on;) and I 
promise never to trouble you again under forty 
cantos, and a voyage between each. 
** Believe me ever 

♦• Your obliged and affectionate servant, 
" Byrow." 



LETTER CLXXXIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Not. 12, 1813. 

" Two friends of mine (Mr. Rogers and Mr 
Sharpe) have advised me not to risk at present 
any single publication separately, for various rea- 
sons. As they have not seen the one in question, 
they can have'no bias for or against the merits (if 
it has any) or the faults of the present subject of 
our conversation. You say all the last of the ' Gia- ^ 
our ' are gone — at least out of your hands. Now, / 
if you think of publishing any new edition with the 
last additions which have not yet been before the 
reader, (I mean distinct from the two-volume publi- 
cation,) we can add the ' Bride of Abydos,' which 
will thus steal quietly into the world : if liked, we 
can then throw off some copies for the purchasers 
of former • Giaours ; ' and, if not, I can omit it in 
any future publication. What think you ? I really 
am no judge of those things, and with all my nat- 
ural partiality for one's own productions, I would 
rather follow any one's judgment than my own. 

" P. S. Pray let me have the proofs I sent, all 
to-night. I have some alterations that I wish to 
make speedily. I hope the proof will be on sepa- 
rate pages, and not all huddled together on a mile- 
long ballad-singing sheet, as those of the Giaout 
sometimes are ; for then I can't read them distinct* 
ly." 



The Bridd of ibydot. 



L.BTTERS. 



801 



*OTE TO MB. MTJHRAT. 

" Not. 13. 1813, 

** Will yc u forward the letter to Mr. Gifford with 
rfxe proof.' There is an alteration I may make in 
?uleika's speech, in second canto (the only one of 
hers iu that canto.) It is now thus :— 



)t must be 



" A 111! curse, if I could curse, the dny. 



' Anil mourn — I dare not cur»e — the da> 
That saw my solitary birth, &c. &c. 



Ever youis, 



B. 



•* In the last MS. lines sent, instead of ' living 
heart,' convert to 'quivering heart.' It is in the 
line 9th of the MS. passage. 

" Ever yours again 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Alteration of a line in canto second. 
Instead of — 

" And tints to-morrov with a fancied ray, 
♦• And tints to-morrow with prophetic raj. 
" The evening lieam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic my ; 

gild* 
" And tints the hope of morning with its ray ; 

■' And gilds to-morrow's hope with lieavenly ray. 

•* I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford which of them 
is best, or rather 7iot worst. " Ever, &c. 

" You can send the request contained in this at 
the same time with the revise, after I have seen the 
iaid revise." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY, 

" Nov, 13, 1813. 

* Certainly. Do you suppose that no one but the 
lialileans are acquainted with Adam, and Eve, and 
Cain,* and Noah f Suroly, I might have had Solo- 
mon, and Abraham, and David, and even Moses. 
When you know that Zuleika is the Persian poetical 
name for Potiphar's wife, on whom and Joseph 
there is a long poem, in the Persian, this will not 
surprise you If you want authority, lool; at Jones, 
D'Herbeiot, Vathek, or the notes to the Arabian 
Nights ; and, if you think it necessary, model this 
into a note.f 

'• Alter, in the inscription, * the most affectionate 
respect,' to 'with every sentiment of regard and 
respect.' " 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 14, 1813. 

*• I send you a note for the ignorant,% but I really 
wonder at finding you among them. I don't oare 
one lump of sugar for my poetry ; but for my cos- 
Uime aTid my correctness on those points, (of which 
I think the funeral was a proof,) I will combat 
lustily. " Yours, tSrc." 

"Nov. 14,1813, 

"Let the revise which I sent just now (aivd not 
the proof in Mr. Gilford's possession) bo returned 
to the printer, as there aro several additional correc- 
tions, and two new lines in it. 

*' Yours, &C," 



LETTER CLXXXIII. 



TO MB. MURRAY. 



• Pome doul* had liron nxprpiaml by Mr, Mumxy as to the proprtoty of 
fels pulling thu Ilium ol (ailn Into th>.- oioulh ofa Mussulman. 
\ :ii-e uute 3U, u> ilis Uridn of Abydoa. 
T Bwr noiu 'M, l > the Bi'iilf ol Abyttna 
IrtI 



. " Not 15, 1813. 

" Mr. Hodgson has looked over and stopped, oi 
rather pointed, this revise, which must be the one 
to print from. He has also made some suggestions, 
with most of which I have complied, as he haa 
always, for these ten years, been a very sincere, and 
by no means" (at times) flattering, intimate of mine. 
He likes it (you will think flatter inyly, in this 
instance) bettei than the Giaour, but doubts (and 
so do I) its being so popular, but, contrary to some 
others, advises a separate publication. On this we 
can eAsily decide. I confess I like the double form 
better. Hodgson says, it is better versified than 
any of the others; which is odd, if true, as it haa 
cost me less time (though more hours at a time) 
than any attempt I ever inside. 

"P. S. Do attend to the punctuation : I can't, 
for I don't know a comma — at least, where to place 
one. 

" That tory of a printer has omitted two lines cf 
the opening, and perhaps more, which were in the 
MS. Will you, pray, give him a hint of accuracy ? 
I have re-inserted the two, but they were in tl.* 
manuscript, I can swear." 



LETTER CLXXXIV. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

«' Nov. ir, 181*, 

" That you and I may distinctly understand each 
other on a subject, which, like ' the dreadful reck- 
oning when men smile no more,' makes conversa- 
tion i-Ot very pleasant, I think it as well to im ite a 
few lines on the topic. Before I left town for York- 
shire, you said that you were ready and willing^ to 
give five hundred guineas for the copyright of ' The 
Giaour; ' and my answer was, from which 1 do net 
mean to recede, that we would discuss the point at 
Christmas, The new story may or may not succeed; 
the probability, under present circumstances, scema 
to be, that it may at least pay its expenses ; but 
even that remains to be proved, and till it is proved 
one way or another we will say nothing about it. 
Thus then be it : 1 will postpone all arrangement 
about it, and the Giaour also, till Easter, 1814; and 
you shall then, according to your own notions of 
fairness, make your own offer for the two. At the 
same time, I do not rate the last in my o\vn estima- 
tion at half the Giaour; and according to your own 
notions of its wort! and its success within the time 
mentioned, be the addition or deduction to or from 
whatever sum mav be your proposal for the first, 
which h IS already had its success. 

" The pictures of Phillips I consider as mine, all 
three, and the one (not tne Arnaout) of the two 
best is much at your service, if you will accept it as 
a present. 

" P. S, The expense of engraving from the min- 
iature send me in my account, as it was destroyed 
by <ny desire ; and have the goodness to burn tnat 
detestable print from it immediately. 

" To make yoki some amends for eternally pester 
ing you with alterations, I send you Cobbett, t<' 
-confirm your orthodoxy. 

• One "more alteration of a into the in the MS. ; it 
must bo — ' The heart whose softness,' ito. 

" Heineniber — and in tlio inscrintiou ' to the Right 
Honorable Lord Holland,' witnout the previoun 
names, Henry, &c." 

NOTE TO MR, MUUUAY. 

Nov. 90, Itltf. 

" More work for th«; Row. I am doing my b©«t 
to boat the * Giaour '—»irt difficult task lor any «ni 
>tut the author " 



802 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



NOTE TO ME. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 22, 1813. 

** I have no time to cro^s-investigate, but I believe 
and hope all is right. I care less than you will 
bolieve about its success, but I can't survive a 
single 7nisprint : it chokes me to see words misused 
by the printers. Pray look over "in case of some 
eye-sore escaping me. , 

" P. S. Send the earliest copies to Mr. Frere, Mr. 
Canning, Mr. Heber, Mr. Giflbrd, Lord Holland, 
Lord Melbourne (Whitehall,) Lady Caroline Lamb 
(Brocket,) Mr. Hodgson (Cambridge,) Mr. Merri- 
vale, Mr. Ward, from the author." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY 



Nov. 23, 1813. 



*' You wanted some reflections, and I send you 
per Selim, (see his speech in canto II., page 46,) 
eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not 
an ethical tendency. One more revise — positively the 
last, if decently done — at any rate the j!?e?ailtimate. 
Mr. Canning's approbation (if he did approve) I 
need not say makes me proud. As to printing, 
print as you will and how you will — by itself, if you 
like ; but let me have a few copies in sheets. 

" Nov. 24, 1813. 

*' You must pardon me once more, as it is all for 
your good : it must be thus — 

" He makes a solitude, and rails it peace. 

* Makes ' is closer to the passage of Tacitus, from 
which the line is taken, and is, besides, a stronger 
word than ' leaves.^ 

" Mark where his carnage and his conquests cease. 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace." 



LETTER CLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 27, 1813. 

' If you look over this carefully by the last proof , 
with my corrections, it is probably right ; this yotc 
can do as well or better: — I have not now time. 
The copies I men-^.ioned to be sent to different 
friends last night, I should wish to be made up with 
the new Giaours, if it also is ready. If not, send 
the Giaour afterward. 

" The Morning Post says I am the author of 
Nouijahad ! ! ! This comes of lending the drawings 
for their dresses ; but it is not worth a formal con- 
tradiction Besides, the criticisms on the supposi- 
tion will some of them, be quite amusing and 
furious. The Orientalism — which I hear is verv 
splendid — of the melodrame (whosoever it 's, and 1 
am sure I don't know) is as good as an ao 'ertise- 
ment for your Eastern Stories, by filling their heads 
with glitter. 

" P. S. You will of course say the truth, that I 
am not the melodramatist — if any one charges me 
in yo 11 presence with the performance." 



LETTER CLXXXVl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 28, J813, 

"Send another copy (if not too much of a 
request) to Lady Holland of the Journal,* in 
toy name, when you receive this ; it is for Earl 
virey — and I will relinquish my cum. Also, to Mr. 



PenitMe'i Jtunoal, a book published by Mr. Mii.ray at this time. 



Sharpe, and Lady Holland, &ai Lady (/aroHtt«« 

Lamb, copies of ' The Bride,' as soon as convenient. 

" P. S. Mr. Ward and myself still continue oul 
purpose ; but I shall not trouble you on anj 
arrangement on the score of the Giaour and The 
Bride till .our return — or, at any rate, before May 
1814 — that is, six months from hence: and before 
that time you will be able to ascertain how far your 
ofler may be a losing one ; if so, you can deduct 
proportionably ; and if not, I shall not at any rate 
allow you to go higher than your present projpt sal, 
which is very handsome, and more than fair.* 

"I have had — but this must be entre nous,^i, 
very kind note, on the subject of ' The Bride," fr:jn 
Sir James Mackintosh, , and an invitation to gc 
there this evening, which it is now too late to 
accept." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 29, 1813. 
" Sunday— Alouday morning— 3 o'clock— ib 
I my doublet and hose, swearing. 

" I send you in time an errata page, containing 
an omission of mine which must be thus added, as 
it is too late for insertion in the text. The passage 
is an imitation altogether from Medea in Ovid, and 
is incomplete without these two lines. Pray let 
this be done, and directly ; it is necessary ; will add 
one page to your book [making), and can do no 
harm, and is yet in time for the public. Answer 
me, thou oracle, in the affirmative. You can send 
the loose pages to those who have copies already, if 
they like ; but certainly to all the critical copy- 
holders. 

" P. S. I have got out of my bed, (in which, 
however, I could not sleep, whether I had amended 
this or not,) and so good morning. I am trying 
whether De L'Allemagne will act as an opiate, but 
I doubt it." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

'» Nov. 29, 1813. 

" ' You have looked at it ! ' to much purpose, to 
allow so stupid a blunder to stand ; it is not ' cour- 
age,' but ' carnage ; ' and if you don't want me to 
cut my own throat, see it altered. 

" I am very sorry to hear of the fall of Dresden." 



LETTER CLXXXVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 29, 1813, Monday. 

" You will act as you please upon that point , 
but whether I go or stay, I shall not say another 
word on the subject till May — nor then, uulesa 
quite convenient to yourself. I have many things 
I wish to leave to your care, principally papers. 
The vases need not now be sent, as Mr. Ward ie 
gone to Scotland. You are right about the errata 

{)age ; place it at the beginning. Mr. Perry is a 
ittle premature in his compliments ; these may da 
harm by exciting expectation, and I thii.k we ought 
to be above it — though I see the next j aragraph is 
on the Journal,f which make s me suspect you as 
the autiior of both. t 

" Would it not have been as aiell to have said ' in 
Two Cantos ' in the advertiseniont ? they Avill else 
think of fragments, a species of composition very 
well for once like one rum in a view ; but one would 
not build a town of them. The Bride, such as it 
is, is my first entire composition oi any length,, 
(except the Satire, and be d — d to it,) for th« 
Giaour is but a string of passages, and Child* 
Harold is, and I rather think always will be, uncon- 



• Mr. Murray had oflereU him a tlMuaaod friiiea* fot the two poenM. 
t PeoTMe't Joumiil. 



LETTERS. 



803 



elided. I return Mr. Hay's note, with thanks to 
him and you. 

*' There have been some episrrams on Mr. "Ward : 
one I see to-day. The first I did not see, but heard 
yesterday. The second seems very bad. I only 
hope that Mr. Ward does not believe that I had 
any connexion with either. I like and value him 
too well to allow my politics to contract into spleen, 
or to admire any thing intended to annoy him or 
his. You need not take the trouble to answer this, 
as I shall see you in the course of the afternoon. 

"P. S. I have said this much about the epi- 
grams, because I lived so much in the opposite 
camp, and, from my post as an engineer, 'might be 
suspected as the flinger of the«e hand-gernadoes ; 
but with a worthy foe, I am all for open war, and not 
this bush-fighting, and have not had, nor will have, 
any thing to do with it. I do not kno^^ the 
author." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 30, 1813. 

* Print this at the end of all that is of the ' Bride 
of Abi/dos,' as an errata page. 

"Bn. 
'< Omitted, canto II., page 47, after line ccccxlix. 



Read 



' Ho that those armn cling closer round my neck, 



'Then it my lip once murmur, it mtist be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee I 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Tuesday evening-, Nov. 30, 1813. 

"For Ihe sake of correctness, particularly in an 
errata page, the alteration of the cguplet "I have 
just sent (half an hour ago) must take place, in 
spite of delay or cancel ; let me see the proof early 
to-morrow, I found out m,urwur to, be a' neuter 
verb, and have been obliged to alter the line so as 
to make it a substantive, thus— 

" The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh foi safety, but a prayer for thee 1 

Don't send the copies to the country till this is all 
right." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Dec. 2, 1813. 

'•When you can, let the couplet enclosed be 
inserted either in the page, or in the errata page. 
I trust it is in time for some of the copies. This 
alteration is in the same part — the page but one 
Defore the last correction sent. 

" P. S. I am afraid, from all I hear, that people 
are rather inordinate in their expectations, which 
is very unlucky, but cannot now be helped. This 
comes of Mr. Perry and one's wise friends; but do 
not you wind yovr hopes of success to the same pitch, 
for fear of acridonts, and I can assure you tliat niv 
philosophy will stand the test very fairly ; and \ 
have done every thing to ensure you, at all events, 
from positive loss, which will be some satisfaction to 
hth." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAjY. 

■ " Dee 3, 1813. 

"Iseid you a scratch or ttco, the which heal. 
/ rhf. Christian Observer is very savage, but certainly 
/ well written — and miito uncomfortable at thenaugh- 
/ tiness o!' book and author. I ratlier suspect you 
won't much like the present to be more moral, if it 
1 is to share also the usual fate of your virtuous 
\ volumes. 

\^^" Let m? see a proof of the six before incorpora- 
Tfon." 

NOTE TO MR. MUHHAY. 

" MuDiliiy ovruhiif, Dre. fl, 1813. 

" It is very well, except that thft Kues arc not 



67, which must be corrected with the pen, if no 
other way remains ; it is the omissior- of ' not 
before ''disagreeable,'' in the note on the amhel 
rosary. This is really horrible, and nearly as bad 
as the stumble of mine at the threshold— 1 mean 
the misnomer of Bride. Pray do not let a copy gc 
without the ''not;'' it is nonsence and worse than 
nonsense as it now stands. I wish the printer wai 
saddled with a vampire. 

*' P. S. It is still hath instead oi have in page 20 
never was any one so misused as I am by y 3ur devib 
of printers. 

"P. S. I hope and trust the ^ not' was inserted 
in the first edition. We must have something— 
any thing — to set it right. It is enough to answei 
for one's own bulls, without other people's." 



LETTER CLXXXVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Dec.27, 18ia 

"Lord Holland is laid up. with the gout, and 
would feel very much obliged if you could obtain, 
and send as soon as possible, Madame D'Arblay'a 
(or even Miss Edgeworth's) new work. I know 
they are not out ; but it is perhaps possible for your 
Majesty to command what we cannot with much 
suing purchase, as yet. I need not say that when 
you are able or willing to confer the same favor ou 
me, I shall be obliged. I would almost fall sick ' 
myself to get at Madame D'Arblay's writings. • 

" P. S. You were talking to-day of the American 
edition of a certain unquenchable memorial of my 
younger days. As it can't be helped nuw, I own I 
have seme curiosity to see a copy of Transatlantic 
typography. This you will perhaps obtain, and one 
for yourself; but I must beg that you will not 
import ynore, because, seriovMy, I do wish to have 
that thing forgotten as much as it has been forgiven. 

" If you send to the Globe editor, say that 1 
want neither excuse nor contradiction, but merely 
a discontinuance of a most ill-grounded* charge. I 
never was consistent in any thing but my politics ; 
and as my redemption depends on tliat solitary 
virtue, it is murder to carry away my last anchor." 



LETTER CLXXXIX. 



TO MR. ASHE. 



" 4 Bonnet stn-et, St. Jamet's, Dec, H, I81S 

"Sir, 

" I leave town for a few days to-morrow : on vny 
return, I will answer y(uir letter more at lenj^tU 
Whatever may be your situation, 1 cannot but 
commend your resolution to abjure and abandon 
the publication and com])osition of worts sut h ai 
tliose to which you have alluded. Depend upon it, 
they amuse /("/P, disgrace both reader and irn'tttr, 
and l)enefit none. It will be my wish to assist you, 
as far as my limitfd means will admit, to break 
such a bondage. In your answer, inform me what 
sum you tliink would enable you to extricate your 
self from the hands of your employers, and to 
regain at least temporary independeiu'c, and 1 shall 
be glad to contribute my mite towards it. A I 
present I must coiulnde. Your name is no! 
unknown to me, and I regret, for your own sake. 



oumbered p'operly, and a diabolical mistake^page iionxM ompioymeni. 



* Author of n publlciiUuti relnllnp to the Q,iKwn, enlliHi •• TV Book I 
alio of " Tn.»cU thiou(^ Amerku," «nd otmr iimrrloiM lllrit, lln hatf 
writton m l.cril Byron, nlloirluff porrny Ha hU pkc<wi» tor the tUo oMt M 
ich h>' li* pnwtlluloil lut pen, niul tollcUinf i)>« ii«MU ol i^.^litaf «•»• 



804 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



that you have ever leant it to the .vorks you men- 
tion. In saying this, I merely repeat your otC7i 
words in your letter to me, and have no wish Avhat- 
ever to say a single syllable that may appear to 
insult your misfortunes. If I have, excuse me ; it 
is unintentional. " Yours, &c. 

" Byron." 

[In answer to this letter, Ashe mentioned as the 
sum necessary to extricate him from his difficulties, 
150/. — and, some short delay having occurred in the 
reply to this demand, he,' in renewing his suit, 
^'omplained, it appears, of neglect.] 



LETTER CXC 



TO MB. ASHE. 

•« Jan. 5, 1814. 

" Sir, 

" When you accuse a stranger of neglect, you 
forget that it is possible business or absence from 
London may have interfered to delay his answer, as 
has actually occurred in the present instance. But 
to the point. I am willing to do what I can to 
extricate you from your situation. Your first 
scheme I was considering; but your own impa- 
tience appears to have rendered it abortive, if not 
irretrievable. I will deposit in Mr. Murray's hands 
'with his consent) the sum you mentioned, to be 
advanced for the time at ten pounds per month. 
• " P. S. I write in the greatest hurry, which may 
make my letter a little abrupt; but, as I said before, 
I have no wish to distress your feelings." 



LETTER CXCL 

TO MR. GALT. 

"Dee. 11, 1813, 

"My Dear Galt, 

" There was no offence — there could be none.* I 
thought it by no means impossible that we might 
have hit on something similar, particularly as you 
are a dramatist, and was anxious to assure you of 
the truth, viz., that I had not wittingly seized upon 
plot, sentiment, or incident ; and I am very glad 
that I have not in any respect trenched upon your 
subjects. Something still more singular is, that the 
first part, where you have found a coincidence in 
some events within your observations on life, was 
drawn from observation of mine also ; and I meant 
to' have gone on with the story, but on second 
thoughts, I thought myself two centuries at least 
too late for the subject ; which, though admitting 
of very powerful feeling and description, yet is not 
adapted for this age, ft least this country, tliough 
the finest works of the Greeks, one of Schiller's 
and Alfieri's, in modern times, besides several of 
our old (and best) dramatists, have been grounded 
on incidents of a similar cast. I therefore altered 
it as you perceive, and, in so doing, have weak- 
ened the whole by interrupting the train of thought ; 
?.nd, in composition, I do not think second thoughts 
are the best, though second expressions may im- 
prove the first ideas. 

'• I do not know how other men feel towards those 
they have met abroad, but to me there seems a kind 
of tie established between all who have met to- 
gether in a foreign country, as if we had met in a 
state of preexistence, and were talking over a life 
that has ceased ; but I always look forward to re- 
newing my travels, and though you, I think, are 



• It would appear thst he had written to me something which led me to 
mngtnp he wai offended at my otnervalirit, and that I had, in conae^ueuce, 
■^ncct'«d hii wrath." — Gait. 



now stationary, if I can at airforwardydUr pursuits 
there as well as here, I shall be truly glad in the op 
portunity. •' Ever yours very sincerely, 

•'B. 
' P. S. I believe 1 leave town for a day or two 
on Monday, but after that I am always at home 
and happy to see you until half past two. ' 



LETTER CXCII. 

TO MR. LEIGH HUNT. 

' Dec «, }r*%. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" I am, indeed, * in your deht' — and what is sHU 
worse, am obliged to follow royal example, [he has 
just apprized his creditors that thev must wai' till 
the meeting,] and entreat your indulgence for, I 
hope, a very short time. The nearest relation, and 
almost the only friend I possess, has been in Lon- 
don for a week, and leaves it to-morrow, with me, foi 
her own residence. I return immediately ; but we 
meet so seldom, and are so minuted when we meet 
at all, that I give up all engag,ements, till now, 
without reluctance. On my return, I must see you 
to console myself for my past disappointments. "! 

should feel highly honored in Mr. B 's permis* 

sion to make his acquaintance, and fhe^-e you are in 
my debt, for it is a promise of last summer which I 
still hope to see performed. Yesterday I had a let- 
ter from Moore ; you have probably heard from hin> 
lately ; but if not, you will be glad to learn that he 
is the same in heart, head, and health." 



LETTER CXCIII. 

TO MR. MERIVALE. 

"Jan.lSU. 

"My'Dear Merivale. 

" I have redde Roncesvaux vAt\i very great plea- 
sure, and (if I were so disposed) see very little 
room for criticism. There is a choice of two linea 
in one of the last cantos, — I think ' Live and pro- 
tect' better, because ' Oh who ?' implies a doubt of 
Roland's power of inclination. I would allow the 
— but that point you yourself must determine on— 
I mean the doubt as to where to place a part of the 
poem, whether between the actions or no. Only it 
you wish to have ^11 the success you deserve, never 
listen to friends, and — as I am not the least trou- 
blesome of the number — least of all to me. 

" I hope you will be out soon. March, sir, 
March, is the month for the ti'ade, and they must 
be considered. You have written a very nobU 
poem, and nothing but the detestable taste of th« 
day can do you harm, — but I think you will beat it 
Your measure is uncommonly well chosen an< 
wielded." • * * 



LETTER CXCIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Sunday, Jan. 2, 18M. 

" Excuse this dirty paper — it is the joewultimat 
half-sheet of a quire. Thanks for your book and th 
Ln. Chron. which I return. The Corsair is copied 
and now at Lord Holland's ; but I wish Mr. Giffon 
to have it to-night. 

" Mr. Dallas is very perverse ; so that I have of 
fended both him and you, when I really meant to di 
go^d, at least to one, and certainly not to anno] 



.^ 



LETTERS 



805 



either.* But I shall manage him, I hope. I am 

Eretty confident of the Tale itself ; but one cannot 
e sure. If I get it from Lord Holland, it shall be 
lent. Yours, &c." 



LETTER CXCV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Jan, 8, 1814. 

•• 1 have got a devil of a long story in the press, 
entitled ' The Corsair,' in the regular heroic mea- 
sure. It is a pirate's isle, peopled with m/ own 
creatures, and you may easily suppose they do a 
world of mischief through the three cantos. Now 
for your Dedication — if you will accept it. This is 
positively my last experiment on piiblic literary 
opinion, till I turn my thirtieth year, — if so be I 
flourish until that downhill period. I have a con- 
fidence for you — a perple.\ing one to me, and, just 
at present, in a state of abeyance in itself. * * * 
However, we shall see. In the mean time, you 
may amuse yourself with #ny suspense, and put all 
the justices of the peace in requisition, in case I 
come into your county with ' hack but bent.' 

*' Seriously, whether I am to hear from her or him, 
it is a patise, which I shall fill up with as few 
thoughts of my own as I can borrow from other 
people. Any thing is better than stagnation ; and 
DOW, in the interregnum of my autumn and a 
'strange summer adventure, which I don't like to 
think of, (I don't mean * *'s, however, which is 
laughable only,) the antithetical state of my lucu- 
brations makes me alive, and Macbeth can ' sleep 
no more :' — he was lucky in getting rid of the 
drowsy sensation of waking again. 

" Pray write to me. I musfr send you a copy of 
the letter of Dedication. When do you come out ? 
I am sure we don't ckish this time, for I am all at 
sea, and in action, — and a wife, and a mistress, &c., 
&c. 

" Thomas, thou art a hapny fellow ; but if you 
•vish us to be so, you must come up to town,* as you 
did last year ; and we shall have a world to say, and 
*o see, and to hear. Let me hear from you. 

*' P. S. Of course you will keep my secret, and 
don't even talk in your sleep of it. Happen what 
may, your Dedication is ensured, being already 
written ; and I shall copy it out fair to-night^ 
in case business or anmsement — Amant alterna 
CamoerKB." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 7, 1814. 

" You don't like the Dedication — very avcU ; 
there is an other ; but you will send tlie other to Mr. 
Moore, that he may know I had written it. I send 
also mottos for the cantos. I think you will allow 
that an elephant may be more sagacious, but can- 
not be more docile. " Yours, 

"En. 

*' The imme is again altered to Medora"-\ 



/ 



LETTER CXCVL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

•« Jan, 8, 1814. 

AS It would not be fair to press you into a Dedi- 
cation, without i)revious notice, I Send yon two, and 
I will tell why two. The first, Mr. Murray, who 
aometiines takes \\\to\\ him the critic (and I Ixnir it 
from astonishmvnt) says, may do you harm — (iod 
forbid ! this alone makes me listen to him. The 



■ He hilt invin u pn-ioiit uf tho c<i|>yrii(l)l of (Im C'uraitir tu Mr, Dulliu, 
vUeh occttioned toine I'lulMmiMrMeiit UnwoLMi hlni unti Mr. Mumty. 
* (1 kjil bml «t Aral Utnevru. 



fact is, he is a damned Tory, and has, I dare fvear 
something of self, which I cannot divine, at tht 
bottom of his objection, as It is the allusion to Ire- 
land to which he objects. But he be d — d, though 
a good fellow enough, (your sinner would not be 
worth a d — n.) 

* Take your choice ; no one, save he and Mr 
Dallas, has seen either, and D. is quite on my eide; 
and for the first,* If 1 can but testify to you ari 
the world how truly I admire and esteem }ou, I 
shall be quite satisfied. As to prose, I dont knew 
Addison's from Johnson's ; but I will try to meud 
my cacology. Pray perpend, pronounce, and don't 
be offended with either. 

" My last epistle would probably put you in a 
fidget,' But the Devil, who ought to be civil on sur b 
occasions, proved so, and took my letter to the right 
place. * * * * 

' Is it not odd ? the very fate I said she had es- 
caped from * *, she has now undergone from the 
worthy *-* . Like Mr. Fitzgerald, shall I not lay 
claim to the character of ' Vates ?' as he did in the 
Morning H«-ald for prophesying the fall of Bonar 
parte, who, by-the-by, 1 don't think is yet fallen. 'I 
wish he would rally and rout your legitimate 
sovereigns, having a mortal hate to all royal entails. 
But I am scrawling a treatise. Good night. Ever, 
&c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"J^n, 11, 1814, 

* Correct this proof by Mr. Giffoid's (and from 
the MSS,) particularly as to the pohitiny. I have 
added a section for Gulnare, to fill up the parting 
and dismiss her more ceremoniously. If Mr. Gif- 
ford or you dislike, 'tis but a sponge, and another 
midnight better employed than in yawning over 
Miss * * ; who, by-the-by, may soon return thp 
compliment. 

" Wednesday or Thursday. 

" P. S, I have redde * *. It is full of praises o! 
Lord EUenborough ! ! ! (from which I infer near and 
dear relations at the bar,) and * * * 

" I do not love Madame de Stad, but depend 
upon it, she beats all your natives hollow as an au 
thoress, in my opinion ; and I would not say this il 
I could help it. 

" P, S. Pray report my best acknowledgements to 
Mr. Gitford in any words that may best express how 
truly his kindness obliges me. I won't b> re him 
with lip thanks or notes." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" Jan. 13, 614. 

"I have but a moment to write, but all loi as it 
should be. I have said really far short of my opin- 
ion, but if you think enough, I am content, Will 
you return the proof by the post, as I leave towi. on 
Sunday, and have no other corrected copy, I pat 
'servant,' as being less familiar before the pnblic ; be* 
cause I don't like presuming upon our friendship to 
infringe upon forms. As to the other wird, you 
may be sure it is one I cannot hear or repeal txi 
often. 

" I wiite in an agony of haste and confusioa.— 
Pcrdonate," 



• The firat'wM ifae aiie prelorrod. Tho ctlior wm n« followi i 

" Jiin. 7, 1814. 
" My Drnr Moore, 

•■ I hud writU'ii (u you n \ax\% li'ttPfordtHlicntlon, which I •tipprrn, tircaiiw^ 
Uioiiirh it contuini'il lomethhiif rrlulhig to yoii wlilrh i-rcry one hml \w\\ iflad 
(o hrur, yel tluTe wim too much ulwiit |Hilllica, mid piH-iy, ;ind nil tJiinf* 
wh.klJMipver, endhif( with Ihiit topic on which iiHMt men iro lliii'nt nnd imcM 
»fry i«niiilii)jr— om'f itl/. It nii|fht hiivp Ixfii n^wriltrn Init to wIikI p«r> 
|Hi«p ? My pndM* could mid noihiiiR to ymir wi'll-"iirn. d k«ii* fi.^>>ly-r««*U 
Halted liinie ; and witli niy nioit Iv^trty iidiuiruion olyoiir ud''nu, mil <i<'liKf4 
In your con»rnmtion, you ure ulr»'mly ac«]iiiiiiit<il. In .ivnillnjt iiivi.^1' n 
your Iripmlly piruiiMlon Ui InMrllie (l>l« |vviii to you. I run onli «iah It* 
offeiliig were u worthr your nai-ptiim-e :ii ynnr r ji\rl i« do.vr lo 
" Yuun, inuet a/l«ction,\tfly nnd fHlihrnlly, 

" BYROM - 



606 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CXCVII. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 

^ "Jan. 15, 1814. 

** Before any proof goes to Mr. GifFord, it raay be 
as well to revise this, where there are words omitted, 
faults committed, and the devil knows what. As to 
the dedication, I cut out the parenthesis of Mr.* 
but not another word shall move unless for a better. 
Mr. Moore has seen, and decidedly preferred, the 
part your Tory bile sickens at. If every syllable 
•were a rattlesnake, or every letter a pestilence, they 
should not be expunged. Let those who cannot 
swallow, chew the expressions on Ireland ; or should 
even Mr. Croker array himself in all his terrors 
against them, I care for none of you, except Gif- 
ford ; and he won't abuse me except I deserve it — 
which will at least reconcile me to his justice. As 
to the poems in Hobhouse's volume, f the transla- 
tion from the Romaic is v/ell enough ; but the best 
of the other volume (of mine, I mean) have been 
already printed. But do as you plcase-g-only, as I 
shall be absent when you come out, do, pray, let 
Mr. Dallas and you have a care of fhe press. 

«' Yours, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

[1814, Jan. 16.j 

• I do believe that the Devil never created or per- 
veited such a fiend as the fool of a printer. I am 
obliged to enclose you, luckily for me, this second 
proof, corrected, because there is an ingenuity -in his 
blunders peculiar to himself. Let the press be 
guided by the present sheet. " Yours, &c. 

" Bur7i the other. 

" Correct this also by the others in some things 
which I may have forgotten. There is one mistake 
he made, which, if it had stood, I would most cer- 
tainly have broken his neck." 



LETTER CXCVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Newstead Abbey, Jan. 22, 1814. 

" You will be glad to hear of my safe arrival here. 
The time of my return will depend upon the 
weather, which is so impracticable that this letter 
has to advance through more snows than ever 
opposed the emperor's retreat. The roads are im- 

' passable, and return impossible for the present ; 
which I do not regret, as I am much at my ease, 
and six-and-tioenty complete tlus day — a very pretty 
age, if it would always last, pur coals are excel- 
lent, our fire-places large, my cellar full, and my 
head empty ; and I have not yet recovered my joy 
at leaving London. If any unexpected turn oc- 
curred with my purchasers. I believe I should hardly 
quit the place at all ; but shut my door and let my 
beard grow. 

•' I a)rgot to mention (and I hope it is unneces- 
sary) that the lines beginning — Remember him,X &e.~, 
must not appear with the Corsair. You may slip 
them in with the smaller pieces newly annexed to 
Childe Harold ; but on iw account permit them to 
be appended to the Corsair. Have the goodness to 
recollect this particularly. 

r^\'' The books I have brought with me are a great 

/ consolation for the confinement, and I bought more 
B.8 we came along. In short, I never consult the 
thernometor, and shall not put up prayers for a 
ihaw, unless I thought it would sweep away the 
rascally invaders of France. Was ever such a 

' , :hing as Blucher's proclamation ? 



* He h;ifl, at first, after the words " Scott alone, * insertec"., in a parenthe- 

lig, " He will exciiBC the Mr. — ' we lio not »ay Mr. Cteiiar. ' 

\ See Poem«, p. 539. 
bee Pocma, p. S46. 



" Just before I left town. Kemble paid me the 
compliment of desiring me to write a tragedy ; 1 
wish I could, but find my scribbling mood sub- 
siding — not before it' was time ; but it is lucky to 
check it at all. If I lengthen my letter you wiL 
think it is coming on again ; so, good-bye. 
" Yours alway, 

" B. X 

" P. S. If you hear any news of battle or retreat^' 
on the part of the Allies, (as they call them,) pray 
send it. He has my best vashes to manure the 
fields of France with an hrvading army. I hate 
invaders of all countries, and have no patience with 
the cowardly cry of exultation over him, at whose 
name you all turned whiter than the snow to which 
you are indet)ted for your triumphs. 

" I open my letter to thank you for yours just 
received. The ' Lines to a Lady Weeping' must go 
with the Corsair. I care nothing for consequence 
on this point. My politics are to me like a young" \ 
mistress to an old man — the worse they grow, thee / 
fonder I become of them. As Mr. Giffbrd likes the " 
' Portuguese Translation,' * pray insert it as an 
addition to the Corsair. 

" In all points of difference between Mr. Giff'ord 
and Mr. Dallas, let the first keep his place ; and in 
all diiference !;etween Mr. GifFord and Mr. Anybody- 
else, I shall abide by the former ; if I am wi-ong, I 
can't help it. But I -would rather not be right with 
any other person. So there is an end of that mat- 
ter. After all the trouble he has taken about me and 
mine, I should be very ungrateful to feel or act 
otherwise. Besides, in point of judgment, he is not 
to be lowered by a comparison. In iiolitics he may 
be right too ; but that with me is a feeling, and 1 
can't torify my nature." 



LETTER CXCIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Newstead Abley, Feb. 4, 1814. 

" I need not say that your obliging letter was very 
welcome, and not the less so for being unexpected. 

** It doubtless gratifies me much that our Jinak 
has pleased, and that the curtain drops gracefully.-} 
You deserve it should, for your promptitude and 
good nature in arranging immediately with Mr. 
Dallas ; and I can assure you that I esteem your 
entering so warmly into the subject, and writing to 
me so soon upon it, as a personal obligation. We 
shall now part, I hope, satisfied with each other. 
I was and am quite in earnest in njy prefatory pro- 
mise not to intrude anymore ; and this not from any 
affectation, but a thorough conviction that it is the 
best policy, and is at least respectful to my readers, 
as it shows I would not willingly run the risk of for- 
feiting their favor in future. Besides, I have other 
views and objects, and think that I shall keep this 
resolution ; for, since I left London, though shut up, 
AViowJ-bound, and thaw-honndi, and tempted with all 
Iciiids of paper, the dirtiest- of ink, and the bluntrst 
of pens, I have not even been haunted by a wish tc 
put them to their combined uses, except in letters 
of business. My rhyming propensity is quite gene, 
and I feel much as I did at Patras on recovering 
from my fever — weak, but in health, and only afraia 



* His translation of the pretty Portugese song, " Tu mi cliamas." He 
was tempted to try another version of this ingenious thouglit, which \ per- 
haps, Biill more happy. 

" You call me still your life — ah ! change the word- 
Life is as tnnsient aB th' inconstiint sigh ; 
Say, rather, I'm your soul, more just that name, 
For, like the soul, my love can never die." — Moort, 

t It will be recollected that he had announced the Corsair aa " the iatf 
production witli which he should trespass on Uie public patience fcr Ma 



LETTERS. 



SDi 



of a relapse 1 do most frequently hope I never 
shall. 

" I see by the Morning Chronicle there hath been 
discussion in the Courier ; and I read in the Morninp' 
Fosta wrathful letter about Mr. Moore, in which 
«ome Protestant Reader has made a sad confusion 
about India and Ireland. 

" You are to do as you please about the smaller 
poems ; but I think removing them now from the 
Corsair looks like fear ; and if so, you must allow 
me not to be pleased. I should also suppose that, 
after the /'wss of • these newspaper esquires, they 
would materially assist the circulation of the Cor- 
sair ; an object I should imagine at present of more 
importance to yourself t]xdM. Childe Harold's seventh 
tppearance. Do as you like ; but don't allow the 
withdrawing that poem to draw any imputatipn of 
dismay upon me.* 

"Pray make my respects to Mr. Ward, whose 
praise I value most highly, as you well know ; it is 
'u the approbation of such men that fame becomes 
worth having. To Mr. Gitford I am always grate- 
ful, f;nd surely not less so now than ever. And so 
good" night to my authorship. 

" I have been sauntering and dozing here very 
quietly and not unhappily. You will be happy to 
near that 1 have completely established my title 
deeds as marketable, and that the purchaser has 
succnnbed to the terms, and fulfils them, or is to 
fulfil theui forthwith. He is now here and we go on 
very amicably together — one in each wing of the 
Abbey. We set off on Sunday — I for town, he for 
Cheshire. 

*' Mrs. Leigh is with me — ^much pleased with the 
place, and less so with me for parting with it, to 
which not even the price can reconcile her. Your 
parcel has not yet arriv-'d — at least the Mags. &c. ; 
but I have received Childe Harold and the Corsair. 
I believe both arc very correctly printed, which is a 
great satisfaction. 

'* 1 thank you for wishing me in town ; but I 
think one's success is most felt at a distance, and I 
enjoy my solitary self-importance in an agreeably 
Bulky way of my own, upon the strength of your 
letter — for which I once more thank you, and am, 
very truly, &:c. 

*' P. S. Don't you think Bonaparte's next puhli 
nation, will be rather expensive to the Allies ? Per- 
ry's Paris letter of yesterday looks very reviving. 
What a Hydra and Briareus it is ! I wish they 
would pacify : there is no end to this campaigning.'"' 



LETTER CO. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Newitead Abbey, Feb 5, 1814. 

" I quite forgot, in my answer of yesterday, to 
mention that I have no means of ascertaining 
whether the Newark Pirate has been doing what 
you say.'t If so, lie is a rascal, and a shabhy lascal 
l^jo ; and if his oirence is puuishnble by law or pugil- 
lem, he shall be fined or buffeted. Do you try and 
disf.ovrr, and I will make some inquiry here. Per- 
baj)s some other in town may have gone on printing, 
and \ised the same deception. 

*' The far-simile is omitted in Childe Harold, 
which is very awkward, and there is ajiote expressly 
on the subjn'cti I'ray replace it as vauaf. 

•' On second and "tliird thoughts, the withdraw- 
ing the sni:i11 jjocins from the Corsair (ev(!n to add 
to Chilile Harold) looks like shrinking and Khnf- 
fling, after the fuss made upon one of them hy 
the Tories. Pray replace them in the Corsair's ap- 



■ He rilliiit>'i to U 3 llii'-t Uoginiiliiir " VVoep, duufhUrr of a royiU Una.' 
•ofini. p. M7, 

I Reiir\ntkii4 tb« oun of l(llen«iH." 



pendix, I am sorry that Childe Harold r£ quire? 
some and such abetments to make hiin move off 
but, if you remember, I told you his popularity 
would not be permanent. It is very lucky for the 
author that he had made up his mind to a tempo- 
rary reputation in time. The truth is, I do not 
think that any of the present day (and least of all, 
one who has not consulted the flattering side of 
human nature) have much to hope from posterity ji 
and you may think it affectation very probably, but '\ 
to me, my present and past success has appeared 
very singular, since it was in the teeth of so many 
prejudices. I almost think people like to be contra- 
dicted. If Childe Harold flags, it will hardly oe 
worth while to go on with the engravings ; but do 
as you please ; I have done with the whole concern ' 
and the enclosed lines written years ago, and copied 
from my skull-cap, are among the last with which, 
you will be troubled. If you like, add them to 
Childe Harold, if only for the sake of another out* 
cry. You received so long an answer yesterday, 
that I will not intrude on you further than to repeat 
myself, '• Yours, &c. 

*' P. S. Of course, in reprinting (if you have oc 
casion) you will take great care to be correct. The 
present editions seem very much so, except in the 
last note of Childe Harold, where the word respon- 
sible occurs twice, nearly together ; correct the 
second into atiswerable." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"NewarU. Tab. 6, 1814. 

** Ij am thus far on my way to town. Master 
Ridgg* I have seen, and he owns to having reprinted 
some^heets, to make up a few complete remaining 
copiCj ! I have now given him fair warning, and it 
he pKys such tricks again, I must either get an in- 
junction, or call for an account of profits, (as 1 
never have parted with the copyright,) or, in short, 
any thing vexatious to repay him in his own wav. 
If the weather does not relapse, I hope to be in 
town in a day or two. " Yours, &c " 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Feb. 7, 1814. 



" I see all the papers in a sad commotion with 
those eight lines ;t and the Morning Post, in par- 
ticular, has found out that I am a sort of Richard 
III. — deformed in mind and body. The la^t piece 
of information is not very new to a man who passed 
five years, at a public school. 

" 1 am very sorry you cut out those lines for 
Childe Harold. Pray reinsert them- in their oM 
place in ' The Corsaii-.' " 



LETTER CCI. 

TO MR. HODGSON. 

••Fcb.W, 1811. 

"There is a youngster — and a clever one, named 
Reynolds, who has just published a ]wvn\ called 
' Safie,* published by Cawthorne. He is in the most 
natural and fearful approbension of the He.viewera 
— and as you and I both know by experience th« 
eifect of sueh things upon a young niiiid, I wisL 
yo« would take his production into dissoetion, und 
do it gently. I cannot, because it is inscribed to 
me; but I assure you this is not my nu»tivp foi 
wishing him to be tenderly treated, but beeausp 1 
know tlu! misery, at his tiine of life, ot untowar* 
remarks upon first appearance. 



Tbe printer it Nvviurk. 
" T» • Luily WeepUif." 



808 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



♦'Now for self. Pray thank your cousin — it is 
just as it should be, to my liking, and probably 
more than will suit any one else's. I hope and trust 
that you are well, and well doing. Peace be with 
you. E^er yours, ray dear friend." 



LETTER ecu. 

TO MK. MOORE. 

" Feb. 10, 1814. 

/ * 1 arrived in town late yesterday evening, having 
Been absent three weeks, which I passed in Notts. 
' quietly and pleasantly. You can have no concep- 
tion of the uproar the eight lines on the little 
Royalty's weeping in 1812 (now republished) have 
occasioned. The Regent, who had always thought 
them yours, chose — God knows why — on discover- 
ing them to be mine, to be affected, ' in sorrow rather 
than anger.' The Morning Post, Sun, Herald, 
Courier, have all been in hysterics ever since. Mur- 
ray is in a fright, and wanted to shuffle — and the 
abuse against me in all directions is vehement, un- 
ceasing, loud — some of it good, and all of it hearty. 
I feel a little compunctious as to the Regent's 
regret ; — * would he had been only angry ! but I fear 
him not.' 

"Some of these same assailments you have pro- 
bably seen. My person (which is excellent for ' the 
nonce ') has been denounced in verses, the more like 
the subject, inasmuch as they halt exceedingly. 
Then, in another, I am an atheist — a rebel — and, at 
last, the devil, (boiteux, I presume.) My derr^f lism 
seems to be a female's conjecture: if so, per^J-ps I 
could convince her that I am but a mere mo'-'^-K, — if 
a queen of the Amazons may be believed, wi'^Vsays 
aptcTov x'>^'i oiipEi. I quote from memory, s"! my 
Greek is probably deficient ; but the passage is 
meant to mean * * * * * * . 

" Seriously, I am in, what the learned call, a di- 
lemma, and the vulgar, a scrape ; and my friends 
desire me not to be in a passion, and like Sir Fret- 
ful, I assure them that I am 'quite calm,' — but I am 
nevertheless in a fury. 

" Since I wrote thus far, a friend has come in, and 
we have been talking and buffooning, till I have 
quite lost the thread of my thoughts ; and, as I 
won't send them unstrung' to you, good morning, 
and "Believe me ever, &c. 

"P. S. Murray, during my absence, omitted the 
Tears in several of the copies. I have made him 
replace them, and am very wroth with his qualms ; 
— ' as the wine is poured out, let it be drank to the 
dregs.' " 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

'< Fel>. 10, 1814. 

" I am much better, and indeed quite well this 
morning. I have received two, but I presume there 
are more of the Ana, subsequently, and also some- 
thing previous, to which the Morning Chronicle 
replied. You also mentioned a parody on the Skull. 
I wish to see them all, because there may be things 
that require notice either by pen or person. 

" Yours, &c. 

*' You need not trouble yourself to answer this ; 
OJuX send me the things when you get them." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Feb. 12, 1814. 

" Tf vou have copies of the • Intercepted Let- 
ters,'* Lady Holland would be glad of a volume, 
rnd when you have served others, have the goodness 
to think of your humble servant. 

" You have played tlie devil by that injudicious 
iuppreasion, which you did totally without my con- 



sent. Some of the papers have exactly said wha . 
might be expected. Now I do not, and will not be \ 
supposed to shrink, although myself and every « 
thing belonging to me were to perish with mjr 
memory. " Yours, &c., 

"Bn. 
" P. S. Pray attend to what I stated yesterday on 
technical topics." 



LETTER CCIIL 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Feb. 9, ISM. 

"My Dear Sir, 

" I have been snow-bound and thaw-swamped 
(two compound epithets for you) in the 'valley of 
the shadow ' of Newstead Abbey for nearly a month, 
and have not been four hours returned to London. 
Nearly the first use I make of m*y benumbed fingers, 
is to thank you for your very handsome note in the 
volume* you have just put forth, only, I trust, to 
be followed by others on subjects more worthy your 
notice than the works of contemporaries. Of my- 
self, you speak only too highly, and you must think 
me strangely spoiled, or perversely peevish, even to 
suspect that any remarks of yours, in the spirit ol 
candid criticism, could possibly prove unpalatable. 
Had they been harsh, instead of being Avritten aa 
they are, in the indelible ink and friendly admoni- 
tion, had they been the harshest — as I knew and 
know that you are above any personal bias, at least, 
against your fellow-bards, believe me, they would 
not have caused a remonstrance, nor a moment of 
rankling on my part. Your poem I read long ago 
in the ' Reflector,', and it is not much to say it is the 
best ' Session ' we have, and with a more difficult 
subject, for we are neither so good nor so bad (tak- 
ing the best and worst) as the wits of the olden 
time. 

" To your smaller pieces I have not yet had time 
to do justice by perusal, and I have a quantity ol 
unanswered, and I hope unanswerable, letters to 
wude through before I sleep, but to-morrow \v\\\ see 
me through your volume. I am glad to see you 
have tracked Gray among the Italians. You will 
perhaps find a friend or two of yours there also, 
though not to the same extent ; but I have always 
thought the Italians the most poetical moderns ; our 
INIilton and Spenser, and Shakspeare, (the last 
through translations of their Tales,) are very Tus- 
can, and surely it is far superior to the French school. 
You are hardly fair enough to Rogers. Why tea f 
you might surely have given him supper, if only a 
sandwich. Murray has, I hope, sent you my last 
bantling, * The Corsair.' I have been regaled at 
every inn on the road by lampoons and other merry 
conceits on myself in the ministerial gazettes, oc- 
casioned by the republication of two stanzas, inserted 
in 1812, in Perry's paper. The hysterics of the 
Morning Post are quite interesting ; and T hear (but 
have not seen) of something terrifie in a last week's 
Courier : all which I take with the ' calm indiffer- 
ence ' of Sir Fretful Plagiary. The Morning Post 
has one copy of devices upon my deformity, which 
certainly will admit of no ' historic doubts ' like 
' Dickon my master's ; ' another upon my atheism, 
which is not quite so clear; and another very down 
rightly says, * I am the devil, f boiteux, they might 
have added,) and a rebel, and what not- possibly, 
my accuser of diabolism may be Rosa Matilda ; and 
if so, it would not be difficult to convince her that ] 
am a mere man. I shall break in upon you in a day 
or two ; distance has hitherto detained me ; and I 
hope to find you well, and myself welcoi ^e. 
" Ever your obliged and sincfc/e 

" Byron 




LETTERS. 



809 



" P S. Since this letter was written, I have been 
at your text, which has much good humor, in every 
sense of the word. Your notes are of a very high 
order indeed, particularly on Wordsworth." 



LETTER CCIV. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Morday, ^e^ 14 1814. 

Before I left town yesterday, I wrote you a r.ote, 
which I presume you received. I have heard so 
many different accounts of your proceedings, or 
rather of those of others towards you, in eonse- 
queuee of thf publication of these everlasting lines, 
that 1 am an tious to hear from yourself the real 
Btatc of the case. Whatever responsibility, oblo- 
quy or effect is to arise from the publication, should 
sur( ly not fall upon you in any degree ; and I can 
have no objection to your stating, as distinctly and 
publicly as yen please, youf unwillingness to publish 
them, and my own obstinacy upon the subject. 
Take any course you please to vindicate yourself, 
but leave rae to fight my OAvn way, and, as I before 
Raid, do not compromise me by any thing which may 
look like shrinking on my part ; as for your own, 
make the best of it. " Yours, 

" Bn." 



LETTER CCV. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

«• Feb. 16, 1814. 

My Dear Rogers, 

" I wrote to Lord Holland briefly, but I hope dis- 
tinctly, on the subject which has lately occupied 
much of my conversation with him and you.* As 
things now stand, upon that topic my determination 
•riust be unalterable. 

' I declare to you most sincerely that there is no 
tiuinan being on whose regard and esteem I s'^t «• 
higher value than on Lord Holland's ; and, as far a j 
concerns himself, I would concede even to humilia- 
tion without any view to the future, and solely from 
my sense of his conduct as to the past. For the 
rest, I conceive that I have already done all in my 
power by the suppression. t If that is not enough, 
they must act as they please ; but I will not ' teach 
my tongue a most inherent baseness,' come what 
may. You will yrobably be at the Marquis Lans- 
downe's to-night. I am asked, but I am not sure 
that 1 shall be al)le to go. Hohhouso will be there. 
I think, if you knew him well, you would like him. 

" Believe me always, yours very affectionately, 



LETTER CCVI. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" Ppb. 16, 1814. 

"if Lord Holland is satisfied, as far as regards 
h'msc'lf and Lady lid., and as this letter expresses 
him to be, it is enough. 

" As for any impression the public may receive 
from the revival of the lines on Lord Carlisle, let 
( them keep it — the more favorable for him, and the 
I fiorso for me — better for all. 

' *• All the sayings and doings in the world shall 
not make me utter another word of conciliation to 



any thing that breathes. I shall bear what I can, 
and what I cannot, I shall resist. The worst thej 
could do would be to exclude me from society. 1 
have never courted it, nor, I may add, in the gen- 
etal sense of the word, enjoyed it — and ' there is a 
world elsewhere ! ' 

"Any thing remarkably injurious, I have the 
same means of repaying as other men, with such in 
terest as circumstances may annex to it. 

"Nothing but the necessity of adhering to regi' 
men prevents me from dining with you to-morrow. 
" I am yours most truly, 

"BV 



LETTER CCVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

•' Keb. 16, 1814. 

" You may be assured that the only prickles that 
sting from the Royal hedgehog are those which pos- 
sess a torpedo property, and may benumb some of 
my friends. / am quite silent, and ' hush'd in grim 
repose.' The frequency of the assaults has weak- 
ened their effects, — if ever they had any ; — and, if 
they had had much I should hardlv have held my 
tongue, or withheld my fingers. It is something 
quite new to attack a man for abandoning his resent 
ments. I have heard that previous praise and sub 
sequent vituperation were rather ungrateful, but 1 
did not know that it was wrong to endeavor to dc 
justice to those who did not wait till I had made 
some amends for former and boyish piejudices, but 
received me into their friendship, when I might still 
have been their enemy. 

"You perceive justly that I must intentionallu 
have made my fortune, like Sir Francis Wronghead. 
It were better if there were more merit in my inde- 
pendence ; but it really is something now-a-days to 
be independent at all, and the less temptation to be 
otherwise, the more uncommon the case, in these 
times of paradoxical servility. I believe that mos« 
of our hates and likings have been hitherto nearly 
the same ; but from henceforth, they must, of ne- 
cessity, be one and indivisible, — and now for it I I 
am for any weapon, — the pen, till one can find 
something sharper, will do for a beginning. 

" You can have no conception of the ludicrous 
solemnity with which these two stanzas have been 
treated. The Morning Post gave notice of an in- 
tended motion in the House of my brethren on the 
subject, and God knows what proceedings besides ; 
— and all this, as Bedridden in the ' Nights ' says, 
' for making a cream tart without pepper.' This 
last piece of intelligence is, I presume, too laugh- 
al)le to be true ; and the destruction of the custom- 
house ajjpcars to have, in some degree, inter*"ered 
with mine ; — added to which, the last battle of Bona- 
parte has usurped the column hitherto devoted to 
my bulletin. 

" I send you from this day's Morning Post the 
best which iiave hitherto appeared on this • impu- 
dent doggerel,' as the Courier calls it. There wa/» 
another about my diet, when a boy — not at all bad- 
some time ago ; but the rest are but indifferent. 

" I shall think about your oratorical hint ;* — but 
I have never set much upon * that cast,' and am 
grown as tired as Solomon of every thinj:, and of 
mysolf inoic than any thing. This is b(>ing whut 
the horned call philosophical, and the vulgar, lack- 
a-daisical. I am, however, always glad of a bles- 
Himt ;t prav rei)eat yours soon, — at least, your letter, 
and I shalf think the benediction iiu-luded. 

" Ever, itc." 



• Rrtatlvp t ) « propoied roconcllliilon between Lonl Carlltlr niiJ hlniioir. 

* or Umi UttUrc. 

102 



* Mr. MiKire hud rmlmviirixt to ixTiiiiiilr liiiii to tnk'- • part In |«(t 
men' ry un'iill», «nd to eirrclir hU hIimii fur ornlorv nion- fnsji'-nliy. 

t In ciiiulu''.;n|f UU letti-r, Mr. Muore hnving mIiI " Uot: Jtoa W>i I 
adiloti— " '..int b, II yoM hav* ito vtitmUjix." 



BIO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCVIII. 



TO MB. DALLAS. 

" Feb. 17, 1814. 

"The Courier of this eveninff accuses me of hav- 
ing ' received and pocketed ' larKe sums for my 
Works. I have never yet i-eceived, nor wish to re- 
ceive, a farthing tor any. Mr. Murray, offered a 
thousand for the Giaour and Bride of Abydos, 
which I said was too much, and that if he could af- 
ford it at the end of six months, I would then direct 



and its author. The poem itself, as tl e work >f i 
young man, is creditable to your talents, and pro- 
mises better for future efforts than any which 1 can 
now recollect. Whether you intend to pursue youi 
poetical career, I do not know, and can have no right 
to inquire — but, in whatever channel your abilities 
are directed, I think it will be your own fault il 
they do not eventually load to distinction. Happi- 
ness must of course depend upon conduct— ^and even 
fame itself would be but a poor compensation for 
self-reproach. You will excuse me for talking to a 



how it might be disposed of: but neither then, iioriman perhaps not many years my junior, with these 
at any other period, have I ever availed myself of I grave airs of seniority; but though I cannot claim 



the profits on my own account. . For the republica- 
tion of the Satire, I refused four hundred guineas ; 
and for the previous editions I never asked nor re- 
ceived a sous, nor for any writing whatever. I do 
not wish you to do any thing disagreeable to your- 
self; tliere never was nor shall be any conditions 
nor stipulations with regard to any accommodation 
that I could afford you ; and, on your part, I can see 
nothing derogatory in receiving the copyright. It 



much advantage in that respect, it Avas my lot to be 
thrown very early upon the world — to mix a g.ad 
deal in it in moi-e climates than one — and to pur- 
chase experience which would probably have been of 
greater service to any one than myself. But my 
business with you is in your capacity of author, and 
to that I will confine myself. 

" The first thing a young Avriter must expect, and 
yet can least of all suffer, is criticism. I did not 



was only assistance afforded to a worthy man, by i bear it — a few years, and many changes have since 
one not quite so worthy. .passed over my head, and my reflections rya that 

Mr. Murrav is going to contradict this ;* but subject are attended with regret. I find,, on dispas- 



your name wiii not be mentioned: for your own 
part, you are a free agent, and are to do as you 
please. I only hope that now, as always, you will 
think that I wish to take no unfair advantage of the 



sionate comparison, ray ov,-o revenge more than the 
provocation warranted. It is true, I was very young 
— that might be an excuse to those I attacked — but 
to me it is none : the best reply to all objections is 



accidental opportunity which circumstances permit- to write better — and if your enemies will not then 
ted me of being of use to you. do you justice, the world will. On the other hand, 

" Ever, &c." you should not be discouraged — to be opposed, is not 
to be vanquished, though a timid mind is apt to 
mistake every scratch for a mortal wound. There 
is a saying of Dr. Johnson's, which it is as well to 
In consequence of this letter, Mr. Dallas addressed ; remember, that ' no man was ever written down ex- 
cept by himself.' I sincerely hope that you will 
meet with as few obstacles as yourself can desire ; 
but if you should, you will find that they are to be 
stepped over ; to Jcick them down is the first resolve 
of a young and fiery spirit — a pleasant thing enough " 
at the time — but not so afterv-'ards : on this point, I 



an explanation to one of the newspapers, of which 
the following is a part : — 



to the editor of the morning post. 
Sir, 



" I have seen the paragraph in an evening paper, speak of a man's oion reflections — what others think 
in which Lord Byron is accused of ' receiving and or say, is a secondary consideration — at least, it has 
pocketing ' large sums for his works. I believe no been so with me, but will not answer as a general 
one who knows him has the slightest suspicion of maxim : he who would make his way in the world, 
this kind ; but the assertion being public, I think it ! must let the world believe that it was made for him, 
a justice I owe to Lord Byron to contradict it pub- and accommodate himself to the minutest observ 
*^^^y- * ♦ ♦ lance of its I'egulations. I beg once more to thank 

" I take upon me to affirm that Lord Byron never j you for your pleasing present, 

.u.n r _. X- 1. • T rr^ " And have the honor to be 



received a shilling for any of his works. To my 
certain knowledge, the profits of the Satire were left 
entirely to the publisher of it. The gift of the 
copyright of Childe Karold's Pilgrimage, I have 
already publicly acknowledged in the dedication of 
the new edition of my novels : and I now add my 
acknowledgment for that of the Corsair, not only 
for the profitable part of it, but for the delicate and 
delightful manner of bestowing it while yet unpub- 
lished. With respect to his two other poems, the 
Giaour and the Bride of Abydos, Mr. Murray, the 
publisher of them, can truly attest that no part of 
the sale of them has ever touched his hands, or been 
dispOoed of lor his use." 



LETTER CCIX. 

TO « « « • . 
"SIR, "Fek.«,1814. 

^« " My absence from London till within these last 
-few days, and business since, have hitherto pre- 
vented my acknowledgment of the volume I have 
lati'y received, and the inscription which it contains, 
for both of which I beg leave to return you my 
chanks, and best wishes for the success of the book 

* The Matemem a( the Couirr, Ac 



Your obliged, and very obedient servant, 

" Byrox. 



LETTER CCX. 

fO MR. MOORE. 

" Feb. 26, 1814. 

" Dallas had, perhaps, have better kept silence; 
— but that was his concern, and, as his facts are 
correct, and his motive not dishonorable to himself, 
I wished him well through it. As for his interpre- 
tations of the lines, he and an'' one else may inter- 
pret them as they please. I have and shall adhere 
to my taciturnity, unless something very particulai 
occurs to render this impossible. Do not you say a 
word. If any one is to speak, it is the person prin- 
cipally concerned. The most amusing thing is 
that every one (to me) attributes the abuse to the 
man they personally most' dislike ! — some say Croker, 
some C * * e, others Fitzgerald, ike, &c., &c. I 
do not know, and have no clue but conjecture. If 
discovered, and he turns out a hireling, he must be 
left to his wages ; if a cavalier, he must ' wink, and 
hold out his iron.' 

• "I had some thoughts of putting tne question to 
Croker, but Hobhouse, who, I am sure, would not 
dissuade me, if it were right, advised me by all 
means not ,• — * that I had no" right to take it upon 



LETTERS. 



8n 



gtispicion,' &0., &:c. Whether Hobhouse is correct, 
I am not aware, but he believes himself so, and 
Hays there can be but one opinion on that subject. 
Tliis I am, at least, sure of, that he would never 
prevent me from doing what he deemed the duty of 
a preux chevalier. In such casej — at least, in this 
country — we must act according to usages. In 
considering this instance, I dismiss my own per- 
sonal feelings. Any man will and must fight, when 
necessary, — even without a motive. Here, I should 
take it up really without much resentment ; for 
unless a woman one likes is in the way, it is some 
years since I felt a lony anger. But, undoubtedly, 
could I, or may I, trace it to a man of station, I 
bLouIJ and shall do what is proper. 

" * * was angerly, but tried to conceal it. You 
are not called upon to avow the 'Twopenny,' and 
would only gratify them by so doing. Do you not 
see the great object of all these fooleries is to set 
him., and you, and me, and all persons whatsoever, 
by the ears ? — more especially those who are on 
good terms — and nearly succeeded. Lord H. wished 
me to concede to Lord Cai'lisle — concede to the devil ! 
— to a man who used me ill ? I told him, in answer, 
that I would neither concede, nor recede on the sub- 
ject, but be silent altogether ; unless any thing 
mere could be said about L:tdy H. and himself, who 
had been since my veiT good friends ; — and there it 
ended. This was no time for concessions to Lord C. 

"I have been interrupted, but shall write again 
Bpon. Believe me ever, my dear Moore, &c." 



LETTER CCXI. 



S Esa * 



My Dear W. 



" I have but a few moments to write to you. Si- 
lence is the only answer to the things you mention ; 
Qor should I regard that man as my friend who said 
B word more on the sul/ject. I care little for attacks, 
Dut I will not submit to defences; and I do hope 
iiud trust that you have never entertained a serious 
thought of engaging in so foolish a controversy. 
Dallas's letter was, to his credit, merely as to tlie 
facts which he had a right to state ; / neither have 
nor shall take the least jyuhlic notice, nor penrut 
any one else to do «o. If I discover the ^^Titor. 
then I may act in a different manner ; but it will 
uot be in writing, 

" An expression in your letter has induced me to 

write this to you, to entreat you not to interfere in 

/ any way in such a business, — it is now nearly over, 

, and depend upon it Utey are much more chagrined 

; by my silence than they could be by the best defence 

7 iu the world. I do not "know any thing that would 

ve» me more than any further reply to these things. 

'• Ever yours, in haste, 

" B." 



LETTER CCXII. 
to mr. moohe. 
*Mt Dear Friend, 



' March >, 1814. 



** I have a great mind to tell you that I mn ' un- 
»omf(»rtal)le,' if only to make vou conic to town; 
IV'here no one ever more dcligfitrd in si-cing you. 
nor is there any one to whom I would sooner turn 
for consolation m my most vuporisli monu'iits. The 
truth is, I have ' no lack of argument ' to ponder 
apon of the most gloomy description, but this 

' A (nnaeiiiun who voluniaerad lodifend him In nktlon to Um "Two 



arises from other causes. Some day or otuftx, when 
we are veterans, I may toll you a tale of present and 
past times ; and it is not from want of confidence 
that I do not now, — but — but — always a hut to the 
end of the chapter. 

" There is nothing, however, upon the spot either 
to love or hate ; — but I certainly have subjects foi 
both at no very great distance, and am beside? 
embarrassed between three whom I know, and one 
(whose name at least) I do not know. All this 
would be very well, if 1 had no heart ; but. urduck- 
ily, 1 have found that there is such a thing still 
about me, though in no very good repair, and, also, 
that it has a habit of attaching itself to one, whe- 
ther I will or no. ' Divide et impera,' I begin to 
think, will only do for politics. 

" If I discover the ' toad,' as you call him, 1 
shall ' tread,' — afid put spikes in my shoes lo do il 
more effectually. The effect of ajl these fine things, 
I do not inquire much nor perceive. I believe * * 
felt them more than either of us. People are civil 
enough, and I have had no dearth of invitations, — 
none of which, however, I have accepted. I went 
out very little last year, and mean to g(j about still 
less. I have no passion for circles, and have long 
regretted that I ever gave way to what is called a 
town life; — which, of all the lives I ever saw (and 
they are nearly as many as Plutarch's) seems to me 
to leave the least for the past and future. 

" IIow proceeds the Poem ? Do not neglect it, 
and I have no fears. I need not say to you that 
your fame is dear to me, — I really might say (k-arer 
than my own ; for I have lately begun to think my 
things have been strangely overrated ; and, at any 
rate, whether or not, I have done with them for 
ever. I may say to you, what I would not say to 
every body, that the last two were written, the 
Bride in four, and the Corsair in ten days, — which I 
take to be a most humiliating confession, as it 
jnoves my own want of judgment in publishing, 
and the public's, in reading things, which cannot 
have stamina for permanent attention. ' So much 
for Buckingham.' 

" I have no dread of your being too hasty, and 1 
have still less of your failing. But I think a year 
•\ very fair allotment of tiuie to a composition which 
is, not to be Epic ; and even Horace's ' Nonuni pre- 
matur ' must have been intended for tlie Millenni- 
um, or some longer-lived generation than ours. I 
wonder how much we should have had o( him, had 
he observed his own doclrines to the letter. Feacft 
be with you ! Remember that I am always and 
most tnily yotirs, &C. 

•* P. S. I never heard the 'report' you mention, 
nor, I dare say, many others. But, in course, you. 
as well as others, have ' damned good-nutured 
friends,' who do their duty in the usual way. Ono 
thing will make you luugh ••♦.»' 



LETTER CCXia. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Murch IV. Wlv 

"Guess darkly, and you will seldom err. At 
present, I shall say no more, and, perhaps — but no 
matter. I hop(> we shall some day meet, aiul what- 
ever years may precede or succeeil il, I shall mark 
it with the 'white stone' iu my calendar. I uin 
not sure that I shall not soon be in your r t'iglibcjr- 
hood again. If so, and I am alone, (as uill pnba 
bly lie the case,) I shall invade and carry yit oj, 
and endeavor to atone for sorry fare by u sin, « ra 
welcome. 1 don't know tlie ])erson absent (b.iinug 
' the sect *) 1 should be so glid to see a^'aiu. 

•* I Ikivp nothing of the sort you uienticij hut thi 
tinr.s, (the Weencrs,) if you like to have Ihem ia 
the Bag. I wish to ^ivo them ail Donsible circuU 



812 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tion. The Vatdt reflection is downright actionable, 
ind t(i print it would be peril to the publisher ; but I 
think the Tears have a natural right to be bagged, 
and the editor (whoever he may be) might supply a 
facetious note or not, Ss he pleased. 

" I cannot conceive how the Vault* has got about, 
— but so it is. It is too farouche; but, trath to say, 
my satires are not very playful. I have the plan of 
an epistle in mv head., at him and to him ; and, if 
they are not a little quieter, I shall embody it. I 
should say little or nothing of myself. As to mirth 
and ridicule, that is out of my way ; but I have a 
tolerable fund of sternness and contempt, and, with 
Juvenal before me, I shall perhaps read him a lec- 
ture he has not lately heard in the Court. From 
f>articular circumstances, which came to my know- 
edge almost by accident, I could ' tell him what he 
is — J know him well.' 

" 1 meant, my dear M. to write to you a long 
letter, but I am hurried, and time clips my inclina- 
tion down to yours, &c. 

*' P. S. Think again before you shelf your poem. 
There is a youngster, (older than me, by-the-by, 
but a younger poet,) Mr. G. Knight, with" a vol. of 
Eastern Tales, WTitten since his return, for he has 
been in the countries. He sent to me last summer, 
and I advised him to write one in each measure, 
without any intention, at that time, of doing the 
same thing. Since that, from a habit of writing in 
a fever, I have anticipated him in the variety of 
measures, but quite unintentionally. Of the stories 
I know nothing, not having seen them ; but he has 
some lady in a sack too, like the Giaour : — he told 
me at the time. 

"The best way to make the public 'forget' me 
is to remind them of yourself. You cannot suppose 
that / would ask you or advise you to publish, if I 
thought you would fail. I really have no literary 
envy ; and I do not believe a friend's success ever 
sat nearer another than yours do to my best wishes 
'"Ht is for elderly gentlemen to ' bear no brother near, 
and cannot become our disease for more years than 
we may perhaps number. I wish you to be out 
before Eastern subjects are again befrre the public 



LETTER CCXIV. 

TO MK. MURRAY. 

" Mareh 12, 1814. 

"I have not time to read the whole MS.f but 
what I have seen seems very well wTitten, (both 
'prose and verse,) and, though I am and can be no 
judge, (at least di fair one on this subject,) contain- 
ing nothing which you ought to hesitate publishing 
upon 7ny account. If the author is not Dr. Bushy 
himself, I think it a pity, on his oum account, that 
he should dedicate it to his subscribers ; nor can I 
perceive what Dr. Busby has to do with the matter, 
except as a translator of Lucretius, for whose doc- 
trines he is surely not responsible. I tell you open- 
ly, and really most sincerely, that, if published at 
all, there is no earthly reason why you should not ; 
on the contrary I should receive it as the greatest 
compliment you could pay to your good opinion of 
my candor, to print and circulate that, or any other 
work, attacking me in a manly manner, and with- 
out any malicious intention, from which, as far as I 
have seen, I must exonerate this writer. 

"He is wrong in one thing,-—/ am no atheist; 
but if he thinks I have published principles tending 
to such opinions, he has a perfect right to control 



• The lines on the opening of the vault that contoined the remains of 
tfenr>' Vlil. and Ch\rlet 1. 

( The manuscrip of a long grare »aUrr>, entitled " AnU-Byron," which 
tiad been lent to Mr. Murray, and by him forwarded to Lord By on, with a 
isqueft— nm mSMt, 1 b» atc, •eriouily— that he would give hii opinion oa to 
the pn<prie<7 of pubUah^af -. — Mmt*. 



vert them. Pray publish it ; I shall never forgivt 
myself if I think that I have prevented yea 

" Make my compliments to the author, and tell 
him I wish him success ; his verse is very deserving/' 
of it ; and I shall be the last pelrson to suspect hia 
motives. Yours, &c. 

"P. S. If you do not publish it, some one else 
will. You cannot suppose me so narroAv-minded as 
to shrink from discussion. I repeat once for all. 
that I think it a good poem, (as far as I have 
redde ;) and that is the only point you should con- 
sider. How odd that eight lines should have gi~en 
birth, I really think, to eight thousand, including 
all that has been said, and will be, on the siibject ' '' 



LETTER CCXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. ' 

"April 9, 1814. 

" All these news are very fine ; but nevertheless I 
want my books, if you can find, or cause them to be 
found for me, — if only to lend them to Napoleon in 
' the island of Elba,' during his retirement. I also 
(if convenient, and you have no party with you) 
should be glad to speak with you for a few minutea 
this evening, as I have had a letter from Mr. Moore, 
and wish to ask you, as the best judge, of the best 
time for him to publish the work he has composed. 
I need not say, that I have his success much at 
heart ; not only because he is my friend, but some- 
thing much better — a man of great talent, of which 
he is less sensible than I believe any even of his 
enemies. If you can so far oblige me as to step 
down, do so ; and if you are otherwise occupied 
say nothing about it. I shall find you at home in 
the course of next week. 

" P. S. I see Sotheby's Tragedies advertised. 
The Death of Darnley is a famous subject — one oi 
the best, I should think, for the di-ama. Pray let 
me have a copy, when ready. 

" Mrs. Leigh was very much pleased with hei 
books and desired me to thank you ; she means. 
I believe, to write to you her acknowledgments." 



LETTER CCXVL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" 2, Albany, April 9, 1814. 

"Viscount Althorp is about to be married, and I 
have gotten his spacious bachelor apartments in 
Albany, to which you will, I hope, address a speedy 
answer to this mine epistle. 

" I am but just returned to town, from which you 
may infer that I have been out of it ; and I have 
been boxing, for exercise, with Jackson for this last 
month daily. I have also been drinking, — and, on 
one occasion, with three other friends at the Cocoa 
Tree, from six till four, yea, unto five in the matin. 
We clareted and champagned till two — then supped, 
and finished with a kind of regency punch composea 
of Madeira, brandy, and greeti tea, no real water 
being admitted therein. There was a night for you !— 
without once quitting the table, except to ambulate 
home, which I did alone, and in utter contempt of 
a hackney-coach and my own vis, both of which 
were deemed necessary for our conveyance. And 
so, — I am very well, and they say it will hurt my 
constitution. 

' I have also, more or less, been breaking a few of 
the favorite commandmants ; but I mean to pull up 
and marry, — if any one will have me. In the mean 
time, the other day I nearly killed myself with a 
collar of brawn, which I swallowed lor supper, and 



LETTERS. 



813 



indigested for I don't know how long ; — ^but that is] perpetually after you and jczts. Whet will yon 



by-the-by. All this gormandize was in honor of 
Lent ; for I am forbidden meat all the rest of the 
year, — but it is strictly enjoined me during your 
solemn fast. I have been, and am, in very tolerable 
love ; — but of that hereafter, as it may be. 

" My dear Moore, say what you will in your pre 
face ; and quiz any thing, or any body, — me, if you 
like it. Oons ? dost thou think me of the old, or 
rather elderly, school ? If one can't jest with one's 
friends, with whom can we be facetious ? You have 
nothing to fear from * *, whom I have not seen, 
being out of town when he called. He will be very 
correct, smooth, and all that, but I doubt whether 
there will be any ' grace beyond the reach of art ;' — 
and whether there is or not, how long will you be so 
d — d modest ? As for Jeffrey, it is a very handsome 
thing of him to speak well of an old antagonist, — 
and what a mean mind dared not do. Any one 
will revoke praise ; but — were it not partly my own 
case — I should say that very few have strength of 
mind to unsay their censure, or follow it up with 
praise of other things. 

"What think you of the review of Levis? It 
beats the Bag and my hand-grenade hollow, as an 
invective, and hath thrown the Court into hysterics, 
as I hear from very good authority. Have you 
heard from » * *. 

" No more rhyme for— or rather, from — ^me. I 
have taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth 
will mountebank it no longer. I have had my day, 
and there's an end. The utmost I expect, or even 
wish, is to have it said in the Biographia Britannica, 
that I might perhaps have been a poet, had 1 gone 
on and amended. My great comfort is that the tem- 
porary celebrity I have wrung from the world has 
been in the very teeth of all opinions and preju- 
dices. I have flattered no ruling powers ; I have 
never concealed a single thought that tempted me. 
They can't say I have truckled to the times, nor to 
popular topics, (as Johnson, or somebody, said of 
Cleveland,) and whatever I have gained has been at 
the expenditure of as much personal favor as pos- 
sible ; for I do believe never was a bard more \\n- 
populai', quoad homo, than myself. And now I 
have done ; — ' ludite nunc alios.' Every body may 
be d — d, as they seem fond of it, and resolved to 
stickle lustily for endless brimstone. 

" Oh — by-the-by, 1 had nearly forgot. There is a 
long poem, an * Anti-Byron,' coming out, to prove 
that I have formed a conspiracy to overthrow, by 
rhyme, all religion and government, and have al- 
ready made great progress ? It is not very scurri- 
lous, but serious and ethereal. I never felt myself 
important, till I saw and heard of my being such a 
little Voltaire as to induce such a production. — 
Murray would not publish it, for he was a fool, and 
BO I told him ; but some one else will, doubtless. 
'Something too much of this.' 

. - "Your French scheme is good, but let it be 
Italian ; all the Angles will be at Paris. Let it be 
Rome, Milan, Naples, Florence, Turin, Venice, or 
Switzerland, and * egad !' (as Bayes saith) I will 
conniibiate and join vou ; and will write a new 
• Inferno' in our Paradise. Pray think of this — and 
1 will really buy a wife and a ring, and say the cere- 
mony, and settle near you in a summer-house upon 
the Arno, or the Po, or the Adriatic. 

' Ah ! my poor little pagod. Napoleon, has 
walked off his pedestal. He has abdicated, they 
Bay. This would draw molten brass from the eyes 
of Zatanai. What ! * kiss the ground before young 
Malcom's feet, and then be baited by the rabl)le'a 
curse !' I cannot bear such a cnuiching catastr()i)he. 
I must stick to Sylla, for my modern favorites don't 
io, — their resignations are of a different kind. All 
health and prosperity, my dear Moore. Excuse 
Ihis lengthy letter. Ever, &c. 

" P. S. The Quarterly quotes you frcqticntly in 
*M ArtioJB on America; and everybody I kuowuuks 



answer them in person ? 



NOTE TO MS. MURRAY 

•'AprH 10, 1814. 

" I have written an Ode on the fall of Napoleon, 
which, if you like, I \n\\ copy out, and make yuu a 
present of. Mr. Merivale has seen part of it, and 
likes it. You may show it to Mr. Gifford, and 
print it, or not, as you please — it is of no conse- 
quence. It contains nothing in his favor, and 
no allusion whatever to our own government or the 
Bourbons. Yours, &c. 

" P. S. It is in the measure of my stanzas at the 
end of Childe Harrold, which were much liked, be- 
ginning, ♦ And thou art dead.' &c. There are ter 
stanzas of it — ninety lines in all." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 11, 1814. 

" I enclose you a lettered from Mrs. Leigh. 

" It will be best twt to put my name to our Ode; 
but you may say as openly as you like that it ia 
mine, and I can inscribe it to Mr. Hobhouse from 
ii\Q author, wYiich will mark it sufficiently. After 
the resolution of not publishing, though it is a 
thing of little length and less consequence, it will 
be better altogether that it is anonymous ; but we 
will incorporate it in the first tome of ours that you 
find time or the wish to publish. 

" Yours alway, 

*'B. 

" P. S. I hope you get a note of alterations, sent 
this matin ? 

" P. S. Oh my books ! my books ! will you never 
find my books ? 

"Alter * potent spell* to * quickening spell:' the 
first (as Polonius says) * is a vile phrase,' and means 
nothing, besides being common-place and Rosa- 
Matildaish." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April 12, 1814. 

I send vou a few notes and trifling alterations, 
and an additional motto from Gibbon, which you will 
find singularly appropriate. A ' Good-Natured 
Friend' tells me there is a most scurrilous attack on 
tis in the Antijacobin Review, which you have not 
sent. Send it, as I am in that state of languor 
which will derive benefit from getting into a pjis- 
siou. Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXVIl. 

TO MR. MOORB. 

" Albany, April 'JU, 1814. 

' I am very glad to hear that you arc to be tran- 
sient from Mayfield so verk' soon, and was taken in 
by the first part of your letter. f Indeed, for ;>ught 
I know, you may be treating me as, iSlipslop 
says, with 'ironing' even now. I shall say noth- 
ing of the shock, which hud nothing of htimcur in 
it ; as I am ant to take even a critic, and still more 
a friend, at nis word, and never to doubt that I 



• 8p« imge Sn. 

t I had l»«|fiiii my Ipftcr In Ihp follnwinf munneri— " Hutp you m»a IIh 
Ode 10 Nnpoli-ou lJoiiu|wrtP f '— I iiitiircl it to l» rllhor nuj(rnUil'i or Raa 
Mi«tiliU'». Th«H) nipiil .\M(1 iniiiUTly |>nrtr.lt»..f ill thr tyniiU lh«t {«» 
«^pi| Nnpolcun hnva u rt|fcr In them which woiilil incline nie to tuythal 
Ruw Mntililn !■ the pemui ; liul then, on the oUxr hnnd, IhnI pxwerTitl grvif 
ofhlitiiry," Ac, Ao. After >i little more ol tliU mukIi iwr.dlel. tl>e Mter ww* 
on thill ;— " 1 nhmilil likr to know wh»t you think ol Uk- mwlter I S,mn 
Weiidi ol inliif httv mil intiit th«t it i» the work of the «uthor ol ChiltW 
Harolil,— I'lit then Ihey are not •(> well n-ad In Klt»^r«ld nivi Horn M lUI'fc 
•■ I am; <n<l, bwldea, Utey rem to lorfCTH (hut yOM prumlv^l, atww 
MioUi ur iwg 4^0, iiiM (u write aiiv n>ui« fur ywn. Sari*wbr." te. A«- 



314 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



have been writing cursed nonsease if they say so. 
There was a mental reservation in my pact with the 
public, in behalf of anonymes ; and, even had there 
not, the provocation was such as to make it physi- 
cally impossible to pass over this damnable epoch 
of triumphant tameness. 'Tis a cursed business ; 
and, after all, I shall think higher of rhyme and 
reason, and very humbly of your heroic p>eople, till 
— Elba becomes a volcano, and sends him out again. 
I can't think it all over yet. 

"My departure for the Continent depends, in 
some measure, on the ^continent. I have two 
country invitations at home, and don't knov^ what 
to say or do. In the mean time, I have bought a 
macaw and a parrot, and have got up my books ; 
I nd I box and fence daily, and go out very little. 

"r, A-t this present Avriting, Louis the Gouty is 
wheeling in triumph into Piccadilly, in all the 
pomp and rabblement of royalty. I had an ojfer of 
seats to see them pass ; but, as I have seen a sultan 
going to mosqne, and been at his reception of an 
ambassador, tho most Christian King ' hath no at- 
tractions for me :' — though in some coming year of 
thff Hegira, I should not dislike to see the place 
wl ere he had reigned, shortly after the second revo- 
lu ion, and a happy sovereignty of two months, the 
la X six weeks being civil war. 

" Pray write, and deem me ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXX. 



LETTER CCXVIII. 

TO MR, MURRAY. 

" April 21, 1814. 

" Many thanks mth the letters which I return. 
Tou know I am a jacobin, and could not wear 
white, nor see the installation of Louis the Gouty. 

'* This is sad news, and very hard upon the suf- 
ferers at any, but more at such a time — I mean the 
Bayonne sortie. 

" You should urge Moore to come out. 

"P. S. I want 1/orm to purchase for good and 
all. I have a Bayle, but want Moreri too. 

" P. S. Perry hath a piece of compliment' to-day ; 
but 1 think the name might have been as well omit- 
ted. No matter ; they can but throw the old story 
of inconsistency in my teeth, — let them,— I mean as 
to not publishing. However, now I will keep my 
word. Nothing but the occasion, which was ^;Ay5'- 
ically irresistible, made me swerve ; and I thought 
an anonyme within my pact with the public. It is 
the only thing I have or shall set about." 



LETTER CCXIX. 

TO MR.' MURRAY. 

" AprU 25, 1814. 

** Let Mr. GifFord have the letter and return it at 
his leisure. I would have offered it, had I thought 
that he liked things of the kind. 

" Do you want the last page immediately ? I have 
doubt the lines being worth printing ; at any 
rate, \ must see them again, and alter some pas- 
«ages, before they go forth -.n any shape into the 
ocean of circulation ; a very conceited phrase, by- 
the-by : well then — channel of publication will do. 

•' 'I am not i' the vein,' or I could knock off a 
itanza or three for the Ode, that might answer the 
purpose better. At all events, I miist see the lines 
again frst, as there be two I have altered in my 
mind's manuscript already. Has any one seen and 
judged f.f them ? that is the criterion by which I 
will abide — only give me a fair report, and ' nothing 
extenuate,' as I will in that case do something else. 

" Ever, &c. 

•• I want Moore, and ai i^ihen^ics." 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April V8, 181 i. 

" I have been thinking that it might be as well tt 
publish no more of the Ode separately, but incorpo 
rate it with any of the other things, and includd 
the smaller poem too (in that case) — which I must ^ 
previously correct, nevertheless. I can't for the^ t 
head of me, add a line worth scribbling ; my ' vein' M^ 
is quite gone, and my present occupations are oi 
the gymnastic order — boxing and fencing — and my 
principa,l conversation is with my macaw and Bayie. 
want my Moreri, and I want Athenseus. 

" P. S. I hope you sent back that poe^tical 
packet to the address which I forwarded to you oa ' 
Sunday : if not, pray do ; or I shall have the au- 
thor screaming after his Epic." 



LETTER CCXXI. 

* 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Aprfl26, 1814. 

"I have no guess at your author, — but it is 
a nobje Poem,* and worth a thousand Odes of any 
body's. I suppose I may keep this copy ; — after 
reading- it, I really regret having written my own. I 
say this very sincerely, albeit unused to think 
humbly of myself. 

*' I don't like the additional stanzas at all, and 
they had better be left out. The fact is, I can't 
do any thing I am asked to do, however gladly I 
ico7ild ; and at the end of a week my inter-est in a 
composition goes off. This will account to you for 
my doing no better for your ' Stamp Duty' Post 
script. 

'* The S. R. is very civil — butAvhat do they mean 
by Childe Harold resembling Marmion ? and the 
next two. Giaour and Bride, not resembling Scott ? 
I certainly never intended to copy him ; but, ii 
there be any copyism, it must be in the two poems, 
where the same versification is adopted. However,- 
they exempt the Corsau- from all resemblaitce to anj' 
thing, — though I rather wonder at his escape. 

" if ever I did any thing original, it was ii, 
Childe Harold, which I prefer to the other things 
always, after, the first week. Yesterday I re-read 
English Bards ; — ^bating the malice, it is the best. 

"Ever &c." 



LETTER CCXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

«• 2, Albany, April 29, 1814. 

"Dear Sir, 

" I enclose a draft for the money : when paid, send 
the copyright. I release you from the thousand 
pounds agreed on for the Giaour and Bride, and 
there's an end. 

' "If any accident occurs to me, you may do then 
as you please; but, with the exception of two 
copies of each for yourself only, I expect and re 
quest that the advertisements be withdi-awn, and 
the remaining copies of all destroyed ; and any ex- 
pense so incurred, I will be glad to defray. f 

" For all this, it might be as well to assign some 
reason. I have none to give, except my own ca- 
price, and I do not consider the circumstance of con- 
sequence enough to require explanation. 

" In course, I need hardly assure you that they 
never shall be published with my consent, directly 



• " Bonapane," by Mr. Stratford Canning. 

t He had, at this time, formed a resolutiun of purcJtasing back the « 
of hia past copyrighu, and »>ippre«sing every page and lioi he twd 



1.ETTERS. 



81. 



or indirect[y, by any person whatsoever, — that T am 
perfectly satisfied and have every reason so to be, 
with jour conduct in all transactions between us as 
publisher and author. 

" It will give me great pleasure to preserve your 
acquaihtance, and to consider you as my friend. 
Believe me very truly, and for much attention, 
" Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. I do not think that I have overdrawn at 
Hammersley's ; but if that be the case, I can draw 
for the superflux on Hoares. The draft is bl. short, 
but that I will make up. On payment — not oefore 
~retT3rn the copyright papers." 



LETTER CCXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY, 

" May 1, 1814. 

«Db.*r Sir, 

*" II your present note is serious, and it really 
would be inconvenient, there is an end to the 
matter . tear my draft, and go on as usual : in that 
case, we will recur to our former basis. That I 
was peifectly serious, in wishing to suppress all 
future publication, is true; but certainly not to 
interfere with the convenience of others, and more 
particuhiry your own. Some day, I will tell you 
the reason of this apparently strange resolution. 
At present, it may be enough to say that I recall it 
at your suggestion : and as it appears to have 
annoyed you, I lose no time in saying so. 

" Yours, truly, 

"B." 

NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 4, 1814. 

♦' Last night we supp'd at R fe's board, &c. 

******** 

" 1 wish people would not shirk their dt7iners — 
ought it not to have been a dinner ? — and that d — d 
anchovy sandwich ! 

'* That pi iguy voice of yours made me sentimen- 
tal, and almost fall in love with a girl who was 
recommending herself, during your song, by hating 
music. But the song is past, and my passion can 
wait, till X\\e pvcclle. is more harmonious. 

" Do you go to Lndy Jersey's to-night ? It is a 
large party, and you won't be bored into ' softening 
rocks,' und all that. Othello is to-morrow and 
Saturday too. Which day shall we go ? When 
Bhall I see you ? If you call, let it be after three 
and as near four as you please. Ever, &c." 



NOTE TO MR. MOOKB. 

'«Msy4, 1814. 

♦'Dear Tom, 

" Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose 
y)u an experiment, whick has' cost me something 
UJ'-re than troul)le, and is, therefore, liss likely to 
be wirth your talduj; any in your proposed setting.* 
Now, if it be so. throw it into the fire, without 
vhaae •* Ever yours, 

«• Bykon." 
1. 

*• I ipiNik not, I iTiic*! not, I bnmtlio not l)iy name, Ac." 



NOTE TO Mil. MOOUB. 

•• Will you and Rogers come to my box at 
Covent, then ? I shall bo there, and none else — or 
I won't be there, if you twain would like to go 
nr'thcut m-i-. You will not get no good a place 



hustling among the publican boxers, Tfitn damnable 
apprentices fsix feet high) on a back row. WiU 
you both oblige me and come — or one — or neither— 
or, what you will ? 

"P. S. An' you will, I will call for you at half 
past six, or any time of your own dial." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" I have gotten a box for Othello f o-night, and 
send the ticket for your friends the R — fe's. I 
seriously recommend to you to recommend to them 
to go for half an hour, if only to see the third act— ^ 
they will not easily have another opportunity.' Wf 
— at least, I — cannot be there, so there will be no 
one in the way. Will you give or send it to them ? 
it will come with a better grace from you than me. 

*' I am in no good plight, but will dine at * * 'a 
with you, if I can. There is music and Covent-g.— 
WiL you go, at all events, to my box there after 
ward, to see a d^but of a young sixteen,* in thp 
• Child of Nature ? ' " 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" Sunrlay matin. 

" Was not lago perfection ? particularly the last 
look. I was close to him (in the orchestra,) and 
never saw an English countenance half so expres- 
sive. I am acquainted with no /wmaterial sensual- 
ity so delightful as good acting ; and, as it is fitting 
there should be good plays, now and then, besides 
Shakspeare's, I wish you or Campbell would write 
one ; the rest of 'us youth' have not heart enough. 

" You were cut up in the Champion — is it not 
so ? this dity, so am I — even to shocking the editor 
The critic writes well ; and as, at present, poesy is 
not my passion predominant, and my snake df 
Aaron has swallowed up all the other serpents, I 
don't feel fractious. I send you the paper, which I 
mean to take in for the future. We go to M.'a 
together. Perhaps I shall see you before, but don't 
let me bore you, now^ nor ever. 

*' Ever, as now, truly and affectionately, (ftc " 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" May 5, 1814. 

" Do you go to Lady Cahir's this even ? If \(.\\ 
do — ;ind whenever we are bound to the same follies 
— let us embark in the same * Shipjjc 5f Fooles.' I 
have been up till five, and up at nine : and feel 
heavy with only winking for the last three or foul 
nights. 

" I lost my party and place at supper, trying to 
keep out of the way of * * * *. I would have gone 
away altogether, but that would have appeared a 
worse alFectatiou than t' other. You are of coiirsa 
engaged to dinner, or we may go qui(>tly together 
to my box at Covent Garden, and afterward to this 
assemblage. Why did you go away so soon ? 

" Ever, Ac. 

P. S. Ought twt R ♦ * ♦ fe's supper to have luen 
a dinner ? Jackson is here, and 1 must fatigue 
myself into spirits." 



NOTE TO MR. MOORE. 

" M.\T .«, I9M. 

*• Thanks — and punctuality. What has passed 
at • ♦ * * House? I suppose that / am to kimw, 
and * i)ars fui ' of the confcrenoe. I n-gret thai 
your * * • 8 will detain you so late, but I nuppos* 
you will be at Lady Jersey's. I am going earliei 
"with Hobhouse. Vou recollect that to-morrow wc 
sup and see Kean. 

*• P. S. Two to-morrow is the hour of pugilitm.* 



816 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCXXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

«• May 23, 1814. 

• «♦ I must send you the Java government gazette 
of July 3 1813, just sent me by Murray. Only 
think of our (for it is you and I) setting paper 
warriors in array in the Indian seas. Does not this 
Bound like fame— something almost like posterity f 
It is something to have scribblers squabbling about 
us five thousand miles off, while we are agreeing so 
well at home. Bring it with you in your pocket ; 
t will make you laugh, as it hath me. 

" Ever yours, 

"B. 
•* P. S. Oh, the anecdote ! « * * ." 



LETTER CCXXV. 

TO MR. MOORB. 

"May 31, 1814. 

" As I shall probably not see you here to-day, I 
wri^» to reqaest that if not inconvenient to your- 
self, you will stay in town till Sunday ; if not to< 
gratify me, yet to please a great many others, who 
will be very sorry to lose you. As for myself, I can 
only repeat that I wish you would either remain a 
long time with us, or not come at all ; for these 
snatches of society make the subsequent separations 
bitterer than ever. 

" I believe you think that I have not been quite 
fair with that Alpha and Omega of beauty, &c., 
with whom you would willingly have united me. 
But if you consider what her sister said on the 
subject, you will less wonder that my pride should 
have taken the alarm ; particularly as nothing but 
the every-day flirtation of every-day people ever 
occurred between your heroine and myself. Had 
Lady * * * appeared to wish it, or even not to 
oppose it, I would have gone on, and very possibly 
married Tthat is, if the other had been equally 
accordant) with the same indifference which has 
frozen over the ' Black Sea ' of almost all my pas- 
sions. It is that very indifference which makes me 
so uncertain and apparently capricious. It is not 
eagerness of new pursuits, but that nothing im- 

Sresses me sufficiently to Jix ; neither do I feel 
isgusted, but simply indifferent to almost all 
excitements. The proof of this is, that obstacles, 
the slightest even, stop me. This can hardly be 
timidity, for I have done some impudent things too, 
in my time ; and in almost all cases, opposition is a 
stimulus. In mine, it is not ; if a straw were in my 
way, I could not stoop to pick it up, 

" I have sent this long tirade, because I would 
not have you suppose that I have been trifling 
designedly with you or others. If you think so, in 
the name of St. Hubert (the patron of antlers and 
hunters) let me be married out of hand — I don't 
care to whom, so that it amuses any body else, and 
don't interfere with me much in the day-time. 

«' Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" June 14, ISU. 

•• I could be very sentimental now, but I won't. 
The truth is, that I have been all my life trying to 
harden my heart, and have not yet quite succeeded — 
though there are great hopes — and you do not 
know how it sunk with your departure. What adds 
♦o my regret is having reen so little of you during 
70ur stay iu this crowded desert nrhere one ought 



to be able t«. oear thirst like a camel, — the sprlngv 
are so few, and most of them so muddy. 

" The newspapers will tell you all that is to be 
told of emperors, &c. They have dined, and supped, 
and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares, and 
several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, 
but rather short in the skirts ; and their conversa- 
tion is a catechism, for which and the answers 1 
refer you to those who have heard it. 

" I think of leaving town for Newstead soon. Il 
so, I shall not be remote from your recess, and 
(unless Mrs. M. detains you at home over the 
caudle- cup and a new cradle), we will meet. You 
shall come to me, or I to you, as you like it ; — ^bul 
meet we will. An invitation from Aston has reached 
me, but I do not think I shall go. I have also 
heard of * * * — I should like to see her again, for I 
have not met her for years ; and though 'the light 
that ne'er can shine again ' is set, I do not know 
that ' one dear smile like those of old ' might not 
make me for a moment forget the 'dulness of life's 
stream.' 

"lam going to R***'s to-night — to one of 
those suppers which ' ought to be dinners.' I have 
hardly seen her, and never him, since you set out. 
I told you, you were the last link of that chain. 
As for * * we have not syllabled one another's names 
since. The post will not permit me to continue my 
scrawl. More anon. "Ever dear Moore, &c. 

"P. S. Keei^ the Journal, I care not what 
becomes of it, and if it has amused you, I am glad 
that I kept it. ' Lara ' is finished, snd I am copy- 
ing him for my third vol. now collectir^g ; but no 
separate publication." 



NOTE TO MR. MURRAY 

" June 14, 1814. 

"I return your packet of this inorning. Have 
you heard that Bertrand has returned to Pari^witk 
the account of Napoleon's having lost his senses ? 
It is a report ; but, if true, I must, like Mr. Fitz- 
gerald and Jeremiah, (of lamentable memory,) lay 
claim to prophecy ; that is to say, of saying that he 
ought to go out of his senses, in the penultimate 
stanza of a certain Ode, — the which, having been 
pronounced nonsense by several proiound critics, 
has a still further pretension, by its unintelligibility, 
to inspiration. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXVIL 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"June 19, 1814, 

"I am always obliged to trouole you with my 
awkwardnesses, and now I have a fresh one, .Mr. 
W.* called on me several times, and I have missed 
the honor of making .his acquaintance, which I 
regret, but which you, who know my desultory and 
uncertain habits, will not wonder at, and will, I am 
sure, attribute to any thing but a wish to offend a 
person who has shown me much kindness, and 
possesses character and talents entitled to general 
respect. My mornings are late, and passed in 
fencing and boxing, and a variety of most unpoeti- 
cal exercises, very wholesome, &c., but would bo 
very disagreeable to my friends, whom I am obliged 
to exclude during their operation. I never go out 
till the evening, and I have not been fortunate 
enough to meet Mr. W. at Lord Lansdowne's or 
Lord Jersey's, where I had hoped to pay him my 
respects. 

'* I would have written to him, but a few words 
from you will go further than all the apologeticaj 
sesquipedalities I could muster on the occasion. It 
is only to say that, without intending it, I contriye 
to behave very ill to every body, and am very sorry 
for it. " Ever, dear R., dkc." 



Mr. Wnuig) »it». 



LETTERS 



817 



The following midated notes to Mr. Rogers were 
written about this time. 

" Sunday. 

" Your non-attendance at Corinne's is very 
apropos, as I was on the eve of sending you an 
excuse. I do not feel well enough to go there 
this evening, and have been obliged to despatch an 
apology. I believe I need not add one for not 
accepting Mr. Sheridan's invitation on Wednesday, 
which I fancy both you and I understood in the 
same sense : — with him the saying of Mirabeau, 
that ' words are thinc/s,'' is not to be taken literally. 

" Ever, &c. 

" I will call for you at a quarter before seven, if 
that will suit you. I return you Sir Proteus,* and 
«nall merely add in return, as Johnson said of, and 
to, somebody or other, ' Are we alive after all this 
rensure ? ' " Believe me, &c." 



" Tueiday. 

** Sheridan was yesterday, at first, too sober to 
lemember your invitation, but in the dregs of the 
third bottle he fished up his memory. The Stael 
out-talked Whitbread, was ironed by Sheridan, con- 
founded Sir Humphrey, and utterly perplexed your 
slave. The rest (great names in the red book, 
nevertheless), were mere segments of the circle. 
Ma'rnselle danced a Russ saraband with great 
vigor, grace, and expression. " Ever, &c." 



NOTE TO ME. MURRAY. 

"June 21, 1814. 

* I suppose * Lara ' is gone to the devil, — which 
is no great matter, only let me know that I may be 
saved the trouble of copying the rest, and put the 
first part into the fire. I really have no anxiety 
about it, and shall not be sorry to be saved the 
copying, which goes on very slowly, and may prove 
to you that you may speak out — or T should be less 
sluggish. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXVIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"June, 27, 1814. 

' You could not have made me a more acceptable 
present than Jacqueline, — she is all grace, and soft- 
ness, and poetry ; there is so much of the last, that 
we do not feel the want of story which is simple, 
yet enough. I wonder that you do not oftener 
unbend to more of the same kind. I have some 
svmpathy Avith the softer affections, though very 
little in my way, and no one can depict them so 
truly and successfully as yourself, i have half a 
mind to pay yoa in kind, or rather wikind, for I 
have just ' suj)ped full of horror ' in two cantos of 
darkness and dLsmay. 

" Do yon go to Lord Essex's to-night ? if so, will 
you let me call for you at your own hour ? I dined 
with Holland- House yesterday at Lord Co\vper's ; my 
lady very gracious, which she can be more than any 
one, when she likes. I was not sorry to see them 
again, for I can't forget that they have been very 
kind to me. " Ever yours most truly, 

"Bn. 

"P. S. Is there anv chance or possibility of 
making it up with Lord Carlisle, as I feci disposed 
to do any thing reasonable or unreasonable to etfoct 
It ? I would before, but for the ' Couricv,' and the 
possible misuoustructions at such a (imc Perpend, 
\ironounce." 



LETTER CCXXIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

"Julys, 1S14. 

"I returned to town last night, and had some 
hopes of seeing ycu to-day, and would have called, 
— but I have beer (though in exceeding disteru- 
pered good health i a little headachy with free liv- 
ing, as i* is calleii, and am new at the freezing 
point of returning soberness. Of course, I should 
be sorry that our parallel lines did not deviate into 
intersection before you return to the country, — after 
that same nonsuit whereof the papers have told us, 
— but, as you must be much occupied, I won't be 
affronted, should your time and business militate 
against our meeting. 

" Rogers and I have almost coalesced into a joint 
invasion of the public. Whether it will take phice 
or not, I do not yet know, and I am afraid Jacque- 
line (which is very beautiful) will be in bad com 
pany,* But, in this case, the lady will not be the 
sufferer. 

"I am going to the sea, and then to Scotlard; 
and I have been doing nothing — that is, ro gcod — 
and am very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCXXX. 

TO MR. MOORB. 

**I suppose, by your non-appearance, that the 
philosophy of my note, and the previous silence of 
the writer, have put or kept you in humeur. Never 
mind — it is hardly worth while. 

"This day have I received information from my 
man of law of the non — and never likely tc be — 
performance of purchasef by Mr. Claughton, of 
^pecuniary memory. He don't know what to do, 
or when to pay ; and so all my hopes and worldly 
projects and prospects are gone to the devil. He 
(the purchaser, and the devil too, for aught I care) 
and I, and my legal advisers, are to meet to'-morrow, 
— the said purchaser having first taken special care 
to inquire ' whether I would meet him with tem- 
per ? ' — Certainly. The question is this — I shall 
either have the estate back, which is as good as ruin, 
or I shall go on with him dawdling, which is rather 
worse. I have brought my pigs to. a Mussulman 
market. If I had but a wife now, and children, of 
whose paternity I entertained doubts, I should be 
happy, or rather fortunate, as Candide or Scarmen- 
taao. In the mean time, if you don't come and 
see me, I shall think that Sam's bank is broke too ; 
and that you, having assets there, are despairing of 
more than a piastre in the pound for your dividend 

"Ever, &c." 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

"July 11,1814. 

" You shall have one of the pictures. I wish you 
to send the proof of ' Lara ' to Mr. Moore, 33 Bury 
street, to-night, as he leaves town to-morrow, and 
wishes to see it before he goes; and I am also wil- 
ling to have the benefit of nis remarks. 

" Yours, &o 

NOTE TO MR. MURRAY. 

" July 18, 1814 

" I think yau will be satisfied even to repletion 
with our northern friends, t and I won't deprive yom 
longer of what I think will give you pleasure : for 
my own part, my modesty or my vanity must b« 
silent. 



k Mdrl.ai |«mphlai, lo 'hie i all Die wrllen ol tne oay were 



mptilai 

m 



. I 



* X^n. nwX Jac^ueltoo, iho latter by *t. Rofcn, boC b{ 
lanir volume. 

\ PurchitM uf NRwitead Abbey. See I .rtlrr exU. 

I lit- hire refnn to ai. artiel> lu tlir numtwr uftlw* Rdlnburg* 
theu pu'llahoU, (No. 4S.^ ou « • Cufiak anU Brkie »r AbvdiMi 



618 



BYRON'S WOJRKS. 



" P. S. If you could spare it for an hour in the 
evening, I wish you to send it up to Mrs. Leigh, 
your neighbor, at the London Hotel, Albemarle 
street." 



LETTER CCXXXL 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" July 23, 1814. 

** I am sorry to say that the print* is by no means 
approved of by those who have seen it, who are 
prettj conversant with the original, as well as the 
picture from whence it is taken. I rather suspect 
that it is from the copy and not the exhibited por- 
trait, and in tuis dilemma would recommend a sus- 
pension, if not an abandonment of the prejixion to 
the volumes which you purpose inllicting upon the 
public. 

*• With regard to Lara don't be in any hurry, I 
have not yet made up my mind on the subject, nor 
know what to think or do till I hear from you ; and 
Mr. Moore appeared to me in a similar state of 
indetermination. I do not know that it may not be 
better to reserve it for the entire publication you 
proposed, and not adventure in hardy singleness, 
or even backed by the fairy Jacqueline. I have 
been seized with all kinds of doubts, &c., &c., since 
I left London. 

" Pray let me hear from you, 
*' And believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" My 24, 1814. 

** The minority must, in this case, carry it, so 
pray let it be so, for I don't care sixpence for any of 
the opinions you mention, on such a subject ; and 
Phillipc must be a dunce to agree Avith them. For 
my own part, I have no objection at all ; but Mrs. 
Leigh and my cousin must be better judges of the 
likeness than others ; and they hate it ; and so I 
won't have it at all. 

"Mr. Hobhouse is right as for his conclusion; 
but I deny the premises. The name only is Span- 
ish ;t the country is not Spain, but the Morea. 
/"■** Waverley is the best and most interesting novel 
,'■ I have redde since — I don't know when. I like it 
as much as I hate * *, and * *, and * *, and all the 
, feminine trash of the last four months. Besides, it 
is all easy to me, I have been in Scotland so much, 
(though then young enough too,) and feel at home 
with the people, Lowland and Gael. 

"A note will correct what Mr. Hobhouse thinks 
an error, (about the feudal system in Spain;) it is 
ywt Spain If he puts a few words of prose any 
where, it will set all right. 

"I have been ordered to town to vote. I shall 
disobey. Tliere is no good in so much prating, 
since ' certain issues strokes should arbitrate.' If 
yju have any thing to say, let rae hear from you. 

'* Yours, &c.'' 



LETTER CCXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Auff. 3, 18U. 

"It is certainlv a little extraordinary that you 
have not sent the Edinburgh Review, as I re- 
quested, and hoped it would not require a note 
h day to remind j uu. I see advertisements of Lara 



* An en^nTiiif bj Afw fiom PhiUip*'* portrait of hinu 
r AUodlaf to Lan. 



and Jacquelina; pray why? when 1 reque-sted yott 

to postpone publication till my return to town. 

" I have a most amusing epistle from the Ettribf 
bard — Hogg ; in which, speaking of his bookseller 
whom he denominates the ' shabbiest ' of the trade 
for not 'lifting his bills,' he adds, in so manj- 
words, ' G — d d — n him and them both.' This ia 
a pretty prelude to asking you to adopt him, (the 
said Hogg ; ) but this he washes ; and if you please, 
you and I will talk it over. He has a poem ready 
for the press, (and your bills too, if ' Z</hible, ) and 
bestows some benedictions on Mr. Mocre for his 
abduction of Lara from the forthcoming Miscelluny. 

*' P. S. Sincerely, I think Mr. Hogg would suit 
you very well; and surely he is a man of greet 
powers, and deserving of encouragement. 1 must 
knock out a tale for him, and you should at all 
events consider before you reject his suit. Scott ia 
gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind, and Hogg 
says that, during the said gale, ' he is sure that 
Scott is not quite at his ease, to say the best oi it.* 
Ah ! I wish these home-keeping bards could taste a i i/' 
Mediterranean white squall, or the Gut in a gale 0% 
wind, or even ti.e Bay of Biscay with no wind at 
all." ^. 



1 



LETTER CCXXXIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Hastings, Aug:. 6, 181*. 

** By the time this reaches your dwelling, I shall 
(God wot) be in town again probably. I have here 
been renewing my acquaintance with my old friend 
Ocean; and I find his bosom as pleasant a pillow . 
for ail hour in the morning as his daughters of Pa- 
phos could be in the twilight. I have been swim- 
ming and eating turbot, and smuggling neat bran- 
dies and silk handkerchiefs, — and listening to my 
friend Hodgson's raptures about a pretty wife-elect 
of his, — and walking on cliffs, and tumbling down 
hills, and making the most of the ' dolce farnieiite ' 
for the last fortnight. I met a son of Lord Ers 
kine's, who says he has been- married a year, and'is 
the ' happiest of men ; ' and I have met the afore- 
said H. who is also the ' happiest of men ; ' so, it 
is worth while being here, if only to witness the ^ 
superlative felicity of these foxes, who have cut oi^vjL^ 
their tails, and would persuade the rest to part with 
their brushes to keep them in countenance. 

" It rejoices me that you like ' Lara.' Jeffrey is 
out with his forty-fifth' number, which I suppose 
you have got. He is only too kind to me, in my 
share of it, and I begin to fancy myself a golden 
pheasant, upon the sti-ength of the plumage where- 
with he hath bedecked me. But then, ' surgit 
amari,' &c. — the gentlemen of the Champion, and 
Perry, have got hold (I know not how) of the con- 
dolatory address to Lady J. on the picture-abduc- 
tion by our Regent, and have published them — with 
my name, too, smack — without even asking leave, 
or inquiring whether or noj D — n their impudence, 
and d — n every thing. It has put ,me out of pa- 
tience, and so I shall say no more about it.* 

"You shall have Lara and Jacque (both with 
some additions) when out, but I am still demurring 
and delaying, and in a fuss, and so is Rogers in hiJ 
way. 

"Newatead is to be mine again. Claughton for 
feits twenty-five thousand pounds ; but that don't 
prevent me from being very prettily ruined. I 
mean to bury myself there — and let my beard gro-w 
— and hate you all. 

"Oh! I have had the most amusing letter fronn 
Hogg, the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. Ho 
wants me to recommend him to Murray, and, 
speaking of his niesent bookseller, whose ' bills 
are never * liftec he adds, totidem verbis, * G— d 



See Poeini, p. S«8 



LETTERS. 



RI9 



d— n him and them both.' I laughed, and so would 
vou too, at the way in which this extrication was 
mtroduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but 
of great, thoxigh uncouth, powers. I think very 
highly of him as a poet ; but he, and half of these 
Scotch and Lake troubadors, are spoiled by living 
in little circles and petty societies. London and 
the world is the only place to take the conceit out 
of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, he said, is 
gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind; — during 
which wind, he affirms, the said Scott, ' he is sure 
is not at his ease, — to say the best of it.' Lord, 
Lord, if these home-keeping minstrels had crossed 
your Atlantic, or my Mediterranean, and tasted a 
little open boating in a white squall — or a gale in 
' the Gut ' — or the * Bay of Biscay, with no gale at 
*11— how it would enliven and introduce them to a 
tew of the sensations ! — to say nothing of an illicit 
amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay upon 
the Passions, beginning with simple adultery, and 
compounding it as they went along. 

" I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — ^by the 
way, you had addressed it to Miller. Pray wfite to 
me, and say what art thou doing ? * Not finished ! ' 
— Oons ! how is this ? — these ' flaws and starts ' 
"must be 'authorized by your grandam,' and are 
becoming of any other author. I was sorry to hear 
of your discrepancy with * *s, or rather, your abju- 
ration of agreement. I don't want to be imperti- 
nent, or buffoon on a serious subject, and am there- 
fore dt a loss what to say. 

"I hope nothing will induce you to abate from 
the proper price of your poems, as long as there is 
a prospect of getting it. For my own part, I have 
seriously and not tohlningly, (for that is not my way 
—at least, it used not Ui be,) neither hopes, nor 
prospects, and scarcely even wishes. I am, in some 
respects, happy, but not in a manner that can or 
ought to last, — but enough of that. The worst of 
it is, I feel quite ei;ervated and indifferent. I really 
do not know, if Jupiter were to offer me my choice 
of the contents of his benevolent cask, what I 
would pick out of it. If I was born as the nurses 
say with a ' silver spoon in my mouth,' it has stuck 
in my throat, and spoiled my palate so that nothing 
put into it is swallowed wii'h much relish, — unless 
it be cayenne. However, I have grievances enough 
to occupy me that way too ; but for fear of adding 
to yours by this pestilent long diatribe, I postpone 
the reading them, sine die. 

" Ever dear, M., yours, &c. 

"P. S. Don't forget my godson. Yow could 
not have fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than 
me, being used to carry double without inconven- 
ience." ******* 



LETTER CCXXXV. 

TO Mlt. MUmiAY. 

" Aug. \, 1814. 

*« JNot having received the slightest answer to my 
last three letters, nor the book (the last number of 
the Edinburgh Review) which they requested, I 
presume that you were the unfortuDatc person* who 

Srrished in the pagoda on Monday last, and iid- 
TRfis this rather to your executors than yourself, 
regretting that you should have have had the ill 
luck to be the sole victim on that joyous occasicm. 

" 1 beg leave then to inform these gentlemen 
(wlioev(u- they may be) that I am a little 8iiri)rised 
it the previous neglect of the deceased, and also ut 
observing an iidvertisement of an ai)|)roaching ptil)- 
lication on Sjiturday next, against the which I pro- 
^jOBted, and do protest, for the im'sent. 

•• Yours, (or theirs,) &c., 



■m Note to liliiu fruiii Honee, p. 476. 



lETTEH CCXXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Aug. 5, I 14. 

"The Edinburgh Review is arrived — thanks, 
enclose Mr. Hobhouse's letter, from which you wil 
perceive the work you have made. However, I hav« 
done: you must send my rhymes to the devil yom 
own way. It seems also that the ' faithful and spir- 
ited likeness ' is another of your publications. J 
wish you joy of it ; but it is no likeness — that is the 
point. Seriously, if I have delayed your journey t« 
Scotland, I am sorry that you carried your < om 
plaisance so far; particularly as upon trifles 30'a 
have a more summary method ; — witness the gram- 
mar of Hobhouse's '-bit of prose,' which has put 
him and me into a fever. 

" Hogg must translate his own words : * lifting* 
is a quotation from his letter, together with"' G—d 
d — n,' &c., which I suppose requires no translation. 

"I was unaware of the contents of Mr. Moore's 
letter ; I think your offer very handsome, but of that 
you and he must judge. If he can get more, you 
won't wonder that he should accept it. 

" Out with Lara, since it must be. The tom<> 
looks pretty enough — on theoutside. I shall be in 
town next week, and in the mean time wish you J» 
pleasant journey. " Yours. 8n* '' 



LETTER CCXXXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Aug. 12, 181*. 

" I was not alone, nor will be while I can help it 
Newsteadis not yet decided. Claughton is to maka 
a grand effort by Saturday week to complete, — if not, 
he must give up twenty-two thousand puunds, and 
the estate, with expenses &c., &c. If I resume 
the Abbacy, you shall have due notice, and a cell 
set apart for your reception, with a pious welcome. 
Rogers I have not seen, but Larry and Jacky cam» 
out a few days ago. Of their effect, I know notl. 
ing. ******* 

" There is something very amusing in your being 
an Edinburgh Reviewer. You know, 1 suppose, 
that Thurlow is none of the placidest, and may pos- 
sibly enact some tragedy on being told that he is 
only a fool. If, now, Jeffrey were to be slain on 
accoimt of an article of yours, there would be a fine 
conclusion. For my part, as Mrs. Winifred Jenkins 
says, • he has done the handsome thin^ by me,' par- 
ticularly in his last number ; so. he is the best ol 
men and the ablest of critics, and I won't have him 
killed, — though I dare say many wish he were, for 
being 1*0 good-humored. 

" Before I left Hastings, I got in a passion with 
an ink-b'ottle, which I thing out of the window one' 
night with a vengeance ; — and what then ? why, \ 
next morning I was horrified by seeing that it had 
struck, and split upon, the petticoat of Kuterpe's 
graven image in the garden, and jjrimed her as if it 
were on purp )se.* Only tliink ot my distress, and 
— the epigran s that might be engendered on the 
Muse ana her misadventure. ^ 

" I had an adventure, almost as rid culous, at 
some private theatricals near Cambridge— though 
of a (lillVrent description — since I saw you last. I 
(luarrclcil with a man in the dark, for asking me 
who 1 was, (insolently enough, to be sure,) and fol- 
lowed hini intj the green-room (a stalt/r) in a rage, 
amoiiK a set of people I never saw bet\)re. ll« 
turne# out to be u low comedian, engaged to aot 
with the amateurs, and to be a civil-spoken man 



* nil mrvani hml lir»ii|^h( hlin up n liirfo )m of Ink, Into wliich, no* -up 
p<Mliifr It tu br riill, \tr hnil timiallil* |<rii iluwn lu (Iip vrry lw(t«ni. Kniag<r<<l 
UM nn<nii|r it cuine out nil (inr«mil wllh Ink, he fliintr iIh' lo'itl' ^ •( <>l (In 
winilow Into thp Jiinlrii, wliPtr It llflltlKl, «• hrrr .|p«hl«^l. '•p- » one 
r(|fhi linilru Miiw», ilml liud bwii Iniji-irlil, •oinr llior bcfi>n\ fm... Il< !• 1 •' 
—tin- ninth tnvliijj betn, by lunu) ivccidpni. kit IwtUiiil 



820 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



enough, when he found out that nothing very plea- 
saut was to be got by rudeness. But you would have 
oeen amused with the roAv, and the dialogue, and 
the diess — or rather the undress — of the party, 
where I had introduced myself in a devil of a hurry, 
and the astonishment that ensued. I had gone out 
of the theatre, for coolness, into the garden ; there 
I had tumbled over some dogs, and, coming away 
from them in veiy ill-humor, encountered the man 
in a worse, which produced all this confusion. 

'* Well — and why don't you * launch ? '—Now is 
your time. The people are tolerably tired with me, 
and not very much enamored of Wordsworth, who 
bfts just spawned a quarto of metaphysical blank 
Tcrf e, which is nevertheless only a part of a poem. 

" Murray talks of divorcing Larry and Jacky — a 
bad sign for the authors, who, I suppose, will be 
divorced too, and throw the blame upon one another. 
Seriously, I don't care a cigar about it, and I d(m't 
Bee why Sam should. 

"Let me hear from and of you and my godson. 
If a daughter, the name will do quite as well. 
******** 

*' Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXVITL 

TO MB. MOORE. 

" Aug. 13, 1814. 

** I wrote yesterday to Mayiield, and have just 
now enfranked your letter to mamma. My stay in 
town is so uncertain (not later than next week) that 
your packets for the north may not reach me ; and 
as I know not exactly where I am going, — however, 
Newstead is my most probable destination, and if 
you send your despatches before Tuesday, I can 
forward them to our new ally. But, after that day, 
you had better not trust to their arrival in time. 

<< * * }ja,s been exiled from Paris, on dit, for say- 
ing the Bourbons were old women. The Bourbons 
might have been content, I think, with returning 
the compliment. ***** 

" I told you all about Jacky and Larry yesterday ; 
—they are to be separated, — at least, so says the 
grand Murray, and I know no more of the matter. 
Jeffrey has done me more than 'justice; ' but as to 
tragedy — um ! — I have no time for fiction at present 
A man cannot paint a storm with the vessel under 
bare poles, on a lee shore. When I get to land, I 
will try what is to be done, and, if I founder, there 
be plenty of mine elders and betters to console 
Melpomene. 

" When at Newstead, you must come over, if only 
for a day — should Mrs. M. be exigeante of your 

fresence. The place is worth seeing, as a ruin, and 
can assure you there was some fun there, even in 
my time ; but that is past. The ghosts, however, 
and the gothics, and the waters, and the desolation, 
make it very lively still. 

" Ever, dear Tom, yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 2, 1814. 

♦' I am obliged by what you have sent, but would 
rather not see any thing of the kind ;* we ha*B had 
enough of these things already, good and bad, and 
next month you need not trouble yourself to collect 
even the higher generation — on my account. It 
gives me much pleasure to hear of Mr. Hobhouse's 
ind Mr. M( rivale's good entreatment by the jour- 
lals you mention. 



The ReTiewi and MbgadoM of te i 



"I still think Mr. Hogg and yourself might male* 

cut an alliance. Dodsley's was, I believe, the last 
decent thing of the kind, and his had great success 
:n its day, and lasted several years ; but then he had 
the double advantage of editing and publishing. 
The Spleen, and several of Oray's odes, much oi 
Shenstone, and many others of good repute, mada 
their first appearance in his collection. Now, with 
the support of Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, &c., I 
see little reason why you should not do as well ; and 
if once fairly established, you would have assistance 
from the youngsters, I dare say. Stratford Canning, 
(whose ' Bonaparte ' is excellent,) and many others, 
and Moore, and Hobhouse, and I, would try a fall 
now and then, (if permitted,) and you might coax 
Campbell, too, into it. By-the-by, he has an un- 
published (though printed) poem on a scene in Ger- 
many, (Bavaria, I think,) which I saw last year, thf?t 
is perfectly magnificent, and equal to himself. 1 
wonder he don't publish it. 

" Oh ! — do you recollect S**, the engraver's, mad 
letter about not engraving Phillips's picture of Lord 
Foley? (as he blundered it;) well, I have traced it, 
I think. It seems, by the papers, a preacher of 
Johanna Southcote's is named Foley ; and I can no 
way account for the said S**'s confusion of words 
and ideas, but by that of his head's running on 
Johanna and her apostles. It was a mercy he did 
not say Lord Tozer. You know, of course, that 
S** is a believer in this new (old) virgin of spiritual 
impregnation. 

'* I long to know what she vdll produce : her being / 
with child at sixty-five is indeed a miracle, but her ' 
getting any one to beget it, a greater. 

" If you were not going to Paris or Scotland,-I 
could send you some game : if you remain, let me 
know. 

" P. S. A word or two of * Lara,' which your en- 
closure brings before me. It is of no great promise 
separately ; but, as connected with the other tales, 
it will do very well for the volumes you mean to 
publish. I would recommend this arrangement — 
Childe Harold, the smaller Poems, Giaour, Bride, 
Corsair, Lara; the last completes the series, and 
its very likeness renders it necessary to the others. 
Cawthorne writes that they are publishing English 
Bards in Ireland : pray inquire into this ; because 
itmtisi be stopped." 



LETTER CCXL. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" NewBtead Abbey, Sept. T, 1814. 

" I should think Mr. Hogg, for his own sake, as 
well as yours, would be ' critical' as lago himself in 
his editorial capacity ; and that such a publication 
would answer his purpose, and yours too, with tol- 
erable management. You should, however, have a 
good number to start with — I mean, good in quality ; 
in these days, there can be little fear of not coming 
up to the mark in quantity. There must be many 
' fine things ' in Wordsworth ; but I should think it 
difficult to make six quartos (the amount of the 
whole) all fine, particularly the pedler's portion ol 
the poem ; but there can be no doubt of his powers 
to do almost any thing. 

" I am ' very idle.' I have read the few books J 
had with me, and been forced to fish, for lack of ar- 
gument. I have caught a great many perch, and 
some carp, which is a comfort, as one would not lose 
one's labor willingl;/^. 

" Pray, who corrects the press of your volume? ? 
I hope ' The Corsair ' is printed from the copy I 
corrected with the additional lines in the first canto, 
and some notes from Sismondi and Lavater, which J 
gave you to add thereto. The arrangement is verj 
well. 



LETTERS. 



821 



' My cursed people have not sent ifly papers sinoe 
Sunday, and I have lost Johanna's divorce from 
Jupiter. Who hath gotten her with prophet ? Is 
it Sharpe ? and how ?***«* 
I should like to buy one of her seals : if salvation 
can be had at half a guii\ea a head, the landlord of 
the Crown and Anchor should be ashamed of him- 
self for charging double for tickets to a mere terres- 
trial banquet. I am afraid, seriously, that these 
matters will lend a sad handle to your profane scof- 
feis, and give a loose to much damnable laughter. 

" I have not seen Hunt's Sonnets nor Descent of 
Liberty ; he has chosen a pretty place wheiein to 
comp ise the last. Let me hear from you before 
5 -m embark Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXLL 



TO MR. MOORE. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 15, 1814. 

" This is the fourth letter I have begun to you 
♦vithin the month. Whether I shall finish or not, 
or burn it like the rest, I know not. When we 
meet, I shfU explain xohy I have not written — wh%j 
I have not a«ked you here, as I wished — with a great 
many other whys and wherefores, which will keep 
cold. In short, you must excuse all my seeming 
omissions and commissions, and grant me more re- 
mission than St. Athanasius will to yourself, if you 
lop off a single shred of mystery from his pious 
puzzle. It is my creed (and it may be St. Atha- 
nasius's too) tha1*3'our article on T** will get some- 
body killed, and that, on the Saints, get him d — d 
afterward, which will be quite enow for one num- 
ber. Oons, Tom ! you must not meddle just now 
with the incomprehensible ; for if Johanna South- 
cote turns out to be * * * 

'* Now for a little egotism. My affairs stand 
thus. To-morrov, I shall know whether a circum- 
stance of importance enough to change many of 
my plans will occur or not. If it does not, I am off 
for Italy next month, and London, in the mean 
time, next week. I have got back Newstead, and 
twenty-five thousand pounds (out of twenty-eight 
paid already,) — as a 'sacrifice,' the late purchaser 
calls it, and he may choose his own name. I have 
paid some of my debts, and contracted others ; but 
I have a few thousand pounds, which I can't spend 
after my own heart in this climate, and so, I shall 
go back to the south. Hobhouse, I think and 
hope, will go with me ; but, whether he will or not, 
I shall. I want to see Venice, and the Alps, ana 
Parmesan cheeses, and look at tlie coast of Greece, 
or rather Epirus, from Italy, as I ome did — or fan- 
cied I did— that of Italy, when oH' Corfu. All this, 
however, depends upon an event, which may, or 
may not, happen. Whether it will, I shall know 
prol)ably to-morrow, and if it does, I can't well go 
abroad at present. 

" Pray pardon this parenthetical scrawl. Yon 
•hall hear from me again soon ; — I don't call this 
ftu answer. 

" Ever most affectionately, &c." 

The " circumstance of importance," to which he 
itiludcs in this letter, was his second proposal for 
Miss Milbanke, of which he waa now waiting the 
•esult. 



LETTER CCXLII. 

ID MR. MOOHR. 

"N(l., 8rpt. 15, 1814. 

*• I have written to von one letter to-night, tmt 
lnu8 ■ send you this mucli more, as I have not friinked 



my number, to say that I rejoice in mi godiaugh^er 
and will send her a coral and bells, wK.ch I hope sh« 
will accept, the moment I get back to London. 

"My head is at this moment in a state of confu 
sion, from various causes, which I can neither de 
scribe nor explain — but let that pass. My employ- 
ments have been very rural — fishing, shootings 
bathing, and boating. Books I have but few here, 
and those I have read ten times over, till sick ol 
them. So, I have taken to breaking soda watei 
bottles with my pistols, and jumping into the water, 
and rowing over it, and firing at the fowls of the air. 
But why should I ' monster my nothings ' to you 
who are well employed, and happily too, I should 
hope. For my part, I am happy too, in my way— 
but, as usual, have contrived to get into three oj 
'f6ur perpexities, which I do not see my way 
through. But a few days, perhaps a day, will deter- 
mine one of them. 

" You dp not say a word to me of your Poem. 1 
wish I could see or hear it. I neither could, nor 
would, do it or its author any harm. I believe I 
told you of Larry and Jacquy. A friend of mine 
was reading — at least a friend of his was reading — 
said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
passenger took up a book and queried as to the au- 
thor. The proprietor said ' there were two ' — to 
which the answer of the unknown was, ' Ay, ay — a 
joint concern, I suppose, summot like Sternhold and 
Hopkins.' 

" Is not this excellent ? I would not have 
missed the * vile comparison' to have scaped being 
one of the * Arcades bo et cantare pares,' Good 
night. Again yours." 



LETTER CCXLIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Newstead Abbey, Sept. 20, 1<U 
•♦ Here's to her who long 

Hath wal<e<l the poet's sigh I 
' The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. • 

" My dear Moore, I am going to be married — that 
is, I am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest 
will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that are to 
be) you think too strait-laced for me, although the 
paragon of only children, and invested with 'golden 
opinions of all sorts of men,' and full of ' most 
blessed conditions ' as J)osdamona herself. Miss 
Milbanke is the lady, and I have her father's invi 
tation to proceed there in my elect capacity , — which, 
however, I cannot do till I have settled some busi- 
ness in London, and got a blue coat. 

" She is said to l)e an heiress, but of that I really 
know nothing certainly, anrl shall not in()uire. . But 
I do know, that she has talents and exi-oUeut qtiali- 
ties, and you will not deny her jutlgment, aftet 
having refused six suitors and taken me. 

" Now, if yon have any thing to say against this, 
pray do ; my mind's made up, positively tixi^d, d© 
teiinined, and tlierefore I will listen to reason, bt 
cause now it can do no harm. Things may occur t4> 
break it off, but I will \\o\w not. In the mean time, ' 
I tell you (a sn-rct, by-the-by, — at least, till I know | 
she wishes it to be public) that I have propostd and 
am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wis!» 
me joy, for one may'nt be married for mont^is. I iiA'^ 
going to town to-morrow ; but expect to be hero, 
on my way there, within a fortnight. 

" ]i this had not hajipened I should have gone to 
Italy. In my way down, perhaps, you will meet mi! 
at Nottinghatu, and come over with me here. I 
need not say that nothing will give me greater plt<» 
sure. I must, of course, reform thoroughly ; and- 
serimisly, if I can contribute to her happiness, | 
shall secure my own. She is so good a periioa 
that — that — iu short, I wisli I w.\8 a better. 

•• KviT. &c •• 



822 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1J3TTER CCXLIV- 

rO THE COUNTESS OF * * *. 

"Albany, Oct. 5, 1814, 

"Deau Lj^by * *, 

"Your recollection and invitation do me great 
honor ; but I am going to be ' married, and can't 
come.' j\Iy intended is two hundred miles oiF, and 
ctie moment my business here is arranged, I must 
set out in a great hurry to be happy. Miss Milbanke 
is the good-natured person who has undertaken me, 
and, of course, I am very much in love and as silly 
as all single gentlemen must be in that sentimental 
situation. I have been accepted these three weeks ; 
but when the event will take place, I don't exactly 
know. It depends partly upon lawyers, who are 
aever in a hurry. One can be sure of nothing ; but, 
at present, there appears no other interruption to 
this intention, which seems as mutual as possible, 
and now no secret, though I did not tell first, — 
und all our relatives are congratulating away to 
right and left in the most fatiguing manner. 

" You perhaps know the lady. She is niece to 
Lady Melbourne, and cousin to Lady Cowper, and 
others of your acquaintance, and has no fault, ex- 
cept being a great deal too good for me, and that I 
must pardon, if nobody else should. It might have 
been ttco years ago, and, if it had, would have saved 
me a world of trouble. She has employed the inter- 
val in refusing about half a dozen of my particular 
friends, (as she did me once, by the way,) and has 
taken me at last, for which I am very much obliged 
to her.. I wish it was well over, fori do hate bustle, 
and there is no marrying without some ;-7-and then 
I must not marry in a black coat, they tell me, and 
I can't wear a blue one. 

" Pray forgive me for scribbling all this nonsense. 
You know I must be serious all the rest of my life, 
and this is a parting piece of buffoonery, which I 
write with tears in my eyes, expecting to be agi- 
tated. Believe most seriously and sincerely your 
obliged servant, " Byron. 

" P. S. My best rems. to Lord * * on his re- 
turn." 



LETTER CCXLY 

TO MR. MOORE. 

• " Oct. 7, 1814. 

• Notwithstanding the contradictory paragraph 
in the Morning Chronicle, which' must have been 
sent by * *, or perhaps — I know not why I should 
Buspect Claughton of such a thing, and yet I partly 
do, because it might interrupt his renewal of pur- 
chase, if so disposed;- in short, it matters not, but 
we are all in the road to matrimony — lawyers set- 
tling, relations congratulating, my intended as kind 
IS heart could wish, and every one, whose opinion 
I value, very glad of it. All her relatives, and all 
mhie too, seem equally pleased. 

*' PeiTy was very sorry, and has re-contradicted, 
HS you will perceive by this day's paper. It was, to 
af; sure, a devil of an insertion", since the first para- 
.frapb. came from Sir Ralph's own County Journal, 
iind t.'iis in the teeth of it would appear to him and 
Vis as latj denial. But I have written to do away 
that, enclosing Perry's letter, which was very polite 
ii.i kind. 

" Nobody hates bustle so much as I do ; but 
there seems a fatality 'over every scene of my drama, 
always a row of some sort or other. No matter — 
Fortune is my best friend, and as I acknowledge my 
obligations to her, I hope she will treat me better 
than she treated the Athenian, who took some 
merit to himself on some occasion, but (after that) 
rook 10 more towns. In fact. sAe, that exquisite 
goddesd, has liitherto carried me tLrough every 



thing, and will, I hope, now ; since 1 own it mil u 
all her doing. 

" Well, now for thee. Your artiole on * * is 
perfection itself. You must not leave off reviewing. 
By Jove, I believe you can do any thing. There ia 
wit, and taste, and learning, and good-humoi 
(though not a whit less severe for that) in every 
line of .that critique. * * * 

" Next to your being an E. Reviewer, my being 
of the same kidney, and Jeffrey's being such a 
friend to both, are among the events which I con- 
ceive were not calculated upon in Mr. — what's his 
name's ? — ' Essay on Probabilities.' 

" But, Tom, I say — Oons! Scott menaces the 
* Lord of the Isles.' Do you mean to compete ? 
or lay by, till this wave has broke upon the shelves 
(of booksellers, not rocks — a broken metaphor, bv 
the way.) You Oi^yA;; to be afraid of nobody; but 
your modesty is reall)"^ as provoking and unneces- 
sary as a * *'s. I am very merry, and have just 
been writing some elegiac stanzas on the death oi 
Sir P. Parker.* He was my first cousin, but never 
met since boyhood. Our relations desired me, and 
I have scribbled and given it to Perry, who will 
chronicle it to-morrow. I am as sorfy for him as 
one could be for oue I never saw since I was a child ; 
but should not have wept melodiously, except ' at 
the request of friends.' 

" I hope to get out of town and be married, but I 
shall take Newstead in my way, and you must meet 
me at Nottingham and accompany me to mine Ab- 
bey. I will tell you the day when I know it. 

"Ever, &c. 

"P. S. By the way, my wife-elect is perfection-^ 
and I hear of nothing but her merits and her won- 
ders, and that she is ' very pretty*.' Her expecta- 
tions, I am told, are great ; but what, I have not 
asked. I have not seen her these ten months." 



LETTER CCXLVI. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

» Oct. 15. 1814. 

"My Dear Hunt, 

" I send you some game, of which I beg your ac- 
ceptance. I specify the quantity as a security 
against the porter ; a hare, a pheasant, and two 
brace of partridges, which I hope are fresh. My 
stay in town has not been long, and I am in all the 
agonies of quitting it again next week on business, 
preparatory to ' a change of condition,' as it is 
called by the talkers on such matters. I am about 
to be married : and am, of course, in all the misery 
of a man in pursuit of happiness. My intended is 
two hundred miles off, and the efforts I am making 
with lawyers, &c., &.C., to join my future con- 
nexions, are for a personage of my single and in- 
veterate habits, to say nothing of indolence, quite 
prodigious ! I sincerely hope you are better tiian 
your paper intimated lately, and that your approach 
ing freedom will find you in full health to enjoy it 
" Yours t ver, 

" Byron " 



LETTER CCXLVII. 

TO MR. MOORE 

" Oct. 15, 1814. 

An* there were any thing in marriage that would 
make a difference between friends and me, particu- 
larly in your case, I would 'none on't.' My agent 
sets off for Durham next week, and I shall follow 
him, taking Newstead and you in my way. I cer- 
tainly did not address Miss Milbanke with these 



Poeini, p. 547. 



LJSTTBKS. 



823 



news, but it is likely she may prove a considerabJe 
varti. All her father can give, or leave her, he will ; 
and from her ehildless uncle. Lord Wentworth, 
whose barony, it is supposed, will devolve on Ly. 
Milbanke, (his sister,) she has expectations. But 
these will depend upon his own disposition, which 
seems very partial towards her. She is an only 
child, and Sir Ralph's estates, though dipped by 
filectioneering are oonsidcirable. Part of them are 
settled on her ; but whether that will be dowered 
DOW, I do not know, — though, from what has been 
intimated to me, it probably will. The lawyers are 
to settle this among them, and I am getting my 
property into matrimonial array, and myself ready 
K)i th3 J )urney to Seaham, which I must make in a 
week or ten days. 

*• I certainly did not dream that she was attached 
■» me, which it seems she has been for some time. 
I also thought her of a very cold disposition, in 
^hich I was also mistaken — it is a long story, and I 
iron't trouble you with it. As to her virtues, &c., 
&c., you will hear enough of them (for she is a kind 
of pattern in the north), without my running into a 
display on the subject. It is well that one of us is 
of such fame, since there is a sad deficit in the 
morale of that article upon my part, — all owing to 
my ' hitch of a star,' as Captain Tranchemont says 
of his planet. 

" Don't think you have not said enough of me in 
your article on T * * ; what more coula or need be 
said? * * * 

" Your-long delayed and expected work — I sup- 
pose you will take fright at * The Lord of the Isles' 
and Sco]jt now. You must do us you like, — I have 
said my say You onght to fear comparison with 
none, and auy one would stare who heard you were 
so tremulous, — though, after all, I believe it is the 
surest sign of talent. Good morning. I hope we 
shall meet soog, but I will write again, and perhaps 
you ^ill meet me at Nottingham. Pray say so. 

" P. S If this union is productive, you shall 
name th» rst 1 uits." 



LETTER CCXLVIII. 

TO MR. HENKY DRURY. 

«« Oct, 18, 1814. 

' ' My Dear Drury, 

" Many thanks for your hitherto unacknowledged 
Anecdotes.' Now for one of mine — I am going to 
be married, and have been engaged this month. It 
Is a long story, and therefore I won't tell it, — an old 
and (though I did not know it till lately) a mutual 
attachment. The very sad life I have led since I 
was your pupil must partly account for the offs and 
ons in this now to be arranged business. "We are 
only waiting for the lawyers and settlements, Sic, 
and rext week, or the week after, I shall go down 
to Seaham in the new character of a regular suitor 
[or a wife of mine own. * * * 

*'lhope Hodgson is in a fair way on the same 
Toyaf.'e — I saw him and his idol at Hastings. I wish 
he ■^ould be married at the same tln>e. I should 
Uk-' to make a party, — lik(> jx'ople electrified in a 
rc'W by (or rather through) the same chain, holding 
one ancther's hands, and all feelijig the shock at 
Oiice. I have not yet apprized him of this. He 
makes such a serious matter of all these things, 
und is so ' nudanelioly and gentlemanlike,' that it is 
quiV overcoming to us choice spirits. • ♦ ♦ 

* They say one shouldn't he married in a black 
108' I won't have a blue one, — that's flat. I hate 
!t " Yours. X-c." 



LETTER CCXLIX. 



ro MR. COWELL. 

"Oct 22, ,81». 

"My Dear Cowell, 

" Many and sincere thanks for your kind letter— 
the bet, or rather forfeit, was one hundred tt 
Hawke, and fifty to Hay, (nothing to Kelly,) for a 
guinea received from each of the two former.* I 
shall feel much obliged by your setting me riy ht ii 
I am incorrect in this statement in any way, and 
have reasons fbr wishing you'to recollect as much aa 
possible of what passed, and state it to Hodgson. 
My reason is this : some time ago Mr. * * required 
a bet of me which I never made, and of course, . ..« 
fused to pay, and have heard no more of it ; to pre- 
vent similar mistakes is my object in wishing you to 
remember well what passed, and to put Hodgson iu 
possession of your memory on the subject. 

" I hope to see you soon in my way through Cam 
bridge. Remember me to H., and believe me ever 
and truly, &c." • 



LETTER CCL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

•< Dec. 14, 18U. 

"My Dearest Tom, 

" I will send the pattern to-morrow, and sinct 
you don't go to our friend (' of the keeping part of 
the town ') this evening, I shall e'en sulk at home 
over a solitary potation. My self-opinion rises 
much by your eulogy of my social qualities. As my 
friend Scrope is pleased to say, I believe I am very 
well for a ' holiday drinker.' Where the devil are 
you ? with Woolridge, I conjecture — for which you 
deserve another abscess. Hoping that the Ameri- 
can war will last for many years, and that all the 
prizes may be registered at Bermoothes, believe me, 
&c. 

" P. S. I have just been composing an epistle to 
•the archbishop for an especial license. Oons ! it 
looks serious. Murray is impatient to see you, and 
■Would call, if you will give him audience. Your 
new coat ! — I wonder you like the color, and don'* 
go about, like Dives, in purple." 



LETTER CCLI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

'•rVt. 31. 1814. 

"A tliousand thanks for Gibbon: all the addi 
tions are very great im])rovements. 

'* At last, I must be most jjeremptory with ycu 
about the jyrint from Phillips's jjieture : it is pro 
nounced on all hands the most stupid and disagree- 
able possible ; so do, pray, have a ne« engrav'ng 
and let me see it first ; there really ni\ift be no r\ ore 
from the same plate. I don't much c;ire, mys, If ; 
but every one I honor tornuMits me to death about 
it, and abuses it to a degree beyond repeating. Now, 
don't answer with excuses ; but, for my sake, have 
it destroyed : I never shall have peace till it is. I 
write in the greatest haste. 

•• P. S. I have written this most illegibly: but .t 
is to l)eg you to destroy tlw print, and haM> ant)ther 
•by partietilar dfsire.' It must be d — d bad, to bp 
sure, sitice every ))ody says so but tlie original ; and 
he don't know what to say. But do do it: that it. 
burn the plate, and emjjloy a new t'trhrr from tin 
other picture. Tliis is stupid and stilky." 



•TaroMiTy. 



\\ic\\. \X\vte iiiim 1^ Uie .crauiii iiirntiun*>l, itMwM It 



824 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCLII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Kirby, Jan. 6, 1815. 

" Ttie marriage took place on the 2(i instant ; so 
piay, make haste and congratulate away. 

" Thanks for the Edinburgh Review and the abo- 
lition of the print. Let the next be from the other 
of Phillips— I mean {7iot the Albanian, but) the 
original one in the exhibition ; the last was from 
the copy. I should wish my sister and Lady Byron 
tc decide upon the next, as they found fault with the 
last. / liave no opinion of my own upon the sub- 
ect. 

♦' Mr. Kinnaird will, I dare say, have the goodness 
o furnish copies of the Melodies,* if you state my 
wish upon the subject. You may have them, if you 
think them worth inserting. The volumes, in their 
collected state, must be inscribed to Mr. Hobhouse, 
but I have not yet mustered the expressions of my 
inscriptien ; but will supply them in time. 

" With many thanks for your good wishes, which 
have all been realized, I remain very truly, 

"Yours, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLIII. 

TO MR. NATHAN. 

««Jan.7, 18l!». 

•*Dear Nathan, 

** Murray, being about to publish a complete edi- 
tion of ray poetical effusions, has a wish to include 
the stanzas of the Hebrew Melodies. Will you 
allow him that privilege without considering it an 
infringement on your copyright ? I certainly wish 
to oblige the gentleman, but you know, Nathan, it 
Is against all good fashion to give and take back. I 
therefore cannot grant what is not at my disposal. 
Let me hear from you on the subject. Dear Nathan, 
" Yours truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLIV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Halnaby, Darlin^on, Jan. 10, 1815. 

** I was married this day week. The parson has 
pronounced it — Perry has announced it — and the 
Morning Post, also, under the head of ' Lord By- 
ron's marriage ' — as if it were a fabrication, or the 
pufF-direct of a new stay-maker. 

*♦ Now for thine affairs. I have redde thee upon 
the Fathers, and it is excellent well. Positively, 
you must not leave off reviewing. You shine in it 
—you kill in it ; and this article has been taken for 
Sydney Smith's, (as I heard in town,) which proves 
not only your proficiency in parsonology, but that 
you have all the airs of a veteran critic at your first 
Mi&et. So, prithee, go on and prosper. 

"Scott's 'Lord of the Isles' is out — 'the mail- 
eoach copy ' I have, by special license of Murray. 

"ISowis yoMr time; — ^you will come upon them 
uewly and freshly; It is impossible to read what 
you have lately done (verse or prose) without seeing 
that you have trained on teiifolcj. * * has floun- 
dered. * * has foundered. / have tired the rascals 
(i. e. the public) with my Harrys and Larrys, Pil- 
grims and Pirates. Nobody but Southev has done 
any thing worth a slice of bookseller's pudding ; and 
he has not luck enougl. to be found out in doing a 



• Th'- Hebrew Melodi«» whkt toe bad employed nim»elf in writing during 
lb nc-nt ttoT in .lonao* 



good thing. Now, Tom, is thy time — * Oh joyful day 
I would not take a knighthoo I for thy forune.' Lei 
me hear from you soon, and beleve me ever, &c. 

" P. S. Lady Byron is vastly well. How are Mrs 
Moore and Joe Atkinson's ' Graces ? ' We musj 
present our women to one another." 



LETTER CCLV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



>Jaii.l9, 18U. 



" Egad ! I don't think he is * down ; ' and ray 
prophecy — like most auguries, sacred and profane—* 
is not annulled, but inverted. * « * 

" To your question about the ' dog '* — Umnh '-« 
my ' mother I won't say any thing against — tnat is, 
about her ; but how long a * mistress ' or friend 
may recollect paramours or competitors (lust and 
thirst being the two great and only bonds between 
the amatory or the amicable), I can't say, — or, 
rather, you know as well as I could tell you. But, a. 
for canine recollections, as far as I could judge bj 
a cur of mine own, (always bating Boatswain, the 
dearest, and, alas ! the maddest of dogs,) I had one 
(half a wolf hy the she side) that doted on me at ten 
years old, and very nearly ate me at twenty. When 
I thought he was going to enact Argus, he bit away 
the backside of my breeches, and never would con 
sent to any kind of recognition, in despite of all 
kinds of bones which I ofi"ered him. So, let Southey 
blush, and Homer too, as fair as I can decide upou 
quadruped memories. f 

" I humbly take it, the mother knows the sdn 
that pays her jointure — a mistress ^er mate, till he 
* * and" refuses salary — a friend hiB fellow, till he 
loses cash and character, and a dog his master, till ■ 
he changes him. 

"So, you want to know about Milady and me? 
But let me not, as Roderick Random says, ' profane 
the chaste mysteries of Hymen '% — damn the word, 
I had nearly spelled it with a small h. I like Bell 
as well as you do (or did, you villain!) Bessy — and 
that is (or was) saying a great deal. 

" Address your next to Seaham, Stockton-on- 
Tees, where we are going on Saturday (a bore, by- 
the-way) to see father-in-law. Sir Jacob, and my 
lady's lady-mother. Write — and write more at 
length — both to the public and 

" Yours ever most affectionately, 

"B." 



LETTER CCLVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Seaham, Stockton on-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 

" I have heard from London that you have left 
Chatsworth and all the women full of ' entusy- 
musy'^ about you, personally and poetically; ird 
in particular, that ' "VVTien first I met thee ' has Deen 
quite overwhelming in its effect. I told you it was 
one of the best things you ever wrote, though that 
dog Power wanted you to omit part of it. They 



• Mr. Moore had just been reading Mr. Southey's poem of " Roderick," 
and, with refirence to an incident in it, had put the following- question tu 
Loril Byron :— " 1 should like to know from you, who are one of the Philo- 
cynic sect, whether it is at all prolable, that any dog (out of a melod ■urn*) 
could recognize a master, whom neither his own moth.T ir w'^.'csa »a» abll 
to find out I don't care about Ulysses' dog, &c. — al 1 viaAt to know firon 
^ou, (who are renowniid as ' friend of the dog, ccmpanion of the bear^ 
whether such a thing is piobable." 

t Don Juan, canto iii., 8tanzi\ xxiii., letter xcil. 

I The letter H ii blotted in the MS. 

§ It waa thus that, according '.o his accouD , Mr. Braman, the oelefankVr' 
■iurer and actor, used fn-quently tu pronounce the word " eitk UBaom." 



<^o 



LETTERS. 



825 



Are all regietting your absence at Chatsworth, ac- 
sordiiig to ni} informant — ' all the ladies quite. &c., 
<ic.,&c.' S tap my vitals ! 

" Well, now you have got home again — which I 
dare say is as agreeable as a ' draught of cool small 

6} to the scorched palate of a waking sot ' — now 
vou have got home again, I say, probably I shall 
hear from you. Since I wrote last, I have been 
transferred to my father-in-law's, with my lady and 
Hdy's maid, &c., &c., &c., and the treacle-moon is 
over, and I am awake, and find myself married. 
My bpouse and I agree to — and in — admiration. 
Swift says, 'no wise man ever married; ' but, for a 
fool, I think it the most ambrosial of all possible 
future states. I still think one ou^ht to marry 
upon leaae ; but am very sure I should renew mine 
j»t the expiration, though next term were for ninety 
p-aJ nine years. 

*' I wish you would respond, for I am here ' obli- 
tusque meorum obliviscendus et illis.' Pray tell 
me what is going on in the way of intriguery, and 

how the w s and rogues of the upper Beggar's 

Opera go on — or rather go off — in or after marriage ; 
or who are going to break any particular command- 
ment. Upon this dreary coast, we have nothing 
but country h:<;etings and shipwrecks ; and I have 
this day dined upon fish, which probably dined upon 
the crews of several colliers lost in the late gales. 
But I saw the sea once more in all the glories of 
surf and foam, — almost equal to the Bay of Biscay, 
and the interesting white squalls and short seas of 
Archipelago memory. 

" My papa. Sir Kalpho, hath recently made a 
speecn. at a Durham tax-meeting ; and not only at 

Kljurham, but here, several times since, after dinner. 
He is now, I believe, speaking to himself (I left 
Him in the middle) over various decanters, which 
can neither interrupt him nor fall asleep, — as might 
possibly have been the case with some of his au- 
dience. " Ever thine, 

««B. 
" I must go to tea — damn tea. I wish it was Kin- 
naird's brandy, and with you to lecture me about 



LETTER CCLVIl. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



Seaham, Stocktoii-npon-Tees, Feb. 2, 1815. 

You will oblige me very much by making an 
occasional inquiry at Albany, at my chambers, 
whether my books, ike, are kept in tolerable order, 
and how far my old woman* continues in health and 
industry as keeper of my old den. Your parcels 
have been duly received and perused ; but I had 
hoped to receive ' Guy Mannering ' before this time. 
1 w n't intrude further for the present on your avo- 
catims, professional or pleasurable, but am, as 
•iHud, " V^ery truly, &c." 



LETTER CCLVIII. 

TO MR. .MOORE. 

" Ffb. 4, 1815. 

*I enclose you half a letter from ♦ ♦, which will 
explain it;sf>lf-^at lo:ist the lattor i)art— the former 
refers to private business of mine own. If .leHVey 
will take such an article, and you will undertake the 
revision, or, indeed, anv portion of the article itself, 
(for unlrsH i/ouf/o, by l^lurbus, I will have nothing 
lo do witli i"l,) we can cook up, helwccu us three, as 
prett) H dish of soui •cri)ut as ever tipped over the 
tongue of a book-maker. ♦ ♦ • ♦ 



* You can, at any rate, try Je Trey's inclination. 
Your late proposal 'from him made me hint this to 
* *, who is a much better proser and scholar than 1 
am, and a very superior man indeed. Excuse haste 
— answer this. *' Ever yours most, 

"B. 

•' P. S. All is well at home. I wrote to you ye* 
terday." 



LETTER CCIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Fet. 10, l8Mw 

My Dear Thom, 

" Jeffrey has been so very kind about me and my 
damnable works, that I would not be indirect oi 
equivocal with him, even for a friend. So, it may 
be as well to tell him that it is not mine ; but that, 
if I did not firmly and truly believe it to 6e much 
better than I could offer, I would never have trou- 
bled him or you about it. You can judge between 
you how far it is admissible, and reject it, if not ol 
the right sort. For my own part, I have no interest 
in the article one way or the other, further than to 
oblige * * ; and should the composition be a good 
one, it can hurt neither party, — nor, indeed, any 
one, saving and excepting Mr. * ♦ ♦ *. 

* * « » 

•' Curse catch me if I know what H * * means, or 
meaned, about the demonstrative pronoun,* but I 
admire your fear of being inoculated with the same. 
Have you never found out that you have a particu- 
lar style of your own, which is as distinct from all 
other people, as Hafiz of Shiraz from Hafiz of the 
Morning Post ? 

" So you allowed B * * and such like to hum and 
haw you, or, rather, Lady Jersey, out of her com- 
pliment, and me out of mine.f Sunburn me but 
this was pitiful-hearted. However, I will tell her 
all about it when I see her. 

" Bell desires me to say all kinds of civilities, and 
assure you of her recognition and high considera 
tiou. I will tell you of our movements so'.ith, 
which may be in about three weeks from this presen* 
writing. By-the-way, don't engage yourself in any 
travelling expedition, as I have a plan of travel into 
Italy, which we will discuss. And then, think of 
the poesy wherewithal we should overflow froiu 
Venice to Vesuvius, to say nothing of Grecie, 
through all which — God willing — we might per 
ambulate in one twelvemonth. If 1 take m,>- "U'e, 
you can take yours ; and if I leave mine, you lua) 
do the same. ' Mind you stand by me, in oit'ier 
case, Brother Bruin.' 

" And believe me inveterately ycura, 

"B- 



LETTER CCLX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

«' Yesterday, I sent off the packet and let*er to 

Edinburgh. It consisted of forty-one pages, so that 
I have not added a line; but in my letter, I mcu- 
tioned what passed between you and me in a.it\inin, 
as my inducement for prt^suming to troulle him 
either with my own or * *'s hu-ubrations. I am 
any thing but "sure that it will do; btit 1 liave told 
Jeffrey that if there is anv decent raw material in it 
lie mav cut it into what shape he pleases, and warp 
it to his liking. 



* Mn. Mule, t % houiekeepor 
104 



• Some r-iimrk which hiwl brcn inmlr *hh rwipret to lh« frwjiwot vm a 
thr ili'iiiiiiiilmlivr pnnioiiii, b«ilh t>y lilrii»«if nn.l liT 8lr W . tttvn. 

t Vrrmt lo Ijiily Jriwy (anilninlnir •" fcll>i«i.m in l.<'nl hrnti), wW^a 
Ml M"oir hn.l » Htten. while «t Cli» uwuith, but nilcrt a*vi» i 



B26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"5 J yoi wonH go abroad, then, with me — but 
alone. I fully purpose starting much about the 
time you mention, and alone, too. 

****** 

** I hope Jeffrey won't think me very impudent in 
Bei.ding * * only ; there was not room for a sylla- 
ble. I have avowed * * as the author, and said that 
;70U thou,s;ht or said, when I met you last, that he 
(J.) would not be angry at the coalition, (though 
alas I we have not coalesi^od,) and so, if J. have got 
into a scrape, I must get out of it — Heaven knows 
Low. 

" Your Anacreon* is come, and with it I sealed 
(its fii'st impression) the packet and epistle to our 
patron 

*' Curse the Melodies, and the Tribes to boot. 
Brah.am is to assist — or hath assisted— but will do no 
more g03d than a second physician. I merely inter- 
feied to cblige a whim of Kinnaird's and all I have 
got by it was 'a speech,' and a receipt for stewed 
cysters. 

" ' Not meet ' — pray don't say so. "We must meet 
somewhere or somehow. Newstead is out of the 
question, being nearly sold again, or, if not, is un- 
inhabitable for my spouse. Pray write again. I 
will soon. 

"P. S. Pray when do you come out ? ever., or 
never ? I hope I have made no blunder ; but I cer- 
tainly tliink you said to me (after Wordsworth, 
whom I first pondered upon, was given up) that 
* * and I might attempt * * *. His length alone 
prevented me from trying my part; though J should 
have been less severe upon the Reviewer.. 

" ifour seal is the best and prettiest of my set; 
and I thank you very much therefor. I have just 
been — or, rather, ought to be — very murh shocked 
by the death of the l)uke of Dorset. We were at 
school together, and there I was passionately at- 
tached to iiim. Since, we have never met — but once, 
I think, since 1805 — and it would be a paltry affec- 
tation to pretend that I had any feeling for him 
worth the name. But there was a time in my life 
when this event would have broken my heart ; and 
all I can say for it now is, that — it is not worth 
breaking-. " Adieu — it is all a farce." 



LETTER CCLXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

March 2, 1815. 

♦« My Dear Thom, 

''"' " Jeffrey has sent me the most friendly of all pos- 
sible letters, and has accepted * *'s article. He 
says he has long liked not only, &c., &c., but my 
•character.' This must be your doing, you dog — 
arn't you ashamed of yourself, knowing me so well ? 
This is what one gets for having you for a father 
confessor, 

" I feel nierry enough to send you a sad song.f 
You once asked me for some words which you would 
Bet. Now you may set or not, as you like, — but 
there they are, in a legible hand, J and not in mine, 
but of my own scribbling ; so you may say of them 
what you please. Why don't you write to me ? I 
Bhall hiake you ' a speech '§ if you don't respond 
quickly. 

' I am in such a state of sameness and stagna- 



• A teal, with the head of Anncreon, which Mr. Moore harl given him. 
1 Tine »erte« enclosed were tlio»e melancholy ones, near printed in hi* 

" There'i not a joy the world»can give like that it takes away." 

Poem», p. 549. 
J The MS. wn» in the handwriting of Lady Byron. 
) rhe»e alluiions to a " tpoech " are cunuected with a little incident, not 
•oi'.h nien'i-jning, which had airnifed tia Iwth whi;ii I w:i» in town. He wa« 
isth •! fond and hud been always m, a* inay be seen in iiis early leUen) of 
111 taipin^ on wiiie conrentioital phraae or )oke — Moor* 



cion, and so totally occupied in consuming the fruit* 

— and sauntering — and playing dull games at card! -_ 
— and yawning — and trying to read old Annual 
Registers and the daily papers — and gathering sheila / 
on "the shore — and watching the growth of stunted v 
gooseberry bushes in the garden — that I Lave nei* 
ther time nor sense to say m.ore than 

"Yours ever "B. 
" P. S. I open my letter again to put n question 
to you. What would Lady Cork, or any Jther fash- 
ionable Pidcock give, to collect you and Jeffrey and 
me to one party. I have been answering his letter, 
which suggested this dainty query. I can't help 
laughing at the thoughts of your face and mine ; 
and our anxiety to keep the Aristarch in good hu- 
mor during the early part of a compotation, till' 
we got drunk enough to make him ' a speech.' I 
think the critic would have much the best of us — of 
one, at least — for I don't think diffidence fl maim 
social) is a disease of yours." 



LETTER CCLXIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

March 8, ISla. 

" An event — the death of poor Dorset — and the 
recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have 
felt now, but could not — set ine pondering, and 
finally into the train of thought which you have in 
your hands. I am very glad you like them, for I 
flatter myself they will pass as an imitation of your 
style. If I could imitate it well, ^ should have no 
great ambition of originality — I wish I couid make 
you exclaim with Dennis, ' That's my thunder, by 
G — d ! ' I wrote them with a view to your setting 
them, and as a present to Power, if he would accept 
the words, and you did not think yourself degraded, 
for once in a way, by maiTying them to music. 

" Sunburn Nathan ! why do you always twit me 
with his vile 'Ebrew nasalities ? Have I not told 
you it was all K.'s doing, and my own exquisite fa- 
cility of temper } But thou wilt be a wag Thomas ; 
and see what you get for it. Now foj my re- 
venge. 

" Depend — and prepend — upon it that your opin- 
ion of * * 'spoem will travel through one or other ol 
the quintuple correspondents, till it reaches the ear 
and the liver of the author.* Your adventure, how- 
ever, is truly laughable ; but how could you be such 
a potato ? You * a brother ' (of the quill) too ' near 
the throne,' to confide to a man's own publisher 
(who has ' bought,' or rather sold, ' golden opin- 
ions ' about him) such a damnatory parenthesis ! 
* Between you and me,' quotha, it reminds me of a 
passage in the Heir at Law — ' TOte-a-tete with Lady 
Dubeiiy, I suppose ' — ' No — tete-atcte vntlijive hmi' 
dred people ; ' and your confidential communication 
will doubtless be in circulation to that amount, in a 
short time, with several additions, and in sc\eral 
letters, all signed L. H. R. 0. B. &c., &c., &o. 

" We leave this place to-morrow, and shall stop 
on our way to town (in the interval of taking a 
house there) at Col. Leigh's, near Newmarket, 
where any epistle of yours will find its welcome 
way. 

" I have been very comfortable here, listening to 
that d— d monologue, which elderly gentlemen call 



• He here alludes to a circumstance which 1 had communicaied to him in * 
preceding letter. In' writing to one of the numerous paitners of a wel/knoWTl 
pulilishing establishiiieni, (with which I have since bt-o'ii lucky uiiorgli '.o I^jCI* 
a more iniimate comiecdon,) I liiid said confideutiuliy, (as 1 tiiougSil,) i» 
refi'rence to a poeirj that had just appeared, — " Ujtween you and mi=^, I dc 
not much admire Mr. * * 'spoem.'' The letter U'iiig chintiyvpon huiiimwi 
was answered through th*" regular business cliannel, and, to my dismaT,ca» 
eluded with the fjllowing wc.xls : — "We are very sorry tliat you do not ay 
pror« of Mr * * 's new poem, and are t: ur obedient, &c., &c. L. H. B. C 
tc., *c.'— il 



LETTERS. 



S2 



cor.versation, and in •which my pious father-in-law 
repeats himself every evening, save one, when he 
played upon the fiddle. However, they have been 
very kind and hospitable, and I like them and the 
place vastly, and I hope they will live many happy 
months. Belljis in. health, and unvaried . good hu- 
mor and behavior? ■ But we are all in trie agonies of 
packing and parting ; and I suppose by this time 
to-morrow I shall be stuck in the chariot with my 
chin upon a bandbox. I have prepared, however, 
another carriage for the abigail, and all the trump- 
ajy •which our wives drag along with them. 

" Ever thine, most affectionately, 
" B." 



LETTER CCLXIII. 

TO MR. MOOKE. 

" March 27, 1815. 

1 meant to write to you before on the subject of 
your loss ;* but the recollection of the uselessness 
and wcrthlessness of any observations on such 
events prevented me. I shall only now add, that 1 
rejoice to see you bear it so well, and that I trust 
time will enable Mrs. M. to sustain it better. Every 
thing should be done to divert and occupy h(;r 
with other thoughts and cares, and I am sure all 
that can be done will. 

'*' jS^ow to your letter. Napoleon — but the papers 
/will have told you all. I quite think with you upon 
'the subject, and for my real thoughts this time 
last year, I would refer you to the last pages of the 
Journal 1 gave you. I can forgive the rogue for 
utterly falsifying every line of mine Ode — which I 
take to be the last and uttermost stretch of human 
magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a cer- 
tain abbe, who wrote a Treatise on the Swedish 
Constitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal ? 
Just as he had corrected the last sheet, news came 
that Gustavus IIL had destroyed this immortal gov- 
ernment : ' Sir,' quoth the abb >, ' the king of Swe- 
den may overthrow the constitution, but not my 
hook! !' I think of the abbo, but not with him. 

" Making every allowance for talent and most 
consummate daring, there is, after all, a good deal 
in luck or destiny. He might have been stopped l)y 
our frigates — or wrecks 1 in the gulf of Lyons, which 
is particularly tempesiaous — or — a thousand things. 
But he is certainly Fortune's favorite, and 

f* Onci; f lirly sot out on his party of pleasure, 

/ Taking luwns at liis liking anil crowns at Ills leisure, 

I From Klljii to Lyons and Paris lie goes, 

M.iking balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes. 

You must have seen the account of his driving into 
the middle of the royal army, and the immediate 
efi'fjct of his pretty speeches. And now, if he don't 
dr lb the allies, there is ' no purchase in nu)ney.' 
1/ he can take France by himself, the devil's in't if 
h3 don't repulse the invaders, when backed by those 
celebratt'd sworders — those boys of the blade, the 
Imperi?.! Guard, and the old and new urmy. It is 
lrap')ssibl8 not to bo dazzled and overwhelmed by 
h'lH character and caretrr. Nothing ever so disa];- 
roiinted me as his abdication, and notliing could 
have reconciled me to him but some such revival as 
his recent exploit; tlmugh no one could anticipate 
such a complete and brilliant renovation. 

"To your question, I can only answer that there 
have been some symptoms which k<ok u little ges- 
tatory. It is a subject upon wliich I am not partic- 
ulavly an.xious, excej)t that I think it would please 
her uncle. Lord Weutworth, and her father and 
mother. The fornuT (Lord W.) is now in town, 
and in very indiH'erent health. Yov pt!rh:ii)s knt)w 
that his property, amounting to seven or eiglit thou- 
land a year, will eventually devolve upon Boll. 



'Vbe dcmli of hit lufunt (uUdaufhler, UUtU Byiuu Moor*. 



But the old gentleman has been so very kind to hei 
and me, that I hardly know how to wish him n 
heaven, if he can be comfortable on earth. Her fa 
ther is still in the country. 

" "We mean to metropolize to-morrow, and you 
will address your next to Piccadilly. We have'goi 
the Duchess of Devon's house there, she being ir, 
France. 

" I don't care what Po-wer says to secure thf 
property of the Song, so that it is ?iot complimenta- 
ry to me, nor any thing about ' condescending ' 
or ' noble authors '-^both ' vile phrases,' as Poloni- 
us says. ****** 

" Pray let me hear from you, and when ycu mean 
to be in town. Your continential scheme is imprac 
ticable for the present. I have to thank you for a 
longer letter than usual, which I hope will induce 
you to tax my • gratitude still farther in the same 
way. 

" You never told me about * Longman,' and ' nex* 
winter,' and I am not a 'milestone.'* 



LETTER CCLXIV. 



TO MR. COLERIDGE. 



" Piccadilly, Mireh 31, 181i. 

" Dear Sir, 

" It will give me great pleasure to comply with 
your retiuest, though I hope there is still taste 
-enough left among us to render it almost unneces- 
s.iry, sordid and interested as, it must be admitted, 
many of * the trade ' are, where circumstances give 
them an adv,'-ntage. I trust you do not permit 
yourself to be depressed by the temporary partiality 
of what is called ' the public ' for the favorites of 
the moment ; all experience is against the perma- 
nency of such impressions. You must have lived 
to see many of these pass away, and will survive 
many more — I mean personally, for poetical! y , I 
would not insult you by a comparison. 

"If I may be permitted, I would suggest that 
there never was such an opening for tragedy. In 
Kean, there is an actor worthy of expressi.jg the 
thoughts of the characters which you have every 
power of embodying; and I cannot but regret that 
the part of Ordonio was disposed of before his 
ai)pearance at Drury Lane. We have nothing to be 
mentioned in the same breath with ' Remorse ' for 
very many years ; and I should think that the recep- 
tion of that play was sufhcient to encourage the 
highest hopes of author and audience. It is to be 
hoped that you are proceeding in a career which 
could not but be successful. With my best resptcLs 
to Mr. bowles, 1 have the honor to be, 

" Your obliged and very obedient servant, 

" Byron 

♦* P. S. Y'ou mention my * Satire,' lampoon, or 
whatever yo^x or others please to call it. 1 can only 
say, that it was wiittou when I was very young and 
very angry, and has been'a thorn iu my side ov« r 
since; more particularly as almost all the peiioi « 
aniinadvertedf upon became subsequtiitly my no* 
quaintauees, and souu' of them my friends, which 
is * heaping fire upt)n an enemy's head.' and foriiiv- 
iiig me too readily to permit me to forgive m^^rlf. 
The part applied to you is pert, and petulant, and 
shallnw enough ; t)ut although I have long done 
everything in my i)Ower to suppress the circulation ol 
the whole thing, 1 shall always regret tiie waulou- 
ness or geneiulity of many t f its attempted at- 
tacks." 



• I Ud (iccu»»l liini ol UiivUij f iilirely fi>r|fiH ihit 'n • pn-crtlliig le«e«, 
hiid Inliirniivl hnii ul' my Itucntion lu |iuMI«li with U. ' .Vlraare. Imim(ji«ii If 
tin* iiisiiliig wliilur, >ud uddrnJ that, In |p- kig linn Ui» liilunii«Uun, I luuvi 
I hiul i)(.t)ii,— to UM an litob inouijiMr, -•' wlklMUux itfi U> « nUkMyw. 
Af uurv. 



B28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCLXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" April 9, 1815. 

" Thanks for the books. I have great objection 
to your proposition about inscribing the vase,* 
which is, that it would appear ostentatious on mv 
part ; and of course I must send it as it is, without 
any alteration. . " Vnnre ^p." 



Yours, &c.' 



LETTER CCLXVI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"April 23, 1815. 

" Lord Wentworth died last week. The bulk of 
his property (from seven to eight thousand per 
ann.) is entailed on Lady Milbanke and Lady 
Byron. The first is gone to take possession in 
Leicestershire, and attend the funeral, &c., this 
day. ******* 

" I have mentioned the facts •f the*settlement of 
Lord W.'s property, because the newspapers, with 
their usual accuracy, have been making all kinds of 
blunders in their statement. His will is just as 
expected — the principal part settled on Lady Mil- 
banke (now NopI) and Bell, and a separate estate 
left for sale to pay debts, (which are not great,) and 
legacies to his natural son and daughter. 

" Mrs. * *'s tragedy was last night damned. They 
may bring it on again, and probably will ; but damned 
it was, — not a word of the last act audible. I went 
(malf/rf^ that I ought to have staid at home in sack- 
cloth" for unc, but I could not resist the Jirst night 
of any thing) to a private and quiet nook in my 
private box, and witnessed the whole process. The 
first three acts, with transient gushes of applause, 
oozed patiently but heavily on. 1 must say it was 
badly acted, particularly by * *, who was groaned 
upon in the third act, — something about * horror — 
Buch a horror ' was the cause. Well, the fourth 
ftct became as muddy and turbid as need be ; but 
the fifth — what Garrick used to call (like a fool) the 
concoction of a play — the fifth act stuck fast at the 
,'"' King's prayer. You know he says, ' he never went 
to bed without saying them, and did not like to 
y. omit them now.' But he was no sooner upon his 
knees, than the audience got upon their legs — the 
damnable pit— and roared, and groaned, and hissed, 
and whistled. Well, that was choked a little ; but 
the ruffian scene — the penitent peasantry — and kill- 
ing the Bishop and the Princess — oh, it was all 
Dver. The curtain fell upon unheard actors, and 
the announcement attempted by Kean for Monday 
was equally ineffectual. Mrs. Bartley was so fright- 
ened, that, though the people were tolerably quiet, 
the Epilogue was quite inaudible to half the house. 
In short, — you know all. I clapped till my hands 
were skinless, and so did Sir James Mackintosh, 
who was with me in the box. All the world were 
in the house, from the Jerseys, Greys, &c., &c., 
downwards. But it would not do. It is, after ail, 
not an acting play, — good language, but no power. 

****** 
Women (saving Joanna Baillie) cannot write trag- 
edy ; thej^ have not seen enough nor felt enough of 
life for It. I think Semiramis or Catherine II. 
might have written (could they have been un- 
queened) a rare play. * * * * * 

♦' It is, however, a good warning not to risk or 



* A large Bepulchral va»e of silver, presented by Lord Byron, throug-h Mr. 
Murray, to Sir Walter Scott. It was lull of dead mini's tones, and had in- 
icriptioiis on two sides of the base. One ran thus — " The bones contained in 
Ilii urn were found fn certain ancient aepuli-hres within the land walls of 
ithen» 1.1 Uie mouth of Febfuary 1811." The other face bears the lines of 
'tVMwl: 

" txpiwde— quot llbrai n &-*• lummo l"»»>iie8. 

-Mon wU fntetur 4 juittu !aoininua <orpu8cula."— Juo. x. 



write tragedies. I never had mtich bent that way 
but, if I had, this would have cured me. 

*' Ever, carissime Them., thine, 



LETTER CCLXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



May 21, 



" You must have thought it very odd, net to say 
ungrateful, that I made no mention of the dravr- 
ings,* &c., when I had the pleasure of seeing yotl 
this morning. The fact is, that till this moment 1 
had not seen them, nor heard of their arrival : they 
were carried up into the library, where I have not 
been till just now, and no intimation given me ol 
their coming. The present is so very magnificent, 
that — in short, I leave Lady Byron to thank you for 
it herself, and merely send this to apologize for a 
piece of apparent and unintentional neglect on my 
own part. "Yours, &c." ' 



LETTER CCLXVIII. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



" 13 Piccadilly Terrace, May— June 1, 1815. 

"My Dear Hunt, 

" I am as glad to hear from as I shall be to se« 
you. We came to town what is called late in the 
season ; and since that time, the death of Lady 
Byron's uncle (in the first place) and her own deli- 
cate state of health, have prevented either of us 
from going out much ; however, she is now better, 
and in a fair way of going creditably through the 
whole process of beginning a family. 

" I have the alternate weeks of a private box at 
Drury-Lane Theatre; this is my week, and I send 
you an admission to it for Kean's nights, Friday 
and Saturday next, in case you should like to see 
him quietly ; it is close to the stage, the entrance 
by the private-box door, and you can go without 
the bore of crowding, jostling, or dressing. I also 
enclose you a parcel of recent .letters from Paris; 
perhaps you may find some extracts that may 
amuse yourself or your readers. I have only to 
beg you will prevent your copyist, or printer, from 
mixing up any of the English names, or private 
matter' contained therein, which might lead to a 
discovery of the writer; and as the Examiner is 
sure to travel back to Paris, might get him into a 
scrape, to say nothing of his correspondent at home. 
At any rate, I hope and think the perusal will amuse 
you. Whenever you come this way, I shall be , 
happy to make you acquainted with Lady B}'ron>^ 
whom you will find any thing but a fine lady, — a \ 
species of animal whom you probably do not affect ^ 
more than myself. Thanks for the * Mask ; ' there 
is not only poetrv and thought in the body, but 
much research a^ good old reading in your prefa- 
tory manner. I hope you have not given up your 
narrative poem, of which I heard you speak as in 
progress. — It rejoices me to hear of the well-doing 
and regeneration of the ' Feast,' setting aside my 
own selfish reasons for wishing it success. I feai , 
you stand almost single in your liking of ' Lara,' — ii \ 
is natural that I should, as being my last and most 
unpopular effervescence : passing by its other sins, 
it is too little narrative, and too metaphysical tc 
please the greater number of readers. I have, 
however, much consolation in the exception witli 
which you furnish me. From Moore I have no* 
heard very lately; I fear he is a little humorous. 



• Mr. Murray had presented Lady Byron with twelve (i«iwlaj% » 
Slotbard, frani Lord Byron's Poem*. 



LETTERS. 



823 



Dccause 1 am a \a.zy correspondent ; but that shall 
De mendod. " Ever your obliged 

"And vei-y sincere friend, 
** Byron. 
' P. S. ' Politics ! ' The barking of the war-dogs 
for their carrion has sickened me of them for the 
nresent." 



LETTER CCLXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" 13, Piccadill' Terrace, June 12, 1815. 

" I have nothing to offer in behalf of my late 
gilence, except the most inveterate and ineffable 
laziness; but I am too supine to invent a lie, or I 
ceriairly should, being ashamed of the truth. Kin- 
naird, I hope, has appeased your magnanimous 
indignation at his blunders. 1 wished and wish 
you vci-e in committee, with all my heart.* It 
Beems so hopeless a business, that the company 
of a friend would be quite consoling, — but more 
of this when me meet. In the mean time, you are 
entreated to prevail upon Mrs. Esterre to engage 
herself. I believe she has been \vi-itten to, but your 
influence, in person, or proxy, would probably go 
farther than our proposals. What they are, I know 
not ; all my new function consists in listening to 
the despair of Cavendish Bradshaw, the hopes of 
Kinnaird, the wishes of Lord Essex, the complaints 
of Whitbread, and the calculauons of Peter Moore, 
—all of which, and whom, seem totally at variance. 
C. Bradshaw wants to light the theatre with gas, 
which may, perhaps, (if the vulgar be believed,) 
poison half the audience, and all the Dramatis 
PcrsoTKB. Essex has endeavored to persuade Kean 

t to get drunk, the consequence of which is, that 
e has never been sober since. Kinnaird, with 
equal success, would have convinced Raymond that 
he, the said Raymond, had too much salary. Whit- 
bread wants us to assess the pit another sixpence, — 

d— — d insidious proposition, — which will end in 
an 0. P. combustion. To crown all, Robins, the 
auctioneer, has the impudence to be displeased, 
"Ccause he has no dividend. The villain is a pro- 
prietor of shares, and a long-lunged orator in the 
meetings. 1 hear he has prophesied our incapacity, 
—•a foregone conclusion,' — whereof I hope to give 
hi in signal proofs before we are done. 

'• Will you give us an Opera ? no, I'll be sworn, 
but I wish you would. * * * * 

" To go on with the poetical world, — Walter Scott 
has gone back to Scotland. Murray, the bookseller, 
has been cruelly cudgelled of misbegotten knaves, 
' in Kendal green,' at Newington Butts, in his way 
nome from a purlieu dinner — and robbed — would 
you believe it ? — of three or four bonds .of forty 
pounds apiece, and a seal-riii" of his grandfather's, 
worth a million ! This is his version, — hut others 
opine that D'lsraeli, with whom he dined, knocked 
him down with his last publication, ' the Quarrels 
of Authors,' — in a dispute about copyright. Be 
that as it may, the newspapers have teemed with 
his ' injuria forma?,' and he has been embrocated 
aid invisible to all but the apothecary ever since. 

" Lady B. is better than three mouths advanced in 
her progress towards maternity, and, we hope, like- 
ly to go well through with it We have been very 
little out this season, as I wish to keep her (niiet in 
Vor present situation. Her father and mother have 
thanged their names to Noel, in compliance with 
Lord VVentworth's will, and in complaisance to the 
property bequeathed by him. 

" I liear that you have been gloriously received by 
the Irish, — and so you ought. But don't let them 
kill you with claret and kindncas at the national 



Pc 



TiM Corns Mea of MM»c«n •! Dnujr-LaiM TtiMk*. 



dinner in your honor, which, I hear and hope, is in 
contemplation. If you will tell me the day 111 gtt 
drunk myself on this side of the water, aud waft 
you an applauding hiccup over the Channel. 

" Of politics, we have nothing but the yell foi 
war ; and Castlereagh is preparing his head for the 
pike, on which we shall see it carried before he haa 
done. The loan has made every body sulky. I 
hear often from Paris, but in direct contradiction to 
the home statements of our hirelings. Of domestic 
doings, there has been nothing since Lady D * *. 
Not a divorce stirring, — but a good manv in embryo, 
in the shape of marriages. 

" I enclose you an epistle, received this mcmitig 
from I know not whom ; but I think it wD^ amuse 
you. The writer must be a rare fellow, 

" P. S. A gentleman named D'Alton (not your 
Dalton) has sent me a national poem called * Der- 
mid.' The same cause which prevented my writing 
to you operated against my wish to write to him an 
epistle of thanks. If you see him, will you make 
all kinds of fine speeches for me, and tell him that 
I am the laziest and most ungrateful of mortals ? 

"A word more; — don't let Sir John Stevenson 
(as an evidence on trials for copyright, &c.) talk 
about the price of your next poem, or they wiH 
come upon you for the Property Tax for it. I am 
serious, and have just heard a long story of the ras 
cally tax-men making Scott pay for his. So, take 
care. Three hundred is a devil of a deduction "iw 
of three thousand. 



LETTER CCLXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" July r, 1815 

** ' Grata superveniet,* &c., &c, I had written u. 
you again, but burnt the letter, because I began t;) 
think you seriously hurt at my indolence, and did 
not know how the buffoonery it contained might be 
taken. In the mean time I have yours, and all is 
well. 

*• I had given over all hopes of yours. By^the-by , 
my 'grata superveniet' should be in the present 
tense ; for I perceive it looks now as if it applied to 
this present scrawl reaching you, whereas it is t<» 
the receipt of thy Kilkenny epistle that 1 have 
tacked that venerable sentiment. 

" Poor Whitbread died yesterday morning, — a 
sudden and severe loss. His health had been 
waveling, but so fatal an attack was not appre- 
hended. He dropped down, and, I believe, never 
spoke afterward. I perceive Perry attributes his 
death to Drury Lane, — a consolatory encourago- 
inent to the new committee. I have no doubt tliat 
* *, who is of a plethoric habit, will be bled imme 
diately ; and as I have since my marriage, lust much 
of my paleness, and, — ' horresco referens ' ( for I 
hate even moderate fat) — that hapny slenderness, 
to which, when I first knew you, 1 had attained, 1 
1)V no means sit easy under this dispensation of the 
Morning Chronicle. Evg^v one must regret the 
loss of Whitbread; he wra surely a great and very 
good man. 

" PariB is taken for the second time, I preuime 
it, for the future, will have an anniveraary captm-e. 
In the late buttles, like all the world, I have lost a 
connexion, — poor Frederick llowaid,* the best of 
his ra«e. I had little intercourse, of late years, 
with his family, but 1 never saw or heard Imt good 
of him. Hobhouse's brothoV is killed. In short, 
the havoc has not left u family out of it.i tendei 
mercies. 

" Every hope of a republic is over, and we must 
go on under the old system. But I am sick at 
heart of politics and slaughters ; and the luok 



Sm CltUa* Hkiuia. MnU la.- 



830 



BYRON'S^ WORKh. 



./ 



which I'rcndence is pleased to lavish on Lord * *, 
is only a proof of the little value the gods set upon 
prosperity, when they permit such * * * s as he 
and that drunken corporal, old Blucher, to bully 
their betters. From this, however, Wellington 
should be excepted. He is a man, — and the Scipio 
of our Hannibal. However, he may_ thank the 
Russian frosts, whicB des^troyed the ?-eal <'2ite of the 
Fre'iich'arfily", Tor the successes of Waterloo. 
I ''La! Moore — how you blaspheme about 'Par- 
nassus' and 'Moses!' I am ashamed for you 
Won't you do any tiling for the dj-ania .^ We be- 
seech an opera. Kinnaird's blunder was partly 
Q:ine. 1 wanted you of all things in the commit- 
♦;ee, ur.d so did he. But we are now glad you were 
viser ; for it is, I doubt, a bitter business. 

*' When shall we see you in England } Sir Ralph 
Noel {Inte Milljanke — he don't promise to be hi^ 
Noel in a hurry) finding that one man can't inhabit 
two houses, has given his place in the north to me 
for a habitation ; and there Lady B. threatens to 
be brought to bed in November. Sir R. and my 
Lady Mother are to qu;irter at Ivirby — Lord Went- 
worth's that was. Perliaps you and Mrs. Moore 
will pay us a visit at Seahara in the course of the 
autumn. If so, you and I f without our loivesj wi' 
take a lark to Edinburgh and embrace Jeffrey. It 
is not much above one hundred miles from us. But 
all this, and other high matters we will discuss at 
meeting, which I hope will be on your return. We 
don't leave town till August. 

" Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXL 



TO MR. SOTHEB^. 



•' Sept. IS, IC 5. Piccadilly Terrace. 

■'Dear Sir, 

" * Ivan ' * is accepted, and will be put in progress 
on Kean's arrival. 

" The theatrical gentlemen have a confident hope 
of its success. I know not that any alterations for 
the stage will be necessary: if any, they will be 
trifling, and you shall be duly apprized, " I would 
suggest that you should not attend any except the 
latter rehearsals — the managers have requested me 
to state this to you. You can see them, viz., Dibdin 
and liae, whenever you please, and I will do any 
thiug you wish to be done, on your suggestion, in 
the mean time. 

" Mrs. Mardyn is not yet out, and nothing can be 
determined till she has made her appearance — I 
mean as to her capacity for the part you mention, 
which I take it for granted is not in Ivan — as I 
think Ivan may be performed very well without her. 
But of that hereafter. 

" Ever yours, very truly, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. You will be glad to hear that the season has 
begun uncommonly well — great and constant houses 
—the performers in much harmony with the com- 
mittee and one another, ''9hd as much good-humor 
as ciu be preserved in such complicated and exten- 
sive interests as the Drury-Lane proprietary." 



LETTER CCLXXII. 



TO MR. 80THEBY. 



' Sept. 25, 1815. 



i)KAR Sir, 

•• I think it would be advisable for you to see the 
acting managers when convenient, as there must be 



'points on which you will want to 3onfer ; the objec 
tion 1 stated was merely on the part of the per 
formers, and is general and aot particular to thit 
instance. I thought it as jvell to mention it a 
I once — and some of the reharsals you will doubtless 
see, notwithstanding. 

" Rae, I rather think, has his eye on Naritzen foi 
himself. He is a more popular performer than 
Bartley, and certainly the cast will be stronger with 
him in it ; besides, he is one of the managers, and 
will feel doubly interested if he can act in both ca- 
pacities. Mrs. Bartley will l)e Petro^wna ; — as to the 
Empress, I know not what to say or think. The 
truth is we are not ainplj furnished with tragic 
women ; but make the best of those we havt — you 
can take your choice of th^m. We' have all great 
hopes of the success — on v^hich, setting atide other 
considerations, we are particularly ancious, aa 
being the first tragedy to be brought out since the 
old committee. 

" By-the-way — I have a charge against you. As 
the great Mr. Dennis roared out on a similar occa- 
sion — ' By G — d, that is my thunder ! ' so do I 
exclaim ' This is my lightning ! ' I allude to a 
speech of Ivan's, in the scene with Petrowna and 
the Empress, where the thought and almost expres- 
sion are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of 
the Corsair. I, however, do not say this to accuse 
you, but to exempt myself from suspicion, as there 
is a priority of six months' publication, on my part, 
between the appearance of that composition and of 
your tragedies. 

" George Lambe meant to have written to you. 
If you don't like to confer with the managers ax 
present, I will attend to y;"ir wishes — so state 
them. " Yours very truly, 

" Byron." 



LETTER CCLXXIII. 

TO MR. TAYLOR. 

" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept. 25, 1815. 

Dear Sir, 

" I am sorry you should feel uneasy at what has 
by no means troubled me.* If your editor, his 
correspondents, and readers, are amused, I have no 
objection to bs the theme of all the ballads he c«.n 
find room for, — provided his lucubrations are con- 
fined to me only. 

' It is a long time since things of this kind have 
ceased to ' fright me from my propriety ; ' nor do 1 
know any similar attack which would induce me to 
turn again, unless it involved those connected 
with me, whose qualities, I hope, are such as to 
exempt them in the eyes of those who bear no good 
will to myself. In such a case, supposing it to oc- 
cur, — to reverse the saying of Dr. Johnson, — ' what 
the law could not do for me, I would do for myself,' 
be the consequences what they might. 

" I return you, with many thanks, Colman and 
the letters. The poems, I hope, you intended me to 
keep ; — at least, I shall do so, till I hear the con- 
trary. "Very truly vours." 



LETTER CCLXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

• Sept. 28, 1815.V 

' Will you publish the Drury Lane ' Magpye ?'oi , 
what is more, will you give fifty, or even forty, 
pounds for the copyright of the said ? I have un- 



A Tnif»Iy, by Mi. Sotheby. 



An atuck on Lord and Lady Byron, in the Sun newipaper, of wliA 
Mi. Tayloi was proprietoi. 



LETTiiHS. 



831 



lertaken to ask you this question on behalf of the 
•lanslator, and wish you would. We can't get so 
much for him by ten pounds from any body else, 
and I, knowing your magnificence, would be glad 
of an answer." '* Ever, &c.'" 



LETTER CCLXXV. . 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" ^pt. 27, 1815. 

•• That's ngnt, and splendid, and becoming a pub- 
lisher of high degree. Mr. Concanen (the trans- 
lator) will be delighted, and pay his washerwoman ; 
and in reward for your bountiful behavior in this 
instance, I won't ask you to publish any more for 
Drury Lane, or any lane whatever again.' You will 
have no tragedy or any thing else from me, I assure 
you, and may think yourself lucky in having got rid 
of me, for good and all, without more damage. But 
I'll tell you wLat we will do for you, — act Sotheby's 
Ivan, which will succeed ; and then your present 
and next impression of the dramas of that dramatic 
gentlemen will be expedited to your heart's content ; 
and if there is any thing very good, you shall have 
the refusal ; but you shan't have any more requests. 

'• Sotheby has got a thought, and almost the 
words, from the third canto of the Corsair, which, 
you know, was published six months before his 
tragedy. It is from the storm in Conrad's cell. I 
have written to Mr. Sotheby to claim it ; and, as 
Dennis roared out of the pit, * By G — d, thafa my 
thunder!' sp do I, and will I, exclaim, ' By G — d, 
that's my liyhtning P that electrical fluid being, in 
fact, the subject of the said passage. 

"You will have a print of Fanny Kelly, in the 
Maid, to prefix, which is honestly worth twice the 
money you have given for the MS. Pray what did 
von do with the note I gave you about Mungo Park ? 

" Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXVII. 



TO MR. HUNT. 



" Dear Hunt, 

" I send you a thing whose greatest value is it« 
present rarity ; * the present copy contains som« 
manuscript corrections previous to an edition which 
was printed, but not published, and, in short, all 
that is in the suppressed edition, the fifth, except 
twenty lines in addition, for which there was not 
room in the copy before me. There are in it many 
opinions I have altered, and some which I retain; 
upon the whole, I wish- that it had never been UTii- 
ten, though my sending you this ccpy ('the oniy 

of L&.h ' 



in my possession, unless one 



ly i: s oe 
excepted), may seem at variance with this itatc- 
ment : but my reason for this is very different ■ '<• is, 
however, the only gift I iiave made of the kuid ttiia 
many a day. 

"P. S. You probably know that it is not in print 
for sale, nor ever will be (if I can help it) again." 



LETTER CCLXXVI. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 7, 1815. 

^ My Dear Hunt, 

" I had written a long answer to your last, which 
[ put into the fire, partly, because it was a repeti- 
tion of what' I have already said, and next, because 
I considered what my opinjous are worth, before I 
made you pay double postage, as your proximity 
Ia}s you within the jaws of the trcinondous 'Two- 
penny,' and beyond the verge of franking, the only 
parliamentary privilege, (saving one other,) of 
much avail in these ' costermonger' d;iys. 

'* Pray don't make me an exception to the ' Long 
live Kina Richard' of your bards in the ' Feast.' I 
do allow him* to be ^ the prince of the bards of his 
tirne,' upon the judgment of those who must judge 
more impartuiUy than I probably do. I acknow- 
iedge him as 1 acknowledge the llousea of Hanover 
■.nd Bourbon, the — not the • one-eyed monarcb of 
the blind,' — but the blind monarch of the one-eyed. 
I merely take the liberty of a free subject to vitu- 
perate certain of his edicts, and that only in pri- 
vate. I shall be very glad to see you, or your re- 
maining canto ; if both together, so much the bet- 
ter, — I am interrupted." • * • 



LETTER CCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Oct. 22, 1810. 

My Dear Hunt, 

"You have excelled yourself, if not all your con- 
temporaries in the canto which I have just finished. 
1 think it above the former books ; but that is aa 
it sh-ould be ; it rises with the subject, the concep- 
tion appears to me perfect, and the execution per- 
haps as nearly so as verse will admit. There is 
more originality than I recollect to have seen else- 
where within the same compass, and frequent and 
great happiness of expression. In short, I must 
turn to the faults, or what appear to be such to me : 
these are not many,' nor sucli as may not be easily 
altered, being almost all verbal ; and of the same 
kind as I pretended to point out in the former 
cantos, viz., oociisional quaintness and obscurity, and 
a kind of harsh and yet colloquial compounding ol 
epithets, as if to avoid saying common things in the 
common way ' difficile est proprie oommuuia dicere,! 
seems at times to have met with in you a literal 
translator. I have made a few, and but a few pen- 
cil marks on the MS. which you can follow, or not, 
as yon please. 

" The poem, as a whole, will give you a very high 
station ; but where is the conclusion ? Don't let it 
• •ool in the composition You can always delay as 
long as you like revising, though I am not sure, in 
the very face of Horace, that the * nonum,' \e., is 
attended with advantage, unless we read 'months' 
for 'years.' I am glad the book sent* re xehed \ou. 
I forgot to tell vou the storv of its sujipression, 
which shan't be longer than 1 can make it. My 
motive for writing that poem was, I fear, not so fair 
as yoii are willing to believe it ; I was angry, and te- 
termined to be witty, and, fighting in a crowd, (l'.«lt 
about my l)lows auainstall alike, without distinct on 
or discernment. Wlien I came home from the I'.-.st, 
among other newncqn.iintnnres and friends, politics 
and tlie state of the Nottingham rioters, {o( which 
county I am a landholder, and iiOrd Holland He 
eorder of the town,) led me by the good t)fHces oi 
Mr. Rogers, into the society of Lord Holland, who, 
with I-ady Holland, was ])artienlarly kind to me; 
afjout March, 1812, this introduction took nlueo, 
when I made my first speech on the Frame Bill, in 
the same debate in which Lord Holland spoke. 
Soon after this, I was correcting the fifth editior. ol 
' R. B.' for the press, when Rogers n-piesentcH to 
me that he knew Lord and Ludy HolUnd would aoi 



832 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



be sorry if I suppressed any farther publication of 
that poem ; and I immediately acquiesced, and with 
great pleasure, for I had attacked them upon a fan- 
cied and false provocation with many others ; and 
neither was, nor am sorry, to have done what I 
could to stifle that ferocious rhapsody. This was 
subsequent to my acquaintance with Lord Holland, 
and was neither expressed nor understood, as a con- 
ation of that acquaintance. Rogers told me he 
thought I ought to suppress it ; I thought so too, 
and did as far as I could, and that's all. I sent you 
my copy, because I consider your having it much 
the same as having it myself. Lady Byron has one ; 
I desire not to have any other, and sent it only as a 
curiosity and a n^emento." 



LETTER CCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

•' 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Oct. 28, 1815. 

" You are, it seems, in England again, as I am 
to hoar from every body but yourself ; and I sup- 
pose you punctilious because I did not answer your 
last Irish letter. When did you leave the * swate 
country ?' Never mind, I forgive you ; — a strong 
proof — I know not what — to give the lie to — 

" ' He never pardons who hath done the wrong.' 

" You have written to * *. You have also writ- 
ten to Perry, who intimates hope of an opera from 
you. Coleridge has promised a tragedy. Now, if 
you keep Perry's word, and Coleridge keeps his 
own, Drury Lane will be set up ; — and, sooth to say, 
it is in grievous want of siich a lift. We began at 
speed, and are blown already. When I say ' we,' I 
mean Kinnaird, who is the * all in all sufficient,' and 
can count, which none of the rest of the committee 
can. 

"It is really very good fun, as far as the daily 
and nightly stir of these strutters and fretters go ; 
and, if the concern could be brought to pay a shil- 
ling in the pound, would do much credit to the man- 
agement. Mr. has an accepted tragedy, * * * *, 

whose first scene is in his sleep, (I don't mean the 
author's. ) It was forwarded to us as a prodigious fa- 
vorite of Kean's ; but the said Kean, xlpon interro- 
gation, denies his eulogy, and protests against his 
part. How it will end, I know not. 

"I say so much about the theatre, because there 
is nothing else alive at this season. All the world 
are out of it, except us, who remain to lie in, — in 
December or perhaps earlier. Lady B. is very pon- 
derous and prosperous, apparently, and I wish it 
well over. 

*' There is a play before me from a personage who 
signs himself « Hibemicus.' The hero is Malachi, 
the Irishman and king ; and the villain and 
usurper, Turgesius, the Dane. The conclusion is 
Sue. Turgesius is chained by the leg {vide stage 
direction) to a pillar on the stage; and < King 
Malachi makes him a speech, not unlike Lord Cas- 
tiereagh's, about the balance of power and the law- 
fulness of legitimacy, which puts Turgesius into a 
phreusy — as Castlereagh's would, if his audience 
was chained by the leg. He draws a dagger and 
rushes at the orator ; but, finding himself at the 
end of his tether, he sticks it into his own carcass, 
and dies, saying, he has fulfilled a prophecy. 

" Now, this IS serious, downriaht matter of fact, 
and the gravest part of a tragedy which is not in- 
tended for burlesque. I tell it you for the honor of 
Ireland. The writer hopes it will be represented : — 
but what is Hope ? nothing but the paint on the 
face of Existence ; the least touch of Truth rubs it 
iff, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot 
^e have get Lold of. I am not sure that I have not 



said this last superfine reflection before. But never 
mind ; — it will do for the tragedy of Turgesius, trt 
which I can append it. 

" Well, but how dost thou do ? thou bard, not of 
a thousand, but three thousand ! I wish your friend, 
Sir John Pianoforte, had kept that to himself, and 
not made it public at the trial of the song-seller in 
Dublin. I tell you why ; it is a liberal thing foi 
Longman to do, and honorable for you to obtain ; 
but it will set all the * hungry and dinnerless lank- 
jawed judges ' upon the fortunate author. But 
they be d — d ! — the * Jeffrey and the Moore together 
are confident against the world in ink ! ' By-the- { 
way, if poor Coleridge — who is a man of wonderf^^ 
talent, and in distress, and about to publish two V 
vols, of Poesy and Biography, and who has been • 
worse used by the critics than ever we were — will 
you, if he comes out, promise me to review him fa- 
vorably in the E. R. ? Praise him, I think you 
must, but you will also praise him well, — of all / 
things the most difficult. It will be the making oil 
him. ■" -^ . . -~— --.^' 

" This must be a secret between you and me, as 
Jeffrey might not like such a project — nor, indeed, 
might Coleridge himself like it. But I do think he 
only wants a pioneer, and a sparkle or two to ex- 
plode most gloriously. 

" Ever yours most afiectionatelv, 



LETTER CCLXXX. 



TO MR. HUNT. 
" 13, Terrace, Piccadilly, Sept.— Oct. 30, 1815. 

" My Dear Hunt, 

"Many thanks for your books, of which yon 
already know my opinion : their external splendor 
should, not disturb you as inappropriate — they have 
still more within than without. I take leave to dif- 
fer from you on Wordsworth, as freely as I once 
agreed with you ; at that time I gave him credit for 
a promise, which is unfulfilled. I still think hia 
capacity warrants all you say of it only, but that his ' 
performances since ' Lyrical Ballads ' are miserably ^ 
inadequate to the ability which lurks within him : 
there is undoubtedly much natural talent spilt over \, 
the ' Excursion,' but it is rain" upon rocks, where it 
stands and stagnates, or rain up' 'U sands, where it i 
falls without fertilizing. Who can understand him ? ' 
Let those who do, make him intelligible. Jacob ' 
Behmen, Swedenborg, and J )hanna Southcote, are \ 
mere types of this arch-apostle of mystery and mys- : 
ticism. But I have done, — no, I have not done — for 
I have two petty, and perhaps unworthy, objections 
in small matters to make to him, which, with his 
pretensions to accurate observations, and fury 
against Pope's false translation of ' the moonlight 
scene in Homer,' I wonder he should have fallen intp 
— these be they : — He says of Greece in the body of \ 
his books, that it is a land of ; 

" ' Riveri, fertile plains, and tounding shores, 
UiiiJer a cope of rariegtited sky.' 

The rivers are dry half the year, the plains are bar 
ren, and the shores still and tideless as the Mediter 
ranean can make them ; the sky is any thing but 
variegated, being for months and months but * dark- i 
ly, deeply, beautifully blue.' — The next is in his j 
notes, where he talks of our ' Monuments crowded ) 
together in the busy, &c., of a large town,' as com- j 
pared with the ' still seclusion of a Turkish ceme- / 
tery in some remote place.' This is pure stuff; for / 
one monument in our churchyards there are ten in ' 
the Turkish, and so crowded that you cannot walk 
between them ; that is, divided merely by a path or 
road ; and as to * remote places,' men never take the 
trouble, in a barbHrous country, to carry their dead 



LETTERS. 



833 



very tai they must have lived near to where they 
were buried. There are no cemeteries in ' remote 
places,' except such as have the cypress and the 
tonxbstone still left, where the olive and the habita- 
tion of the living have perished. . . . These things I 
was struck with, as coming peculiarly in my o^vn 
way ; and in both of these he is wrong : yet I should 
have noticed neither, but for his attack on Pope for 
a like blunder, and a peevish affectation about him 
of despising a popularity which he will never obtain. 
I write in great haste, and, I doubt, not much to the 
purpose, but you have it hot and hot, just as it 
comes, and so let it go. By- the- way, both he and 
you go too far against Pope's ' So when the moon,' 
(fee. ; it is no translation, I know ; but it is not such 
false description as asserted. I have read it* on the 
spot ; there is a burst, and a lightness, and a glow 
about the night in the Troad, which makes the 
'planets vivid,' and the 'pole glaring.' The moon 
is, at least the sky is, clearness itself and I know 
no more appropriate expression for the expan- 
sion of such a heaven — o'er the scene- the plain 
the sea — the sky — Ida — the Hellespont — Simois- 
Scamander — and the Isles — than that of a * flood of 
glory.' I am getting horribly lengthy, and must 
stop : to the whole of your letter 1 say ' ditto to 
Mr. Burke,' as the Bristol candidate cried, by way 
of electioneering harangue. You need not speak of 
morbid feelings and vexations to me ; I have plen- 
ty ; but I must blame partly the times, and chiefly 
myself : but let us forget them. / shall be very apt 
to do so when I see you next. Will you come to 
the theatre and see our new management ? You 
shall cut it up to your heart's content, root and 
branch, afterwards, if you like, but come and see it ! 
If not, I must come and see you. 

" Ever yours, very truly and aflfectionately, 

" Byron. 
"P. S. Not a word from Moore for these two 
months. Pray let me have the rest of Rimini. You 
have two excellent points in that poem — originality 
and Italianism. I will back you as a bard against 
half the fellows on whom you have thrown away 
much good criticism and eulogy ; but don't let your 
bookseller publish in quarto — it is the worst size pos- 
sible for circulation. I say this on bibliopolical 
authority. " Again, yours ever, 

"B." 



LETTER CCLXXXI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



■■•■ Terrace, PiccadUly, Oct. 31, 1815, 

• 1 have not been able to ascertain precisely the 
tnne of duration of the stock market ; but I believe 
it is a good time for selling out, and I hope so. 
First, because I shall see you ; and, next, because I 
shall receive certain moneys on behalf of Lady B., 
the which will materially conduce to my comfort, — 
I wanting (as the duns say) ' to make up a sum.' 

•' Yesterday I dined out with a largcish party, 
wlierc were Sheridan and Colman, Hurry Harris of 
C. (i., and his brother. Sir Gilbert Ileathcote, Ds. 
Kinnaird, and others of note and notoriety, tike 
other parties of the kind, it was first silent, then 
klky, then argumentative, then disputatious, then 
unintelligible, then altogethery, then inarticulate, 
and then drunk. When we had reached the last 
step of this glorious ladder, it was difticult to get 
down again without stumbling; — and, to croA\n all, 
Kinnaird and I had to conduct Sheridan down a 
d — d corkscrew staircase, which had certainly been 
constructed before the discovery of fermented 
liquors, and to which no legs, however crooked, 
could possibly accommodate themselves. We de- 
posilccl him safe at home, where his man, evidently 
used to the busincsu, waited to receive him in the 
hall 

105 



" Both he and Colman were, as usual, very good ; 
but I carried away much wine, and the wine had 
previously carried away my memory ; so that all 
was hiccup and happiness for the last hour or so, 
and I am not impregnated with any of the conver 
sation. Perhaps you heard of a late answer of 
Sheridan to the watchman, who f jund him bereft of 
that ' divine particle of air,' caLed reason, — * * 
* * * *. He, the watchman, found Sherry in 
the street, fuddled and bewildered, and almost in 
sensible. 'Who are yoic, sir?'-r-no answer. 
' What's your name } ' — a hiccup. ' What's youi 
name ? ' — Answer, in a slow, deliberate, and impas- 
sive tone, — ' Wilberforce ! ! ! ' Is not that Sherry 
all over i" — and to my mind excellent. Poor fellow ! 
his very dregs are better than the ' first sprightly 
runnings ' of others. 

" My paper is full, and I have a grievous head- 
ache. 

" P. S. Lady B. i^ in full progress. Next month 
will bring to light (with the aid of ' Juno Lucina, 
fer opem,' or rather opes, for the last are most 
wanted) the tenth wonder of the world ; Gil Bias 
being the eighth, and he (my son's father) the 
ninth." 



LETTER CCLXXXII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Not. 4, 1815. 

"Had you not bewildered my head with the 
' stocks,* vour letter would have been answered 
directly. Hadn't I to go to the city } and hadn't I 
to remember what to ask when I got there i and 
hadn't I forgotten it ? 

" I should be undoubtedly delighted to see you; 
but I don't like to urge against your reasons my 
own inclinations. Come you must soon, for stay 
you won't. I know you of old" ; — you have been too 
much teavened with London to keep long out of it. 

"Lewis is going to Jamaica to suck his sugar 
canes. He sails in two days ; I enclose you his 
farewell note. I saw him last night at D. L. T., for 
the last time previous to his voyage. Poor fellow ! 
he is really a good man — an excellent man — he left 
me his walking-stick, and a pot of preserved ginger. 
I shall never eat the last without tears in my eyes, 
it is so hot. We have had a devil of a row among 
our ballarinas : Miss Smith has been Avronged about 
a hornpipe. The committee have interfered ; but 
Byrne, the d — d ballet-master, won't budge a step. 
/ am furious, so is George Lambe. Kinnaird is very 
glad, because — he don't know why ; and I am very 
sorry, for the same reason. To-dav I dine with Ka. 
— we are to have Sheridan and Colman again ; and 
to-morrow, once more at Sir Gilbert Heathcote's. 
« • « « « 

" Leigh Hunt has wTittcn a real pood and very 
original poem, wliich I tliink will bo a great hit. 
You can have no notion how very well it is written, 
nor should I, had I not redde it. As to u Tom— 
eh, when art thou out? If you think tl verses 
worth it, I would rather they were embalms .u the 
Irish Melodies, than scattered abroad in a separate 
song ; much rather. Biit when are thy great thingg 
out ? I mean the Po of Pos ; thy Shah Nanu-n. 
It is very kind in Jeffrey to like the Hebrew Melo- 
dies. Some of the fellows here preferred Sternhold 
and Hopkins, and said so ; — ' the fiend receive their 
soijls therefor ! ' 

' I must go and drcsa for dinner. Poor, dear 
Murat, — what an end! You know, I suppose, 
that his white plume used to be a rallving point is 
battle,* like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a 
cmfessor and a l)andage;,so would neither iiutr«r 
soul or l/ody to be bandaged. You sliall haT« 
more to-morrow or next Jay. " Ever, Ac." 



834 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCLXXXIII 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

Nov. i, i615. 

" WTien you have been enabled to fon i an opinion 
on Mr. Coleridge's MS., you -vrill oblige me by re- 
turning it, as, in fact, I have no authority to let it 
out of my hands. I think most highly of it, and 
feel anxious that you should be the publisher ; but 
if y ■; a are not, I do riot despair of finding those vrho 
will. 

' Z hare written to Leigh Hunt, stating your wil- 
lingness to treat with him, which, when I saw you, 
I understood you to be. Terms and time I leave to 
ftiS pleasure and your discernment ; but this I will 
say, that I think "it the safest thing you ever en- 
gaged in. I speak to yoii as a man of business ; 
vfeie I to talk to you as a reader or a critic, I should 
say, it was a very wonderful and beautiful perform- 
ance, with just enough of fault to make its beauties 
more remarked and remarkable. 

"And now to the last: my own, which I feel 
ashamed of after the others : — publish or not, as you 
like, I don't care one da/nn. If yoti don't, no one., 
else shall, and I never thought or dreamed of it, 
except as one in the collection. If it is worth being 
in the fourth volume, put it there and nowhere else ; 
and if not, put it in the fixe. " Yours, 



LETTER CCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Nov. 14, 1815. 

" I return you your bills not accepted, but cer- 
tainly not unhonored. Your present offer is a favor 
which I would accept from you, if I accepted such 
from any man. Had such been my intention, I can 
assure you I would have asked you fairly, and as 
freely as you Avould give ; and I cannot say naore of 
my confidence or your conduct. 

" The circumstances which induce me to part 
with my books,* though sufficiently, are not imme- 
diately, pressing. I have made up my mind to 
them, and there's an end. 

" Had I been disposed to trespass on your 
kindness in this way, it would have been before 
now ; but I am not sorry to have an opportunity of 
declining it, as it sets my opinion of you, and indeed 
of human nature, in a different light from that in 
which I have been accustomed to consider it. 

* Believe me very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCLXXXV. 



TO MR. MURRAY 



have any, from you or yours, the suppression oo 
curred (1 am as sure as I can be of any tning") in 
the manner stated : I have never regretted that, 
but very often the composition, that is, the humml 
of a great deal in it. As to the quotation you 
allude to, I have no right, nor indeed desire, ta 
prevent it ; but, on the contrary, in common with 
aU other writers, I do and ought to take it as a com- 
pliment. 

" The paper on the Methodists I redde, and 
agree with the writer on one point, in which you and 
he perhaps difi'er ; that an addiction to poetry is 
very generally the result of ' an uneasy mind in an 
uneasy body;' disease cr deformity have been the 
attendants of many of our best. Collins mad— ; 
Chatterton, 1 think, mad — Cowper mad — Pope 
crooked — Milton blind — Gray (I have heard that the i 
last was afflicted by an incurable and very griev- 
ous distemper, though not generally known), and 
others — I have somewhere read, however, that poets 
rarely go mad. I suppose the wi'iter means that , 
then- insanity effervesces and evaporates in verse-- / 
may be so. -^y 

"I have not had time to attack your system^ 
which ought to be done, were it only because it is a 
system. So, by-and-by, have at you. 

" Yours ever, 

** Byron." 

" Of ' Rimini,' Sir Henry Englefield, a mighty 
man in the blue circles, and a very clever man any 
where, sent to Murray, in terms of the highest 
eulogy ; and with regard to the common reader, my 
rister and cousin (who are now all my family, and 
the last since gone away to be married) were in 
fixed perusal and delight with it, and they are ' not 
critical,' but fair, natural, unaffected, and under- 
standing persons. Frere, and all the arch-literati, 
I hear, are also unanimous in a high opinion of the 
poem." 



LETTER CCLXXXVL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



Die. 25, 1815. 

time ago. 



*' I send some unes, written some 
and Intended as an opening to the ' Siege of Cor- 
inth.' I had forgotten them, and am not sure that 
they had not better be left out now : on that, you I 
Mid your synod can determine.+ '' Yours, &c." 



PBAGHiiliTS OP LETTERS WRITTEN ABOUT THIS 
TIME TO MR. HUNT. 

" With regard to the English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers, I have no concealments, nor desire to 



In conieqiience of hU pecuniary en..<arra»sinenw at this time, he bad ex- 
, an lntenlio« of partinfr with (jii books. On hearing this, Mr. Murray 
tetantly fcrwanled him 1500!., with an assuranc*- that another lum of the 
wme amount shrald be ft his lervice in a few weeks, and that if luch asaist- 
vce itiould not be sufficient, Mr Murray was most ready to dispose of the 
wffngiitM of all ).'• past works f»4 his use. 
• fc« Foema, f 969. 



» Jan. 5, 1816. 

" I hope Mrs. M. is quite reestablished. The 
little girl was born On the 10th of December last : 
her name is Augusta Ada, (the second a very 
antique family name, — I believe not used since the 
reign of King John.) She was, and is, very 
flourishing and fat, and reckoned verj' large for hei 
days — squalls and sucks incessantly. Are you 
answered ? Her mother is doing very well, and up 
again. 

"I have now been married a year on the second 
of this month — heigh-ho ! I have seen nobody 
lately much worth noting, except S * * and another 
general of the Gauls, once or twice at dinner out 
of doors. S * * is a fine, foreign, villainous-look- 
ing, intelligent, and very agreeable man ; his com- 
patriot is more of the petit-maitre, and younger^ 
but I should think not at all of the same inter ectua]' 
calibre with the Corsican — which S * ♦ ycu know, 
is, and a cousin of Napoleon's. 

"Are you never to be expected in iovm agam ? 
To be sure, there is no one here of the fifteen hun- 
dred fillers of hot rooms, called the fashionable 
world. My approachilig papa-ship detained us for 
advice, &c., &c., — though I would as soon be here 
as any where else on this side of the straits oi 
Gibraltar. 

" I would gladly — or, rather, sorrowfully — comply 
with your request of a dirge for the poor girl yoi 
mention.* But how can I write on one I have nevei 
seen or known ? Besides, you will do much bette? 



* 1 had mentioued to him, as a subject worthy ef his best powen of patbo*, 
a melancholy event which bad Just uccurred in my nei^liborhood, «di1 tt 
which I have myself made allusion ii one of \i^ Saend Kaktiis*. - " Weev 
not for her."— ^'*»«»'*- 



LETTEIIS. 



835 



LETTER CCLXXXVIl. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Jan. 29, 1816. 

" Dear Hunt, 

" I return your extract with thanks for the peru 
sal, and hope you are by this time on the verge of 
publication. My pencil-marks on the margin of 
your former manuscripts I never thought worth the 
trouble of deciphering, but I had no such meaning 
as you imagine for their being withheld from Mur- 
ray, from whom I differ entirely as to the terms of 
do I think you asked a piastre I 



which have struck me from a q. arter whence I did 
not indeed expect them. But no matter, ' tl ere 
is a world elsewhere,' and I will cut my way throiigli 
this as I can. 

" If you write to Moore, will you tell him th; 1 1 
shall answer his letter the moment I can mustor 
time and spirits ? '* Ever yours, 



yourself. I cou'.i not write upon any thine, with- 
out some personal experience and foundation ; far 

less on a theme so peculiar. Now, you hare both 

in this case ; and, if you had neither, you have 

mote imagination, and would never fail. 

" This is but a dull sctawl, and I am but a dull 

■fellow. Just at present, I am absorbed in five 

hundred contradictory contemplations, though with 

but one object in view — which will probably end in 

nothing, as most things we wish do. But never 

mind — as somebody says, ' for the blue sky bends 

over all.' I only could be glad, if it bent over me LETTER CCLXilXIX. 

where it is a little bluer ; like the ' skyish top of 

blue Olympus,' which, by-the-way, looked very TO MR. moore. 

white when I last saw it. '• Ever, &c." "Feb. 29, 18I8. 

"I have not answered your letter for a time, 
and, at present, the replj' to part of it might 
extend to such a length, that I shall delay it till it 
can be made in person, and then I mil shorten it ag 
much as I can. 

"In the mean time, I am at war 'with all the 
world and his wife ; ' or rather, ' all the world and 
(niy wife^^jffie at war with me, and have not yet 
cfusReJ me, whatever they may do. I don't know 
that in the course of a hair-breadth existence J was 
ever, at home or abroad, in a situation so com- 
pletely uprooting of present pleasure, or rational 
iiope for the future, as this same. I say this, 
because I think so, .and feci it. But I sliall not 
sink under it the more for that mode of considering 
the question. >have made up my mind. 

your agreement ; nor do i think you asked a piastre " By-the-way, however, you must not believe all 

too much for the poem. However, I doubt not he i you hear on_ the subject; and don't attempt to 



will deal fairly by you on the whole ; he is really a 
very good felloAv, and his faults are merely the 
leaven of his ' trade ' — ' the trade ! ' the slave-trade 
of many an unlucky writer. 

'• The said Murray and I are just at present in no 
good humor with each other ; but ho is not the 
worse for that : I feel sure that he Avill give your 
work as fair or a fairer chance in every way than* 
your late publishers ; and what he can't do for it, 
it will do for itself. 

" Continual business and occasional indisposition 
have been the causes of iny negligence (for I deny 
jif^glect) in not writing to you immediately. These 
'are excuses ; I wish they may be more satisfactory 
to you than they are to me. I opened my eyes 



defend me. If you succeeded in that, it would be a 
mortal, or an immortal, offence — who can ':ea, 
reftitation ? I have but a very short answer for 
those whom it concerns ; and all the activity of 
myself and some vigorous friends have not yet fix^d 
on any tangible ground or personage, on which or 
with whom I can discuss matters, in a summary 
way, with a fair pretext, though I nearly had nailed 
one yesterday, but he evaded by — what Avas judged 
by others — a satisfactory explanation. I speak of 
circulators — against whom I have no enmity, though 
I must act according to the common code of usage 
when I hit upon those of \)\e serious order. 

*' Now for other matters — Poesy, for instance. 
Leigh Hunt's poem is a devilish good one — quaint, 



yesterday morning on your compliment of Sunday, i here and there, but with the substratum of ongi 
If you knew what a hopeless and lethargic den ofinality, and with po«try about it that will stand the 
dulness and drawling our hospital is during a | test. I do not say this because he has niM-nbed it 
debate ; and what a mass of corruption in its ; to me, which I am sorry for, as I Should otherwise 
patients, you would wonder, not that I very seldom ' have begged you to review it in the Kdiiiburgh. It 
speak, but that I ever attempted it, feeling, as I is really deserving of much praise 
trust I do, independently. However, when a proper critique in 



I laugh 



forefathers were of the other side of the question | myself— or where— or what 

in Charles' days, and tlie fruit of it was a title and I ago. some tlungs to say, that would 

the loss of an enormous property 

" If the old struggle conies on, I may lose the 
>ne, and shall never regain the other, but no mat- 
ter ; there are things, even in this world, better 
than either. " Vcrv truly, ever yours, 

"B." 



LETTER CCLXXXVIII. 



to MK. KOOKUH. 

" F>b. 8, 1818. 

Uo not mistake me — I renllv returned vour 
jock for the reason assigned, and no other. It is 
too good for so careless a follow. I hav 



and a favorabln 
the E. R. would but do it justice, and 



spirit is manifested 'without doors,' 1 will endeavor , set it up before the public eye where it ought to be. 
not to be idle within. Do you think such a time is " How are you ? and where > I have not the most 
coming ? Methinks there are gleams of it. My distant idea what I am going to do myself, or with 



had, a few weeks 
have made you 
but they tell me now that 1 must n(>t laugh, 
and so I have been very serious — and am. 

"I have not been very well — with a lictT com- 
plaint — i)ut am much better within the lust fort 
night, though still under latrical advice. I havk 
latterly seen a little of • • • • • 

" I liiust go and dress to dine. My little girl il 
in the o«)untry, and, thev toll me, is n very fine 
child, and now nearly three months old. Lady 
Noel (my mother-in-law, ur rath<r, at law) is at 

fjresent overlooking it. Her daughter (Miss Mil- 
»anke thiit was) is, I believe, in London with her 
father. A Mrs. Charlmont,* (now a kind of house 
keeper and spy of Lady N.'s,) who, in \\vx bctte» 
days, was a washerwoman, is supposed to bo- ">y 
artcd! the learned— very much the oceu t cause of our lat* 



with all my own books, and positively w^on't dejjrive' domestic discrei>ancies. 
YOU of so valuable ' a drop of that inimortal man.' I " In all this business; I am the sorriest for Sii 
«'I shall be very glad to see you, if you like to. Ralph. He and I are equally punished, thougf 

CiU, though I am at present contending with 'thel 

glinffH aad arrows of '>utragoous fortune,' some of • sw Po»hi«. i>. a«x 



V> 



886 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ma(/ts pares quern, similes in our affliction. Yet it is 
hard for both to suffer for the fault of one, and so 
It is — I shall be separated from my wife ; he will 
retain his. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCXC. 

TO MR. HUNT. 

" Feb. 26, 1816. 

"Dear Hunt, 

♦* Your letter would have been answered before, 
had I not thought it probable that, as you were in 
town for a day or so, I should have seen you ; — 1 
don't mean this as a hint at reproach for not call- 
ing, but merely that of course I should have been 
very glad if you had called in your way, home or 
abroad, as I always would have been, and always 
shall be. With regard to the circumstances to which 
you allude, there is no reason why you should not 
speak openly to me on a subject already sufficiently 
rife in the m^ ^ths and minds of what is called ' the 
world.' Of ti.e ' fifty reports,' it follows that forty- 
nine must have more or less exaggeration ; but I 
, am sorry to say, that on the main and essential 
point of an intended, and, it may be, an inevitable 
* separation, I can contradict none. At present I 
shall say no more, but this is not from want of con- 
fidence ; in the mean time I shall merely request a 
suspension of opinion. Your prefatory letter to 
''Rimini' I accepted as .^c was meant, as a public 
compliment and a private kindness. I am only 
sorry that it may perhaps operate against you as an 
inducement, and, with some, a pretext for attack 
on the part of the political and personal enemieS*of 
both ; not that this can be of much consequence, 
for in the end the work must be judged by its 
merits, and, in that respect, you are well armed. 
Mun-ay tells me it is going on well, and, you may 
depend upon it, there is a substratum of poetry, 
which is a foundation for solid and durable fame. 
The objections (if there be objections, for this is a 
presumption, and -aot an assumption) will be merely 
as to the mechanical part, and such, as I stated 
before, the usual consequences of either novelty or 
revival. I desired Murray to forward to you a 
pamphlet with two things of mine in it, the most 
part of both of them, and of one in particular, 
written before others of my composing, which have 
preceded them in publication ; they are neither of 
them of much pretension, nor intended for it. You 
will perhaps wonder at my dwelling so much and so 
frequently on former subjects and scenes ; but the 
fact is, that I found them fading fast from my 
memorv' ; and I was, at the same time, so partial to 
their place, (and events connected with it,) that I 
have stamped them while I could, in such colors as 
I could trust to now, but might have confused and 
misplaced hereafter, had I longer delayed the 
attempted delineation." 



LETTER CCXCI. 

TO MR. MOORE, 

" March %, iSW. 

" I rejoice in your promotion as Chairman and 
Charitable Steward, &c., &c. These be dignities 
which await only the virtuous. But then, recollect, 
you are six-and-thirty, (I speak this enviously — not 
of your age, but the ' honor — love — obedience- 
troops of friends,' which accompany it,) and I have 
eight years good to run before I an-ive at sueh 
hoary perfection ; by which time, — if I am at all, — 
It will probably be in a state of grace or progressing 
msrits. 

" I Tirst set you right in one point, however. 
T\kf fault was not— no, nor even the misfortune,— 



in my * choice ' (unless in choosing at all) — for I dc 
not believe, and I must say it, in the very dregs ol 
all this bitter business, that there ever was a better 
or even a brighter, a kinder, or a more amiable and 
agreeable being than Lady B. I never had, nor car 
have, any reproach to make her, while with me. 
Where there is blame, it belongs to myself; and, il 
I cannot redeem, I must bear it. 

"Her nearest relatives are a * * * — ^my circum- 
stances have been and are in a state of great con- 
fusion — ^my health has been a good deal disordered, 
and my mind ill at ease for a considerable period. 
Such are the causes (I do not name them as excuses) 
which have frequently driven me into excess, and 
disqualified my temper for comfort. Something 
also may be attributed to the strange and desultory 
habits which, becoming my own master at an early 
age, and scrambling about, over and through the 
world, may have induced. I still, however, think 
that, if I had had a fair chance, by being placed in 
even a tolerable situation, I might have gone on 
fairly. But that seems hopeless, and there is noth- 
ing more to be said. At present — except my health, 
which is better (it is odd, but agitation or contest of 
any kind gives a rebound to my spirits and sets me 
up for the time) — I have to battle with all kinds of 
unpleasantnesses, including private and pecuniary 
difficulties, &c., &c. 

" I believe I may have said this before to you,— 
but I risk repeating it. It is nothing to bear the 
2yrivations of adversity, or, more properly, ill for- 
tune ; but my pride recoils from its indignities. 
However, I have no quarrel %vith th^t same pride, 
which will, I think, buckler me tii.'ough every 
thing. If my heart could have been broken, it 
would have been so years ago, and by events more 
afflicting than these. 

•' I agree with you (to turn from this topic to our 
shop) that I have written too much. The last 
things were, however, published very reluctantly by 
me, and for reasons I will explain when me meet. 
I know not why I have dwelt so much on the same 
scenes, except that I find them fading, or confusing 
(if such a word may be) in my mem-ory, in the 
midst of present turbulence and pressure, and I felt 
anxious to stamp before the die was worn out. 1 
now break it. With those countries, and event? 
connected with them, all my really poetical feelings 
begin and end. Were I to try, I could make noth 
ing of any other subject, and that I have apparently 
exhausted. ' Wo to him,' says Voltaire, ' who sayi 
all he could say on any subject!' There are some 
on which, perhaps, I could have said still more; 
but I leave them all, and not too soon. 

' Do you remember the lines I sent you early last 
year, which you still have ? I don't wish (like Mr. 
Fitzgerald, in the Morning Post) to claim the char- 
acter of ' Vates ' in all its translations ; but were 
they not a little prophetic ? I mean those begin- 
ning 'There's not a joy the world can,'* &c., sc., 
on which I rather pique myself as being the truest, 
though the most melancholy, I ever wrote. 

' What a scrawl have I sent you ! You say noth 
ing of yourself, except that you are a Lancasterian 
churchwarden, and an encourager of mendicants. 
When are you out ? and how is your family ? My 
child is very well and flourishing, I hear; but 1 
must see also, I feel no disposition to resign it to 
the contagion of its grandmother's society, though 
I am unwilling to take it from the mother's. It ia 
weaned, however, and something about it must be 
decided. " Ever, &c." 



[The letter that follows was in answer to one 
received from Mr, Murray, in which he had enclosed 
him a draft for a thousand guineas for the copy 
right of his two poems, the Siege of Corinth and 
Parisina.] 



SMlNNm,9.MB 



LETTERS. 



837 



LETTER CCXCII. 



1/ 

J/ 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Jan. 2, 1816. 

'' Your offer is liberal in the extreme, (you see I 
Mne the word to you and of you, though I would not 
tonsent to your using it of yourself to Mr. ****,) 
and much more than the two poems can possibly be 
ivorth ; but I cannot accept it, nor will not. You 
are most welcome to them as additions to the col- 
lected volumes, without any demand or expectation 
on my part whatever. But I cannot consent to 
their separate publication. I do not like to risk 
any fame (whether merited or not) which I have 
been favored with, upon compositions which I do 
aot feel to be at all equal to my own notions of 
what they should be, (and as I flatter myself some 
have been, here and there,) though they may do 
very well as things without pretension, to add to 
the publication with the lighter pieces. 

" I am very glad that the handwriting was a fa- 
vorable omen of the morale of the piece : but you 
must not trust to that, for my copyist would write 
out any thing I desired in all the ignorance of inno 
cence — I hope, however, in this instance, with no 
great peril to either. 

" P. S. I have enclosed your draft torn, for fear 
of accidents by the way — I wish you would not 
throw temptation in mine. It is not from a disdain 
of the universal idol, not from a present superfluity' 
of his treasures, I can assure you, that I refuse to 
worship him ; but what is right is right, and must 
Dot yield to circumstances." 



LETTER CCXCIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" Feb. 30, 1816. 

" I wrote to you hastily this morning by Murray, 
to say that I was glad to do as Mackintosh and you 
suggested about Mr.. * *. It occurs to me now, 
that as I have never seen Mr. * * but once, and 
consequently have no claim to his acquaintance, 
that you or Sir J. had better arrange it with him in 
such a manner as may be least offensive to his 
feelings, and so as not to have th^ appearance of 
officiousness nor obtrusion on my part. I hope you 
will be able to do this, as I should be very sorry to 
d(^ any thin£^ by kirn that may be deemed indelicate. 
The sum Murray offered and offers was and is one 
thousand and fifty pounds : this I refused before, 
because I thought it more than the two things were 
worth to Murray, and from other objections, which 
*"' are of no consequence. I have, however, closed 
with M., in consequence of Sir J.'sand your sug- 
gestion, and propose the sum of six himdred pounds 
to be transferred to Mr. * * in such manner as may 
seem best to your friend, — the remainder I think of 
for other purposes. 

" As Murray has offered the money down for the 
copyrights, it may be done directly. I am ready to 
ligil and seal immediately, and perhaps it had bcittcr 
not be delayed. I shall" feel very glad if it can be 
of any use to * *;^. only don't let him be nlagvied, 
bor think hiijiself oblTged and all that, whicii makca 
■yctsple hate one another, &c. 

•' Yours, very truly. 
"B." 



LETTER CCXCIV. 

TO MR. MUHKA.Y. 

•• Feb. S3, IRIS. 

' When the sum offered by vou, and oven pressed 
oy you, wa* d(!clined, it was with rcf«M('nco to a s(>])- 
arute publ sation, as j iu kn' w and I know. That 



it was large, I admitted and admit ; and that made 
part of my consideration in refusing it, till I knew 
better what you were likely to make of it. With 
regard to what is past, or is to pass, about Mr. * «, 
the case is in no respect different from the transfer 
of former copyrights to Mr. Dallas. Had I taken 
you at your word, that is, taken your money, I 
might have used it as I pleased ; and it could be in ■ 
no respect different to you whether I paid it to a 
w — , or a hospital, or assisted a man of talent in 
distress. The truth of the matter seems this : ypa 
offered more than the poems are worth. I said bo, 
and I think so ; but you know, or at least oughl to 
know, your o\vn business best ; and when you recol* 
lect what passed between you and me upon pecu- 
niary subjects before this occurred, you will acquit 
me of any wish to take advantage of your impru- 
dence. 

" The things in question shall not be published a*' 
all, and there is an end of the matter. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCXCV 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" March 6, 18ltt. 
« « « « « 

** I sent to you to-day for this reason — the books 
you purchased are again seized, and, as matters 
stand, had much better be sold at once by public 
auction. I wish to see you, to return your bill for 
them ; which, thank God, is neither due nor paid. 
That part, as far as you are concerned, being set- 
tled, (which it can be, and shall be, when I see you 
to-inorsow,) I have no further delicacy about the 
matter. This is about the tenth execution in aa 
many months ; so I am pretty well hardened ; but 
it is fit I should pay the forfeit of my forefather's 
extravagance and my own ; and whatever my faults- 
may be, I suppose they will be pretty well explained 
in time — or eternity. " Ever, &c. 

"P. S. I need hardly say that I knew nothing 
till this day of the new seizure. I had released 
them from former ones, and thought, when you 
took them, that they were yours. 

" You shall have your bill again to-morrow " 



LETTER CCXCVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

'< Feb. 3, 1816. 

"I sent for 'Marmion,' which I leturn, because 
it occun-ed to me, there might be a resemblance 
between part of ' Pariaina ' and a similar scone in 
canto II. of ' Marmion.' I fear there is, though I 
never thoTii>ht of it befori*, and could havdly wi ih to 
imitate that whicli is ijiimitaMe. I wish you woi:M 
ask Mr. Gifford whether I ouglit to say any thing 
u|)on it; — I had completed the story on the pa.ssRge 
from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like scene 
naturally, without a thonglit of the kind: but it 
comes upon me not very comfortably. 

•'There are a few words and plirases I wunt t© 
alter in the MS., and should like to do it before yott 
print, and will return it in an hour. 

♦• Yours ever. 



LETTER CCXCVIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



'• To return to our businesB — your epistles nif 
astly agrueublo. With rexard to the obttervatijBk 



6'd6 



UYRQN'S WORKS. 



on cirelessness, &c., I think, with all humilitj', 
that the gentle leadei* has considered a rather un- 
coramon, and designedly irregular, versification for 
haste and negligence. The measure is not that of 
any of the other poems, which (I believe) were 
allowed to be tolerably correct, according to Bysshe 
md the fingers — or ears — by which bards write, aaid 
readers reckon. Great part of the ' Siege ' is in 
(1 think) what the learned called Anapests, (though 
I am not sure, being heinously forgetful of my 
metres and my 'Gradus,') and many of the lines 
intentionally longer or shorter than its rhyming 
companion ; and rhyme also occurring at greater or 
less intervals of caprice or convenience. 

" I mean not to say that this is right or good, but 
OF erely that I could have been smoother, had it 
appeared to nie of advantage ; and that I was not 
otherwise without being aware of the deviation, 
though I now feel sorry for it, as I would undoubt- 
edly rather please than not. My wish has been to 
try at something difi'erent from my former efforts ; 
as I endeavored to make them differ from each 
other. The versification of the ' Corsair ' is not 
that of ' Lara ; ' nor the ' Giaour ' that of the 
* Bride ; ' ' Childe Harold ' is again varied from 
these ; and I strove to vary the last somewhat 
from all of the others. 

- " Excuse all this d d nonsense and egotism. 

The fact is, that I am rather trying to think on the 
subject of this note, than really thinking on it. — I 
did not know you had called : you are always ad- 
mitted and welcome when you choose. 

"Yours, &c., &c. 

" P. S. You need not be in any apprehension or 
grief on my account : were I to be beaten down by 
the world and its inheritors, I should have suc- 
cumbed to many things years ago. You must not 
mistake my not bullying for dejection ; nor imagine 
that because I feel, I am too faint : — but CHOugh for 
the present. 

** I am son-y for Sotheby's row. What the devil 
is it about ? I thought it all settled ; and if I can 
do any thing about him or Ivan still, I am ready 
ind willing. I do not think it proper for me just 
now to be much behind the scenes, but I will see 
the committee and move upon it, if Sotheby likes. 

" If you see Mr. Sotheby, will you tell him that I 
iV)-ote to Mr. Coleridge, on getting Mr. Sotheby's 
note, and have, I hope, done what Mr. S. wished on 
that subject ? " 



LETTER CCXCVIIL 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" March 25, 1816. 

*' You are one of the few persons with whom I 
haye lived in what is caUed intimacy, and have 
heard me at times conversing on the untoward 
topic of my recent family disquietudes. Will you 
have the goodness to say to me at once, whether 
you ever heard me speak of her with disrespect, 
with unkindness, or defending myself at her ex- 
pense by any serious imputation of any description 
againsi he?-) Did you never hear me say, 'that 
»;hen there was a right or a wrong, she had the 
riffht f — The reason I put these questions to you or 
others of my friends is, because I am said, "by her 
%nd hers, to have resorted to such means of excul- 
pation, " Ever very truly yours, 

«'B." 



in my boat round the lake ; and I enclose you a 
sprig of Gibbon's acacia and some rose leaves from 
his garden, which, with part of his house, I hav« 
just seen. You will find honorable mention, in hia 
Life, made of this ' acacia,' when he walked out on 
the night of concluding his history. The garden ' 
and summer-house, where he composed, are ne- 
glected, and the last utterly decayed ; but they stiV. 
show it as his ' cabinet,' and seem perfectly awark 
of his memory. 

" My route, through Flanders, and by the Rhine, 
to Switzerland, was all I e;:pected and more. 

'•I have traversed all Rousseau's ground, with 
the Heloise before me, and am struck^ to a degrea 
that I cannot express with the force and accuracy 
of his descriptions, and the beauty of their reality. 
Meillerie, Clarens, and Vevay, and the Chateau ae - 
Chillon, are places of which I shall say little, beV 
caTise all I could say must fall short of the impresi^,y 
sions they stamp.* 

" Three days ago, we were nearly vrrecked in \ 
squall off Meillerie, and driven to shore. I ran m 
risk, being so near the rocks, and a good swimmer ; 
but our party were wet, and incommoded a good 
deal. The wind was strong enough to blow down 
some trees, as we feund at landing ; however, all ia 
righted and right, and we are thus far on our return. 

" Dr. Polidori is not here, but at Diodati, left 
behind in the hospital with a sprained ankle, which 
he acquired in tumbling from a wall — he can't jump. 

" I shall be glad to hear you are well, and have 
received for me certain helms and swords, sent from, 
Waterloo which I rode over with pain and pleasure. 5, 

" I have finished a third canto of Childe Harold, 
(consisting of one hundred and seventeen stanzas,) 
longer than either of the two former, and in some 
parts, it may be, better ; but of course on that I 
cannot determine. I shall send it by the first safe- 
looking opportunity. "Ever, &c.'' 



LETTER CCC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Diodati, near Geneva, July 22, 1816. 

'• I wrote to you a few weeks ago, and Dr. Pol'- 
dori received your letter ; but the packet has not 
made its appearance, nor the epistle, of which you 
gave notice therein. I enclose you an advertise- 
ment, f which was copied by Dr. Polidori, cuad 
which appears to be about the most impudent 
imposition that ever issued from Grub street. I 
need hardly say that I know nothing of all thia 
trash, nor whence it may spring, — 'Odes to St. He- 
lena,' * Farewells to England,' &c., &c., — and if it 
can be disavowed, or is worth disavowing, you have 
full authority to do so. I never ^^T0te nor conceived 
a line on any thing of the kind, any mwre than of two 
other things with which -I was saddled — something 
about ' Gaul,' and another about ' Mrs. La Valette ; ' 
and as to the ' Lily of France,' I should as soon think 
of celebrating a turnip. ' On the morning of my 
daughter's birth,* I tad other things to think of 
than verses ; and should never have dieamed of 
such an invention, till Mr. Johnston and his pamph- 
let's advertisement broke in upon me with a new 
light on the crafts and subtleties of the demon of 
printing, — or rather publishing. 

" I did hope that some succeeding lie would have 
superseded the thousand and one which were accu- 



LETTER CCXCIX 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ouchy, near Lauaanne, June 27, 1816. 

♦* I am thus far (kept by stress of weather) on my 
xw back to Diodati, (near Geneva,) from a voyage 



• See notes to cinto iii. of Childe Harold. 

t The following was the advortisement enclosed: — 

" Neatly primed and hot-preseeil, 'li. Gd. 

" Lord Bycon's Farewell to England, with three other poeina ' Ode jo SC 

Helena, To my Daughter on her Birthday, and To the Lily ot Smaoe. 

" Printed by J. Johnston, CheapsiUe, 335 ; Oxford, 9. 
"The above beautiful poems will be read with the most lively intereat, d 
it ii probable they will be the luat of the author's thai will appeur 'n £ji<f 
land."— (They were written by a Mr. John Ag£.) 



LETTERS. 



S'3\i 



lBnlate<l during last wriiter. I can forgive whatever 
may ha said of oi against me, but not what they 
make roe say or sing for myself. It is enough to 
answer for what I have written ; but it were too 
much for Job himself to bear what one has not. I 
suspect that when the Arab patriarch wished that 
his ' enemy had written a book,' he did not antici- 
pate his own name on the title-page. I feel quite 
hs much bored with this foolery as it deserves, and 
more than I should be if I had not a headache. 

" Of Glenarvon,* Madame de Stai^l told me (ton 
days ago at Copet) marvellous and grievous things ; 
but I have seen nothing of it but the motto, which 
promises amiably ' for us and for our ta-agedy.' If 
such be the posy, what should the ring be ? — ' a 
name to all succeeding, 'f &c. The generous mo- 
ment selected for the publication is probably its 
kindest accompaniment, and — truth to say — the 
time was well chosen. I have not even a guess at 
the contents, except from the very vague accounts 
[ have heard. 

****** 

** I ought to be ashamed of the egotism of this 
ktter. It is not my fault altogether, and I shall be 
but totf) happy to drop the subject, when others will 
allow me. 

" I am in tolerable plight, and in my last letter 
told you what I had done in the way of all rhyme. 
_[ trust that you prosper, and that your authors are 
in good condition. I should suppose your stud has 
received some iucreace by what I hear. Bertram! 
must be a good horse ; does he run next meeting? 
I hope you will beat the Row. 

'* Yours alway, &c." 



LETIER CCCI. 



• TO MB. ROGERS. 

•' Diodiiti, near Geneva, July 29, 1816. 

• Do you recollect a book, Mathieson's Letters, 
which you lent me, which I have still, and yet hope 
to return to your library ? Well, I have encoun- 
tered at Copet and elsewhere Gra^^'s correspondent, 
that same Bonstetten, to whom I lent the transla- 
tion of his correspondent's epistles for a few days ; 
but all he could remember of Gray amounts to lit- 
tle, except that he was the most * melancholy and 
fentlcmanlike ' of all possible poets. Bonstetten 
imself is a fine and very lively old man, and much 
esteemed by his compatriots ; he is also a iittcra- 
teur of good repute, and all his friends have a ma- 
nia of addressing to him volumes of letters — Mathio- 
Bon, MuUer the historian, &c., &c. He is a good 
deal at Copet, where I have met him a few times. 
All there arc well, except llocca, who, I am sorry 
to say, looks in a very bad state of health. Schlcgel 
is in high force, and Madame as brilliant as ever. 

" I came here by the Netherlands and the Rhino 
route, and Basle, Berne, Morat, and Lausanne. 1 
have circumnavigated the Lake, and go to Chamon- 
ni witli the first fair weather; but really we have 
had lately such 8tiij)id u-iats, fogs, and por|)(^tual 
density, tliat one would think Castloreagli had tlio 
foreign affairs of tlje kingdom of Iloavon also on 
his hands. I need say nothing to you of these i)arts, 
you having traversed them already. I do not think 
of Italy before Septeml)or. I have read (ilenarvon, 
and have also seen Ben. Constant's Adolphe, and 
his preface, denying the real people. It is a work 
wliich leaves an unpleasant impression, but very 



* A novel, liy lMi\y Carulinn Laino i Lortl Bjnua, uoder auuthcr niuno, 
fu onn ot iu principnl ctmnicien. 
t Tlw rnofto u— 

" 111 left k nitnm to nil lUCMi-ding tlmna, 
LinkM w'Oi oiM virtue anil > Uiouaunii eitme*." 



consistent with the consequences of not being in 
love, which is perhaps as disagreeable as a ay thing, 
except being so. I doubt, however, whether all such 
He9is (as he calls them) terminate so wretchedly aa 
his hero and heroine's. 

" There is a third canto (a longer than eith',r ol 
the former) of Childe Harold finished, and somt 
smaller things, — among them a story on the Chat- 
eau de Chillon. I only wait a gnod opportunity to 
transmit them to the grctnd MuiTay, who, 1 hope* 
flourishes. Where is Moore } Why is he not out ? 
My love to him, and my perfect consideration and 
remembrances to all, particularly to Lord and Ladj 
Holland, and to your Duchess of Somerset. 

'• Ever, &c. 

" P. S. I send you a fae simile, a note of Bon- 
stetten's, thinking you might like to see the hand o* 
Gray's correspondent." 



LETTER CCCII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Diodati, Sept. 29, 1816 

" I am very much flattered by Mr. Gifford's good 
opinion of the MSS.* and shall be still more so, if 
it answers your expectations and justifies his kind- 
ness. I liked it myself, but that must go for no- 
thing. The feelings with which most of it was wTit- 
ten need not be envied me. With regard to the 
price, / fixed none, but left it to Mr. Kinnaird, Mr. 
Shelley, and yourself, to arrange. Of course, they 
would do their best ; and as to yourself, I knew 
you would make no difficulties. But I agree with 
Mr. Kinnaird perfectly, that the concluding ^/>'i'e 
hundred should be only conditional ; and for my own 
sake, I wish it to be added, only in case of your 
selling a certain number, that number to be fixed by 
yourself. I hope this is fair. In every thing oi 
this kind there must be risk ; and till that be past, 
in one way or the other, I would not >villingly add 
to it, particularly in times like the present. And 
pray always recollect that nothing could mortify me 
more — no failure on my own part — than having 
made you lose by any purchase from me. 

" Tile Monody t was written by request of Mr. 
Kinnaird for the theatre. I did as well as I could ; 
but where I have not my choice, I pretend to an- 
swer for nothing. Mr. Hobhouso and mvstlf arc 
just returned from a journey of lakes and moun- 
tains. We have been to the Grindohvald, and the 
Jungtmu, and stood on the sumiuit of tlic Weuijen 
Alp ; and seen torrents of nine liundred lOft iu fall, 
and glaciers of all 'dimensions ; wo have hoard shep- 
herd's pipes, and avalanches, and looki-d on the 
clouds foaming up from the valleys bolmv us, iike 
the sgray of the ocean of helL^ Chamoimi, and 
that which it inherits, we saw u mouth ago ; b-t, 
tliough Mont Blanc is liiglier, it is not equaa in 
wildness to the Jungfran, the Eighers, the bUrock- 
liorn, and the Rose (ilaoiers. 

" We set off for Italy ne.xt week. The road it 
within this month infested with bandits, l>ut we 
must take our chance and such precauti.ms as iir* 
roqusite. " lOvor, \o 

" P. S. My best romembrunoes to Mr. Gifford 
Pray say all that can be said from me to liim. ^ • 

"1 am sorry that Mr. Maturin did not like Pliil- 
lips' picture. ' I thought it was rookonod a good one 
It ho had made the speech on the iMiginal, porhupi 
he would have been more readily forgiven by tlw 
proprietor and the painter of the portrait." • • 



• CliUiln llurolil, cnntu ill. 

t On llir iltiiUi of Slirriilim, jioriiM, p. I 

I Hm Journal In SwiUerUnd, deuU SU. 



840 



BYRON'S WOEKS. 



LETTER CCCIII. 



TO MB. MURRAY. 



"DiodaU, Sept. 30, 181«. 

'* I answered your obliging letters yesterday : to 
lay the Monody* arrived with its tifle-Tpa.ge, which 
16, I presume, a separate publication, ' The request 
of a friend : — 

• Obliged by hungor and request of friends.' 

will request you to expunge that same, unless 
you please to add, * by a person of quality,' or * of 
wit and humor about town.' Merely say, ' written 
to be spoken at Drury Lane.' To-morrow I dine at 
Copet. Saturday I sti-ike tents for Italy. This 
evening, on the lake in my boat with Mr. Hob- 
house, the pole which sustains the mainsail, slipped 
in tacking, and struck me so violently on one of my 
legs, (the worst, luckily,) as to make me do a foolish 
thing, viz., to faint — a downright swoon ; the thing 
must have jarred some nerve or other, for the bone 
is not injured, and hardly painful, (it is six hours 
since,) and cost Mr. Hobhouse some apprehension 
and mucn sprinkling of water to recover me. The 
sensation was a very odd one : I never had but two 
such before, once from a cut on the head from a 
stone, several years ago, and once (long ago also) 
in falling into a great WTeath of snow ; — a sort of 
gray giddiness first, then nothingness and a total 
loss of memory on beginning to recover. The last 
part is not disagreeable, if one did not find it again. 

" You want the original MSS. Mr. Davies has 
the first fair copy in niy own hand, and I have the 
rough composition here, and will send or save it for 
you, since you -ivish it. 

" "With regard to your new literary project, if any 
thing falls in the way which will, to the best of my 
judgment, suit you, I mil send you what I can. At 
present I must lay by a little, having pretty well 
exhausted myself in what I have sent you. Italy 
or Dalraatia and another summer may, or may not 
set me oiF again. I have no plans, and am nearly 
as indifferent what may come as where I go. I shall 
take Felicia Hemans' Restoration, &c., with me 
it is a good poem — very. 

" Pray repeat my best thanks and remembrances 
to Mr. Gittbrd for all his trouble and good nature 
towards me. 

" Do not fancy me laid up, from the beginning of 
this scrawl. I tell you the accident for want of bet- 
ter to say ; but it is over, and I am only wondering 
what the deuce was the matter with me. 

'• I have lately been over all the Bernese Alps and 
their lakes. I think many of the scenes (some of 
which were not those usually frequented by the 
English) finer than Chamouni, which 1 visited some 
time before. I have been to Clarens again, and 
crossed the mountains behind it ; of this tour I kept 
a short journal for my sister, which I sent yester- 
yay in three letters. It is not all for perusal ; but 
if you like to hear about the romantic part, she 
will, I d;i.re say, show you what touches upon the 
rocks, <S:c. 

" Christabel — I wont have any one sneer at Chris- 
tabel : it is a fine, wild poem. * * 



LETTER CCCIV. 



TO MB. MURRAY. 



" Madame de Sta^U wishes to see the Antiquary, 
und I am going to take it to her to-morrow. She 
Bas made Copet as agreeable as society and talent 
••-an make any place on earth. " Yours ever, 

'«N." • 



On the death of Sberid^.^.. See Letter cexclx. 



"Diodati, 0.». 5, 1919. 

* ' « * * * « 

* Save me a copy of ' Buck's tlichard III.' reptilv 
lished by Longman ; but do not send out more bookl 
— I have too many. 

" The ' Monody ' is in too many paragraphs, which 
makes it unintelligible to me ; if any orie else under- 
stands it in the present form, they are wiser ; how- 
ever, as it cannot be rectified till my return, and 
has been already published, even publish it on in 
the collection — it mil fill up the place of the omitted 
epistle. 

' Strike out ' by request of a friend,' which is sad 
trash, and must have been done to make it ridicu- 
lous. 

' Be careful in the printing the stanzas beginninfl;. 

" Though the day of my destiny's, &c.,* 

which I think well of as a composition. 

' 'The Antiquary" is not the best of the three, 

but much above all the last twenty years, saving its 

Ider brothers. Holcroft's Memoirs are valuable, 

as showing the strength of endurance in the man, 

which is worth more than all the talent in the world. 

' And so you have been publishing ' Margaret of 
Anjou ' and an Assyrian tale, and refusing W. W.'a 
Waterloo, and the ' Hue' and Cry.' I knoAv not 
which most to admire, your rejections or accept- 
ances. I believe that jt?ro5e is, after all, the most re 
putable ; for certes, if one could foresee — but I won't 

fo on — that is, with this sentence ; but poetry is, 
fear, incurable. God help me ! if I proceed in 
this scribbling, I shall have frittered away my mind 
before I am thirty ; but it is at times a real reUef ta 
me. For the present — good evening " 



LETTER CCCV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Martigny, Oct. 9, 1816. 

** Thus far on my way to Italy. We have just 
passed the ' Pisse Vache ' (one of the first torrerts 
in Switzerland) in time to view the iris which the 
sun flings along it before noon. 

" I have written to you twice lately. Mr. Davies, 
I hear, is arrived. He brings the original MS. Avhich 
you wished to see. Recollect that the printing is 
to be from "that which Mr. Shelley brought ; and 
recollect also that the concluding stanzas of Childe 
Harold (those to my daughter) which I had not 
made up my mind whether to publish or not when 
they were Jirst written, (as you will see marked on 
the margin of the first copy,) I had (and have) fully 
determined to publish with the rest of the canto, aa 
in the copy which you received by Mr. Shelley, be- 
fore I sent it to England. 

" Our weather is very fine, which is more than the 
summer has been. — At Milan I shall expect to hear 
from you Address either to Milan, poste rsstimte, 
or by way of Geneva, to the care of Monsr. Hentsch, 
Banquier. I write these few lines in case my other 
letter should not reach you ; I trust one of thenx 
will. 

" P. S. My best respects and regards to Mr. Gif- 
ford. Will you tell him, it may perhaps be as well 
to put a short note to that pari relating to Clarens, 
merely to say, that of course the description does 
not refer to that particular spot so much as to the 

* See Poem*, p. 354. 



LETTERS. 



841 



command ot sceoerj' aroimd it ? I do not know that 
tnis is necessary, and leave it to Mr. G.'s choice, as 
XT. J edkor, — if he will allow me to call him so at this 
taax&nce. 



LETTER CCCVL 

TO MR. MURKAY. 

" Mhan, Oct. 15, 1816. . 

*' I hear that Mr. Davies has arrived in England, 
—but that of some letters, &c,, committed to his 
care, by Mr. Hobhouse, only half' have been deliv- 
ered. This intelligence naturally makes me feel a 
little anxious for mine, and among them for the MS. 
which I wished to have compared with the one sent 
by me through the hands of Mr. Shelley. I trust 
that it has ari'ived safely, — and indeed not less so, 
that some little crystals, &c., from Mont Blanc, for 
my daughter and my nieces, have reached their ad- 
dress. Pray have the goodness to ascertain from 
Mr. Davies that n© accident (by custom house or 
loss) has befallen them, and satisfy me on this point 
at your earliest convenience. 

" If I recollect rightly, you told me that Mr, Gif- 
ford had kindly undertaken to correct the press (at 
my request) during my absence — at least I hope 
so. It will add to my many obligations to that gen- 
tleman. 

" I wrote to you, on my way here, a short note, 
dated Martigny. Mr. Hobhouse and myself ar- 
rived here a few. days ago, by the Simplon and Lago 
Maggiore route. Of course we visited the Borro- 
mean Islands, which are fine, but too artificial. 
The Simplon is magnificent in its nature and its 
ai5, — both God and man have done wonders, — to 
Bay nothing of the devil, who must certainly have 
had a hand (or a hoof) in some of the rocks and 
ravines through and over which the works are car- 
ried. 

" Milan is striking — the cathedral superb. The 
city altogether reminds me of Seville, but a little 
inferior. We had heard diVers bruits, and took pre- 
cautions on the road, near the frontier, against some 
' many worthy fellows {i. e. felons) that were out,' 
and had ransacked some preceding travellers, a fcW 
weeks ago, near Sesto, — or Cesto, I forget which, — 
of cash and raiment, Ijesides putting them in bodily 
fear, an I lodging about twenty slugs in the retreat- 
ing part of a courier belonging to Mr. Hope. But 
we were not molested, and, I do not think, in any 
danger, except of making nristakes in the way of 
cocking and priming whenever we saw an old house, 
or an ill-looking thicket, and now and then sus- 
pecting tha ' true men,' who have very much the ap- 
pearance of the thieves of otlier countries. What 
the thieves may look like, I know not, nor desire to 
know, for it seems they come upon you in bodies of 
thirty ('in buckram and Kendal green') at a time, 
BO that voyagers have no groat chance. It is sonie- 
thing like poor dear Turkey in that respect, but not 
BO good, for there you (;an have as gre^t a body 



letters, and I hope he will not disappoint me. They 
are short, but very simple, sweet, and to th( pur- 
pose ; there are some copies of vei-ses in Spanish 
also by her ; the tress of her hair is long, and as I 
said before, beautiful. The Brera gallery of paint- 
ings has some fine pictures, but nothing of a col- 
lection. Of painting I know nothing ; but I like a 
Guercino — a picture of Abraham putting away Ha- 
gar and Ishmael — which seems to me natural and 
goodly. The Flemish school, such as I saw it in 
Flanders, I utterly* detested, despised, and ab- 
horred ; it might be painting, but it was not nature ; 
the Italian is pleasing, and their ideal very noble. 

" The Italians I hare encountered here are verj' 
intelligent and agreeable. In a few days I &ra to 
meet Monti. By the way, I have just heard an an- 
ecdote of Beccaria, who published such admirable 
things against the punishment of death. As soon 
as his book was out, his servant (having read it, I 
presume) stole his patch, and his master, while cor- 
recting the press of a second edition, did all he 
could to have him hanged by way of advertise- 
ment. 

" I forgot to mention the triumphal arch begun 
by Napoleon, as a gate to this city. It is unfinished, 
but the part completed worthy of another age and 
the same country. The society here is very oddly 
carried on, — at the theatre, and the theatre only,^ 
which answers to our opera. People meet there aa 
at a rout, but in very small circles. From Milan I 
shall go to Venice, If you write, write to Geneva, 
as before — the letter will be forwarded, 

" Yours ever ' 



LETTER CCCVII. 



TO ME. MoKRAY. 



rogues to match the rc'gular banditti ; but here the 
gena d'anaes are said to be no great things, and as 
for one's own people, one can't carry them about, 
like llobir.sou Crusoe, with a gun on each shouUh-r, 

" I have been to the Ambrosian library — it is a fine 
CDllcction — full of MSS. edited and unedited. 1 en- 
close you a list of the former r(!ccntly pul)lishod ; 
ttiese are matters for your literati. For me, in my 
simple way, I have been most delightell with a cor- 
respondence of letters, all original and amatory, 
betwet'ii Lucrefia linnjia and Cardi/idl Itcmho, pre 
?d over them and a lock o 



" Milan, Nov. 1, I81b. 

*' I have recently written to you rather frequently, 
but without any late answer. Mr. Hobhouse and 
myself set out for Venice in a few days ; but yoi.. 
had better still address to me at Mr. Ilentsch's, 
Banquier, Geneva ; he will forward your lotters. 

" I do not know whether I mentioned to vou, 
some time ago, that I had parted with the Dr. Poli- 
dori a few weeks previous to my leaving Diodati. 1 
know no great harm of him ; but he had an alacrity 
of getting into scrapes, and was too voung and heed 
less; and having enough to attend to in my o\tu 
concerns, and without time to become his tutor, 1 
thought it much better to give him his conge. He 
arrived at Milan some weeks before Mr. Hobhouse 
and'mvsclf. About a week ago, in consequence of 
a quarrel at the theatre with an Austrian officer, in 
which he was exceedingly in the wrong, he has con- 
trived to get sent out ol the territory, and is gone 
to Florence. I was not present, the pit liaving been 
the scone of altercation ; but on being sent for froiu 
the Cavalier Breme's box whore I was (jiiiotl) 
staring at the ballot, I found tlie man of medicine 
f begirt with grenadiers, arrested by the guard, con- 



grenac 
voyod into the guard-room, where tliore was much 
swearing in several languages. They wore going 
to keep him there for the night; but on giving mj 
name, and answering for his apnnrition next morn 
iiig, he was permitted egress. Next day ho had aa 
order from the government to be gone in iwenty- 
f«)ur hours, and accordinglv gone he is, some dayi 
ago. We did what wo could for him, but to no pur- 
pose ; and indeed he brought it upon himself, as fivr 
as 1 could learn, for I was not present at the stjuab- 
t»lo itself. I believe this was the roul state of hit 
served there. I have nored over them and a lock of case ; and I toll you it because I believe thingi 
hair, the prettiest ana fairest imaginable — I never somotimos reach vou in England in u false or oxag- 
saw fairer — and shall go repeatedly to read the goratod form. We found Mil. m very polite and ho«' 
epif-tlcs over and over ; and if I can obtain some of nitablc, nnd have the same hopes of Veronu aod 
the hair by fair means, I shall try. I have already j Venice. 1 have tilled my paper, 
oersiiaded the liljvarian to promise me copies of the' *' Kvtr yorun. Jto ' 



B42 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



.ETIER CCCVIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

Veroua, Nov. 6, 1816. 

' My Dear Moore, 

" Your letter, AATitten before my departure from 
England and addressed to me in London, only 
reached me recently. Since that period, 1 have 
been over a portion of that part of Europe which I 
had not really seen. About a month since, I crossed 
the Alps from Switzerland to'jNIilan, which I left a 
few days ago, and am thus far on my way to Venice, ' 
where I sliall probably winter. Yesterday I v.-as on 
the shores of the Benacus, ■\\ith his jiuctibus et\ 
freiiiitu. Catullus's Sirraium has still its name and' 
«ite, and* is remembered for his sake; but the very 
hea-^T autumnal rains and mists prevented our quit- 
ting our route (that is, Hobhouse and myself, who 
are at present voyaging together,) as it was better 
not to see it all than to a great disadvantage. 

" I found on the Benacus the same tradition of a 
city still visible in calm weather below the waters, 
whiah you have preserved of Lough Neagh, '"VYlien 
the clear, cnld eve's declining.' T do not know that 
il is authorized by records ; but they tell you such a 
story, and say that the city Avas swallowed up by an 
earthquake. We moved to-day over the froiitier to 
Verv">na, by a road suspected of thieves — ' the wise 
convty it call,'"— but without molestation. I shall 
remain here a day or two to gape at the usual mar- 



under arrest, I went and got him out of his condne 
ment, but could not prevent his being sent f»fi 
which, indeed, he partly deserved, being quite ii 
the -vvrong, and having begun a rov,' for row's sake 
I had preceded the Austrian government soma 
weeks myself, in giving him his conge from Geneva- 
He is not a bad fellow, but very young and h<4t« 
headed, and more likely to incur diseases than to 
cure them. Hobhouse and myself found it useless 
to intercede for him. This happened some time 
before we left Milan. He is gone to Florence. 

" At Ivlilan I saw, and was visited by, Monti, the 
most celebrated of the living Italian poets. Ha 
seems near sixty : in face he is like the late Cookg 
the actor. His frequent changes in politics have 
made him very unpopular as a man. I saw many 
more of their literati ; but none whose names are 
well known in England, except Acerbi. I lived 
much with the Italians, particularly with the Mar- 
quis of Breme's family, who are very able and 
intelligent men, especially the Abate. There was a 
famous improvisatore who held forth while I was 
there. His fluency astonished me ; but although I 
understand Italian, and speak it, (\vith more readi- 
ness than accuracy,) I could only carry off a few 
very common-place mythological images, and one 
line about Artemisia, and another about Algiers, 
with sixty words of an entire tragedy about Etiocles 
and Polynices. Some of the Italians liked him — 
others called his performance 'seccatura' (a devilish 



vels— amphitheatre, paintings, and all that time- tax I good word, by-the-way)— and.aU Milan was in coU' 



of travel — though Catullus, Claudian, and Shtiks- 
peare have done more for Yerona than it ever did 
for itself. They still pretend to show, I believe, 
the ' tomb of all the Capulets ' — we shall see. 

" Among many things at Milan, one pleased me 
particularly, viz., the correspondence (in the pret- 
tiest love-letters in the world) of Lucretia Borgia 
with Cardinal Bembo, (who, you say, made a very 
good cardinal,) and a lock of her hair, and some 
Spanish verses of hers, — the lock very fail- and 
beautiful. I took one single hair of it as a relic, 
and wished sorely to get a copy of one or two of the 
letters; but it is prohibited : ^Aaf I don't mind ; butj 
it M as impracticable ; and so I only got some of them 
Dy heart. They are kept in the Ambrosian Librar}>, | 



trover sy about him. 

" The state of morals in these parts is in some^ 
sort lax. A mother and son were pointed out at 
the theatre, as being pronounced by the Milanese 
world to be of the Theban dynasty — but this was 
all. The narrator (one of the first men in Milan) 
seemed to be not sufficiently scandalized by the 
taste or the tie. All society in Milan is carried on 
at the opera : they have private boxes, where they 
play at cards, or talk, or any thing else ; but 
(except at the cassino) there are no open houses, 
or balls, &c., &c. ***** * 
********** 
* * * * * 

' The peasant girls have all very fine dark eyes, 



which I often visited "to look them over— to the | and many of them are beautiful. There are also 
scandal of the librarian, who wanted to enlighten me j two dead bodies in fine preservation— one Saint 
with sundry valuable MSS., classical, philosophical, i Carlo Boromeo, at JNIilan ; the other not a saint, 
and pious. But I stick to the Pope's daughter, and but a ' ' ' 



wish myself a cardinal. 

" I have seen the finest parts of Switzerland,, the 
Rhine, the Rhone, and the Swiss and Italian lakes; 
for the beauties of which I refer you to the guide- 
book. The north of Italy is tolerably free from the 
English; but the south swarms with them, I am 
told. Madame de Stael I saw frecjuently at Copet, 
which she renders remarkably pleasant. She has 
been particularly kind to me. I was for some 
months her neighbor, in a country-house called 
Diodati, which I had on the Lake of Geneva. My 
plans are very uncertain ; but it is probable that 
jou will see me in England in the spring. I have 
tome business there. If you write to me, will you 
hddress to the care of Mons. Hentsch, Banquier, 
Geneva, who receives and forv.ards my letters. 
Remember me to Rogers, who wrote to me lately, 
with a short account of your poem, which, I trust, 
is near the li^ht. He speaks rjf it most highly. 

" My healtn is very endurable, except that I am 
subject to casual giddiness and faintnesses, which 
is so like a fine lady, that I am rather ashamed of 
the disorder. When I sailed, I had a physician with 
me, whom, after some months of patience, I found 
it expedient to part with, before I left Geneva some 
time. On arriving at Milan, I found this gentleman 
in very good society, where he prospered for some 
weeks ; but, at length, at tlie theatre, he quarrelled 
with an Austrian officer, and was sent out by the! blighted as their love 

go'-ernment in twenty-four hours. I was not present I _— — — _____ 

&t his squcbble; but on hearing that he was put! • see Ooojuan, canto i.,«taiuaccxiiu.&e. 



chief, named Visconti, at Monza — both of 
which appeared very agreeable. In one of the 
Baromean isles, (the Isola bella,) there is a large 
laurel — the largest known — on which Bonaparte, 
staying there just before the battle of Marengo, 
carved with his knife the word ' Battagiia.' I saw 
the letters, now h;ilf worn out and partly erased. 

" Excuse this tedious letter. To be tiresome is 
the privilege of old age and absence : I avail myself 
of the latter, and the former I have anticipated. If 
I do not speak to you of my own affairs, it is not 
from want of confidence, but to spare you and myself. 
My day is over — what then ? — I have had it. To be 
sure, I have shortened it ; * and if I had done as 
much by this letter, it would have been as wt4L 
But you will forgive that, if not the other faults of 
" Yours, ever and most affectionately, 

« Nov, 7, .816. 

" P. S. I have been over Verona. The amphi- 
theatre is wonderful — beats even Greece. Of the 
truth of Juliet's story, they seem tenacious to a 
degree, insisting on the fact — giving a date, (1303,) 
and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly 
decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves in it, iu 
a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cem- 
etery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation 
struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being 
I have brought away a 



84^ 



few pieces of the granite, to give my daughter 
and my niecos. Of the other marvels of this 
city, paintings, antiquities, &c., excepting the 
tombs of the Scaliger piincea, I have no pretensions 
lo judge. The Gothic monuments of the Scaligers 
»>leased me, bul * a poor virtuoso am I,' and 

" Ever yours." 



LETTER CCCIX 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, Nov. 17, 1816. 

1 wrote to you Irom Verona the other day in my 
progress hither, which letter I hope you will receive. 
Some three years ago, or it may be more, I recollect 
your telling me that you Lad received a letter from 
our friend Sam, dated' On board his gondola.' My 
gondola is, at this present, waiting for me on the 
canal ; but I prefer writing to you in the house, it 
being autumn — and rather an English autuum than 
otherwise. It is my intention to remain at Venice 
during the winter, probably, as it has always been 
(next to the East) the greenest island of my 
imagination. It has not di-sappointed me ; though 
its evident decay would, perhaps, have that effect 
upon others. But I have beo»i familiar with ruins 
too long to dislike desolation. Besides, I have 
falbm in love, which, next to falling into the canal, 
(which would be of no use, as I can swim,) is the 
best or the worst thing I could do. I have got 
some extremely good apartnients in the house of a 
* Merchant of Venice,' who is a good deal occupied 
with business, and has a wife in her twenty-second 
jear. Marianna (that is her name) is in her ap- 
/pearance altogether like an antelope. She has 
/ large, black, orieiital eyes, with tliat peculiar ex- 
/ pression in them which is seen rarely among Eicro- 
' vea/is — even the Italians — and which many of the 
Turkish women give themselves by tinging the 
eye-lid, — an art not known out of the country, I 
believe. This expression she has tiaturalli/ — and 
something more than this. In short, I cannot 
describe the effect of this kind of eye, — at least 
upon me. Her features are regular, and rather 
acquiline — mouth small — ^skin clear and soft, with a 
I kind of hectic color — forehead remarkably good ; 
her hair is of the dark gloss, curl, and color of Lady 
' Jersey's : her figure is liglit and pretty, and she is a 
famous songstress — scientilically so : her natural 
voice (in conversation, I mean) is very sweet ; and 
the naYvet/' of the Venetiai^ dialect is alwayij pleasing 
in the mouth of a woman. 

"Nov. 2a 

"You will perceive that my description, wliich 
was proceeding with the minuteness of a passport, 
has been interrupted f(/r several days. In the mean 
time, ***** 



LETTERS. 

• 
Persian and Syriac, &c. ; besides works ti theii 
own people. Four years ago the French instituted 
an Armenian professorship. Twenty pupils pre- 
sented themselves on Monday morning, full of nobie 
ardor, ingenuous youth, and impregnable industry. 
They persevered, with a courage worthy of the 
nation, and of universal conquest, till Thursday; 
when fiftten of the twenty succumbed to the six 
and-twentieth letter of the alphaliet. It is, to b< 
sure, a Waterloo of an alphabet — that must be said 
for them. But it is so like these fellows, to do by 
it as they did by their sovereigns — abandon both; 
to parody the old rhymes, ' Take a thing and give a 
thing ' — ' Take a king and give a king.' Tliey 5.re 
the worst of animals, except their conquerors. 

" I hear that Hodgson is your neighbor, having 
a living in Derbyshire. You will find him an excel- 
lent-hearted fellow, as well as one of the cleverest ; 
a little, pcrhivps too much, japanned by preferment 
in the church, and the tuition of youth, as well as 
inoculated with the disease of domestic felicity, 
besides being overrun with fine feelings ai)out 
woman and constancy, (that small change of love, 
which people exact so rigidly, receive in such coun- 
terfeit coin, and repay in baser metal;) but, other- 
wise, a very worthy man, who has lately got a pretty 
wife, and (I suppose) a child by this time. Pray 
remember me to him, and say that I know not which 
to envy nlost — his neiglil)()ihoud, him, or you. 

"Of Venice I shall say little. You must have 
seen many descriptions ; and they are mo.st of thciu 
like. It is a poetical place ; and classical, to us, 
from Shakspeare and Otvvay.* I have not yet 
sinned against it in verse, nor do I know that I 
shall do so, having been tuneless since I crossed the 
Alps, and feeling, as yet, no renewal of the 'estro. 
By-the-way, I suppose you have seen ' Glcuar- 
von.' Madame dc Sta^l lent it to me to read fronr. 
Copet last auvumn. It seems to me, that if the 
authoress had written the truth, and nothing but 
the truth — the whole truth — the romance would not 
only have been more romantic, but more entertain- 
ing. As for the likeness, the i)icture can't be good 
— I did not sit long enough. When you have lei- 
sure, let me hear from and of you, believing me 
ever and truly yours, most afiectiouately, " B. 

♦' P. S. Oh ! your poe^ni — is it out ? I hope Long- 
man has paid his thousands : but don't you do as 
Horace Twiss' father did, who, having made money 
by a (juarco tour, became a vinegar merchant ; when 
lo ! his vinegar turned sweet (and be d — d to it) and 
ruined him. My last letter to you (from Verona) 
was enclosed to Murray — have you got it ? Direct 
to me hen\ ponte restontv. There are no lilnglish 
here at present. There were several in ."-iwitzerland 
— some women ; but, except Lady Dalrymple Ham 
ilton, most of them as ugly as virtue — at least, thoco 
that I saw." 



" Since my former dates, I do not know that I 
have much to add on the subject, and, luckily, 
nothing to take away ; for I am more pleased than 
ever with my Venetian, and Ix-gin to feel very seri- 
ous on that point, — so nmch so, that I shall be 
■ilent. * * ♦ ♦ 

"Bv way of divertisement, 1 am studying daily, 
at an Armenian monastery, the Armenian language. 
I found that my mind wanted something craggy to 
break unon ; and this— -as the most dilUcult thing I 
could discover here for an anmsement— -I have 
chosen, to torture me into attention. It is a rich 
language, however, and would amply rei)ay any one 
the troubh; of learning it. I try, and shall go <»n ; 
but I answer for nothing, least of all for my inten- 
tions or my suceess. There are some very eurioui* 
MSS. in the monastery, as well aa books; transla- 
tions also Ifrom Greek originuU, x.JW lost, and from 



LETTER CCCX. 



TO .MR. .MOOUK. 



" I have taken a fit of writing to you, which por- 
tends postage — once frouj Verona — once from Ve- 
nice, and again from Venive — thrive that is. For 
this you may thauk yourhelf, for 1 heiud that you 
etnn plained of my nilence— so, h« re goes for a gar- 
r»ilitv, 

" 1 trust that you received mv other twain of let- 
ters. My ' way of life ' (or * May of liTe,' which ia 
it, according to the comment. itoia ?) — my * way ol 
life ' is fallen into great regularity. In tl e morn- 
ings 1 go over in mv gondola lo hobble Armenian 
with the friars of tile convent of St. Luxurus, and 
to help one of thetn in correcting tlie FiUglish of an 



Dm ChUa* iliurukl. ( 



I W.. I 



844 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



English ana Armenian grammar which he is pub- 
lishing. In the evenings I do one of many nothings 
— either at the theatres, or some of the conversa- 
ziones, which are like our routs, or rather worse, for 
^the women sit in a semicircle by the lady of the 
'' mansion, and the men stand about the room. To 
/ be sure, there is one improvement upon ours — instead 
of lemonade with their ices, they hand about stiff 
. ^urn-punch— punch, by my palate! and this they 
think English. I would not disabuse them of so 
agreeable an error, — 'no, not for Venice.' 
i^ ''Last night I was at the Count Governor's, 

y^ which, of course, comprises the best society, and is 
very much like other gregarious meetings in every 
country, — as in ours, — except that, instead of the 
bishop of Winchester, you have the patriarch of 
Venice ; and a motley crew of Austrians, Germans, 
noble Venetians, foreigners, and, if you see a quiz, 
you may be sure he is a consul. Oh, by-the-way, I 
forgot, when I wrote from Verona, to tell you that at 
Milan I met with a countryman of yours — a Colonel 
* * ♦ *, a very excellent, good-natured fellow, who 
knows and shows all about Milan, and is, as it were, 
a native there. He is particularly ci\'il to strangers, 
and this is his history, — at least, an episode 
of it. 

..H Six-and-twenty years ago Col. * * * *, then an 
-ensign, being in Italy, fell in love with the^Marchesa 
/ « * * *^ and she with him. The lady niust be, at 
least, twenty years his senior. The war broke out ; 
he returned to England, to serve — not his country, 
for tiiat's Ireland — but England, which is a different 
thing ; and she — heaven knows what she did. In 
the year 1814, the first annunciation of the defini- 
tive treaty of peace (and tyranny) was developed to 
the astonished Milanese by the arrival of Col. * * * *, 
who, flinging himself full length at the feet of 
Madame * * * *, murmured forth, in half-forgotten 
Irish Italian, eternal vows of indelible constancy. 
The lady screamed and exclaimed, ' Who are you r ' 
The Colonel cried, ' What, don't you know me ? I 
am so and so,' &c., &c., &c. ; till, at length, the 
Marchesa, mounting from reminiscence to remi- 
niscence, through the lovers of the intermediate 
twenty-five years, arrived at last at the recollection 
of hoi povero sub-lieutenant. She then said, * Was 
there ever such virtue ? ' (that was her very word,) 
and, being now a widow, gave him apartments in 
her palace, reinstated him in all the rights of wrong, 
and held him up to the admiring world, as a mira- 
cle of incontinent fidelity, and the unshaken Abdiel 
of absence. 

" Methinks this is as pretty a moral tale as any of 
Mannontel's. Here is another. The same lady, 
several years ago, made an escapade with a Swede, 
Count Fersen, (the same whom the Stockholm mob 
quartered and lapidated not very long since,) and 
they arrived at an osteria on the road to Rome, or 
thereabouts. It was a summer q^vening, and, while 
they were at supper, they were suddenly regaled by 
a symphony of fiddles in an adjacent apartment, so 
prettily played, that, wishing to hear them more 
distinctly, the Count rose, and going into the mu- 
sical society, said, ' Gentlemen, I am sure that, as 
a company of gallant cavaliers, you will be delighted 
to show your skill to a lady, who feels anxious,' 
&c., &c. The men of harmony were all acquies- 
cence — every instrument was tuned and toned, and, 
striking up one of their most ambrosial airs, the 
whole band followed the Count to the lady's apart- 
ment. At their head was the first fiddler, who, 
bowing and fiddling at the same moment, headed 
bis troop and advanced up the rcom. Death and 
discord I — it was the Marquis himself, who was on a 
lerenading party in the country, while his spouse 
nad run away from town. The rest may be im- 
agined — but, first of all, the lady tried to persuade 
him that she was there on purpose to meet him, 
and had chosen this method for an harmonic sur- 
orise So much for this gossip, which amused me 
"•^hen 1 henrd it, and I send it to you, in the hope it 



Now we ft leturn tfl 



may have the like effect. 
Venice. 

"The day after to-mon-ow (to-morrow being 
Christmas day) the Carnival begins. I dine with 
the Countess Albrizzi and a party, and go to the 
opera* On that day the Phenix (not the insurance 
office but the theatre of that name) opens: I hav« 
got me a box there for. the season, for two reasons, 
one of which is, that the music is remarkably good 
The Contesoa Albrizzi, of whom I have made men- 
tion, is the De Stael of Venice, not young, but a 
very learned, unaffected, good-natured woman, verj 
polite to strangers, and, I believe, not at all disso 
lute, as most of the women are. She has wi-itte« 
very well on the works of Canova, and also a volume 
of characters, besides other printed matter. She is 
of Corfu, but married a dead Venetian — that is, 
dead since he married. 

" My flame (my ' Donna ') whom I spoke of in my 
former epistle, my Marianna, and I her — what she 
pleases. She is by far the prettiest woman I have 
seen here, and the most loveable I have met with 
any where — as well as one of the most singular. I 
believe I told you the rise and progress of oult liaison 
in my former letter. Lest that should not have 
reached you, 1 will merely repeat that she is a Vene- 
tian, two-and twenty years old, married to a mer- 
chant well to do in the world, and that she has great 
black oriental eyes, and all the qualities which her 
eyes promise. Whether being in love with her has 
steeled me or not, I do not know ; but I have not 
seen many other women who seem pretty. The 
nobility, in particular, are a sad-looking race — the 
gentry rather better. And now, what art tliou 
doing ? 

" What are you doing now, 

Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
Whui are you doinj^ now, 

Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing- now, 
Rhyming or wooing now, 
Billing or cooing now. 

Which, Thomas Moore ? 

Are you not near the Luddites ? By the Lord ! \l 
there's a row, but I'll be among ye ! How go on 
the weavers — the breakers of frames — the Lutheram 
of politics — the reformers ? 

" As the liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with Uood, 
So we, boys, we, 
Will die fighting, or live free. 
And down witli all kings but king Ludd I 

♦• When the web that we weave is coraplete, 

And the shuttle ex^anged for the sword. 

We will Hing the winding-sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet. 

And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

" Though black ajs his heart is its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud. 
Yet this is the dew 
.Which the tree shall renew 
Of liberty, planted by Ludd I 

There's an amiable chmison for you — all irapromptti 
1 have written it principally to shock ycur neighbol 
Hodgson, who is all clergy and loyalty— miith anq 
innocence — milk and water. 

" But the Carnival's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore 
The Carnival's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore, 
Masking and humming. 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming, 

Oh, Thomas Moure. 

The other night I saw a new play, — and the author 
The subject was the sacrifice of Isaac. The play 



See Letter cuvii. 



LETTERS. 



84; 



iiicicedpii, and they called for the author — aOcording 
to continental custom — and he presented himself, a 
noble Venetian Mali, or Malapiero, by mime. Mala 
Was his name, and pesslma his production, — at least, 
1 thought so, and I ought to know, having read 
more or less of five hundred Drury-Lane offerings, 
during my coadjutorship with the sub-and-super 
committee. 

" When does your poem of poems come out ? I 
hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up Cole- 
ridge's Christabel, and declared against me for prais- 
ing it.* I praised it, firstly, because I thought well 
of it ; secondly, because Coleridge was in great dis- 
tress, and, after doing what little I could for him in 
essentials, I thought that the public avowal of my 
good opinion might help him farther, at least with 
the booksellers. I am very sorry that Jeffrey has 
attacked him, because, poor fellow ! it will hurt him 
in mind and pocket. As for me, he's welcome — I 
shall never think less of Jeffrey for any thing he 
may say aginst me or mine in future. f 

" I suppose Murray has sent you, or will send 
(for I do not know whether they are out or no,) the 
poem, or poesies of mine, of last summer. By the 
mass ! they're sublime — ' Ganion Coheriza' — gainsay 
who dares ! Pray, let me hear from you, and of 
vou, and at least, let me know that you have received 
these three letters Direct, right here, poste restante. 
•■ " Ever and ever, &c. 

** P. S. I heard the other day of a pretty trick of 
a bookseller, who has published some d — d nonsense, 
swearing the bastards to me, and saying he gave me 
five hundred guineas for them. He lies— I never 
wrote such stuff, never saw the poems, nor the pub- 
lisher of them, in my life, nor had any communica- 
tion, directly or indirectly, with the fellow. Pray 
Bay as much for me, if need be. I have written to 
Murray, to make him contradict the impostor. 



LETTER CCCXI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Nov. 25, 1816. 

It la some months since I have heard from or of 

you — I think, not since I left Diodati. From Milan 

I wrote once or twice ; but have been here some 

little time, and intend to pass the winter without 

removing. I was much pleased with the Lago di 

. Garda, and with Verona, particularly the amnhi- 

theatre, and a sarcophagus in a convent garaen, 

which they show as Juliet's ; they insist on the tnith 

of her history. Since my arrival at Venice, the lady 

of the Austrian governor told me that between 

► Verona and Vicenza there are still ruins of the 

1 castle of the Montecchi, and a chapel once apper- 

\^ taining to the Capulets. Romeo seems to have 

oeen of Vicenza, by the tradition ; but I was a good 

deal surprised to find so firm a faith in BandcUo's 

novel, which seems realty to have been founded on a 

.V.t 

-^ " Venice pleases me as much as I expected, and I 
/expeoted much. It is one of those places which I 
/ know before I see them, and has always haunted me 
I the most after the East. I like the gloomy gayety 
1 of their gondolas, and the silence of their canals, l 
do not even dislike the evident decay of the city, 
though I regret the singularity of its vanished cos- 
tume : however, there is much left still , the Carni- 
val, too, is coming. 

•' St. Mark's, and indeed Venice, is most alive 

,' ftt night. The theatres are not open till »»/"f, 
/ End the society is proportionably late. All this is 
to my taste, but most of your countrymen miss 



Bf*« no(« 9 tu tha Bir.ge of Corinth. 
Sm DoO JuoU, MBI0 K., lUo* >tL 



and regret the -attle of hackney coaches, -withou 
which they can sleep. 

" I have got remarkably good apartments in a 
private house ; I see something of the inhabitants, 
(having had a good many letters to some of them ;) 
I Jjave got my gondola ; I read a little, and luckily 
could speak Italian (more fluently than correctly) 
long ago. I am studying, out of curiosity, the 
Venetian dialect, which is very naYve, and soft, and 
peculiar, though not at all classical ; I go out fre- 
quently, and am in very good contentment. 

" The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the 
house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi, whom I 
know), is without exception, to any mind, the most 
perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and fai 
beyond my ideas of human execution. 

' In this beloved marble view,' 4c.' 

Talking of the * heart ' remind? me that I have 
fallen in Jove, which, except falling into the canal 
(and that would be useless, as I swim,) is the best 
(or worst) thing I could do. I am therefore in love 
— fathomless love ; but lest you should make some 
splendid mistake, and envy me the possession of 
some of those princesses or countesses with whose 
a flections your English voyagers are apt to invest 
themselves, I beg leave to tell you that my goddess 
is only the wife of a ' Merchant of Venice ; ' but 
then she is pretty as an antelope, is but two-and 
twenty years old, has the large, black, oriental eyes, 
with the Italian countenance, and dark glossy hair, 
of the curl and color of Lady Jersey's. Then she 
has the voice of a lute, and the song of a seraph 
(though not quite so sacred,) besides a long post- 
script of graces, virtues, and accomplishments, 
enough to furnish out a new chapter of Solomon's 
Song. But her great merit is in finding out mine,— 
there is nothing so amiable as discernment. Our little 
arrangement is completed, the usual oaths having 
been taken, and every thing fulfilled according to 
the * understood relations ' of €uch liaisotis. 

" The general race of women appear to be hand-' 
some : but in Italy, as on almost all the continent, 
The highest orders are by no means a well-looking 
generation, and indeed reckoned by their country 
men very much otherwise. Some are exceptions, 
but most of them are as ugly as Virtue herself. 

•' If you write, address to me here, post f restante, 
as I shall probably stay the winter over. I never see 
a newspaper and know nothing about England, ex 
cept in a letter now and then from my sister. Of 
the MS. sent you, I know nothing, except you have 
received it, and are to publish it, &c., &c. ; but when, 
where, and how, you leave me to guess ; but it don't 
much matter. 

" I suppose you have a world of works passing 
through your process for next year ? When does 
Moore's Poem appear ? 1 sent a letter for him, 
addressed to your care the other day." 



LETTER CCCXIl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 



Venlcfl. Oe. 4. IHC 



'" I have written to you so fremioitly of late, that 
you will think me a bore; as I tnink you a very im 
polite person for not answering my letters from 
SwitJserland, Milan, Verona, and Venice. There are 
some things I wanted, and want to know; vii. 
whether Mr. Davios, of inaccurate memorv, had or 
had not delivered the MS. as delivered to him ; be- 
cause, if he has not, you will find that he will ho m* 
tifuUy bestow transcriptions on all the curious of hil 
acquaintance, in which case you may probably find 



846 



BYKON'S WORKS 



ronr puolication anticipatei by the 'Cambridge,' or 
ether Chronicles. In the next place — I forget what 
was next ; but, in the third place, I want to hear 
whether you have yet published, or when you mean 
to do so, or why you have not done so, because in 
your last, (Sept. 20, — you may be ashamed of the 
date,) you talked of this being done immediately. 

" From England I hear nothing, and know no- 
thing of any thing or any body. I have but one cor- 
respondent, (except Mr'. Kinnaird on business now 
and then,) and her a female ; so that I know no 
more of your island, or city, than the Italian version 
of the French papers chooses to tell me, or the ad- 
Tfitisements of Mr. Colbin-n tagged to the end of 
y y:.r Quarterly Review for the year affo. I wrote to 
} ou at some length last week, and have little to add, 
except that I have begun, and am proceeding in, a 
itudy of the Armenian language, which I acquire, 
as well as I can, at the Armenian convent, where I 
go every day to take lessons of a learned friar, and 
have gained some singular and not useless informa- 
tion ^^-ith regard to the literature and customs of that 
oriental people. They have an establishment here 
—a church and a convent of ninety monks — very 
learned and accomplished men, some of them. They 
have also a press, and make great efforts for the en- 
lightening of their nation. I find the language 
(which is tioin, the literal and the vulvar) difficult, 
but not invincible, (at least, I hope not.) I shall go 
on. I found it necessary to twist my mind round 
some severe study, and this, as being the hardest I 
could devise here, will be a file for the serpent. 

" I mean to remain here till the spring, so address 
to me directly to Venice, poste restante. — Mr. Hob- 
house, for the present has gone to Rome, with his 
brother, brother's wife, and sister, who overtook 
him here ; he returns in two' months. I should 
have gone too, but I fell in love, and must stay that 
over. I should think that and the Armenian alpha- 
bet will last th6 winter. The lady has, luckily for 
me, been less obdurate than the language, or, be- 
tween the two, I should have lost my remains of 
sanity. By-the-way she is not an Armenian but a 
Venetian, as I believe I told you in my last. As 
for Italian, I am fluent enough, even in its Venetian 
modification, which is something like the Somerset- 
ehire version of English ; and as for the more clas- 
sical dialects, I had not forgot my former practice 
much during my voyaging. 

'* Yours, ever and truly 



B. 



P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford." 



LETTER CCCXIII. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



«' Venice, Dec. 9, 1816. 

' in a letter ft-om England, I am informed that a 
aiKn named Johnson has taken up8n himself to 
publish some poems called a * Pilgrimage to Jeru- 
salem, a Tempest, and an Address to my Daughter,' 
&c., and to attribute them to me, add.ing that he 
had paid five hundred guineas for them. The an- 
swer to this is short : / never wrote such poems, nev- 
tr received the sum he mentions, nor any other inthe 
name quarter, nor (as far as moral or mortal certainty 
can be sure), ever had, directly or indirectly, the 
sliqhfent communication with Johnson in my life; 
not being aware that the person existed till this 
intelligence gave me to understand that there were 
Buch people. Nothing surprises me, or this perhaps 
Kould, and mrst things amuse me, or this probably 
•vould -not. "With regard to myself, the man has 
•ruerely lied; that's natural — his betters have set 
!iim the cxan pie : but with -egard to you, his asser- 
Hon miiy pel Laps injure J ou in your publications; 



and I desire that it may receive the most public .'md 
unqualified contradiction. I do not know that thera 
is any punishment for a thing of this kind, and il 
there were, I should not feel disposed to pursue this 
ingenious mountebank farther than was necessarj 
for his confutation ; but thus far it may be necessa* 
ry to proceed. 

" You will make what use you please of this let' 
ter ; and Mr.. Kinnaird, who has power to act fol 
me in my absence, will, I am sure, readily join you 
in any steps which it may be proper to take with re 
gard to the absurd falsehood of this poor creature. 
As you will have recently received several letters 
from me on my way to Venice, as well as two writ- 
ten since my arrival, I will not at. present trouble 
you farther. " Ever, &:c. 

" P. S. Pray let me hear that you have received 
this letter. Address to Venice, poste restante. 

" To prevent the recurrence of similar fabrica- 
tions, you may state, that I consider myself respon- 
sible for no publication from the year 1812 up to the 
present date, which is not from your press. I speak 
of course from that period, because, previously, 
Cawthorne and Ridge had both printed compositions 
of mine. ' A Pilgrimage to Jerusalem ! ' how the 
devil should I write about Jerusalem, never ha-sdng 
yet been there ? As for ' A Tempest,' it was not a. 
tempest when I left England, but a very fresh breeze 
and as to an ' Address to Little Ada,' (^^'ho, by-the- 
way, is a year old to-morrow,) I never wrote a line 
about her, except in ' Farewell,' and the third canto 
of Childe Harold." 



LETTER CCCXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

« Venice, Dec. 27, 1816. 

" As the demon of silence seems to have pos- 
I sessed you, I am detennined to have my revenge in 
postage : this is my sixth or seventh letter since 
summer and Switzerland. My last was an injunc- 
tion to contradict and consign to confusion that 
Cheapside impostor, who (I heard by a letter from 
your island) had thought proper to append my narne 
to his spurious poesy, of which I know .nothing, noi 
of his pretended piu-chase of copyright. I hope 
you have, at least, received that letter. 

" As the news of Venice must be very interesting 
to you, I will regale you with it. 

" Yesterday, being the feast of St. Stephen, every 
mouth was put in motion. There was nothing but 
fiddling and playing on the virginals, and all kinds 
of conceits and divertisements, on every canal ol 
this aquatic city. I dined with the Countess Albriz 
za and a Paduan and Venetian party, and afterward 
went to" the opera, at the Fenice theatre (which 
opens for the Carnival on that day,) — the finest, by- 
the-way, I have ever seen : it beats our theatres 
hollow in beauty and scenery, and those of Milan 
and Brescia bow before it. The opera and its sirens 
were much like other operas and women, but the 
subject of the said opera was something edifying ; it 
turned — the plot and conduct thereof — upon a fact 
narrated by Livy of a hundred and fifty married la 
dies having poisioned a hundi-ed and fifty husbanda 
in good old times. The bachelors of Rome believed 
this extraordinary mortality to be merely the com- 
mon effect of matrimony or a pestilence ; but the 
surviving Benedicts, being all seized with the colic, 
examined into the matter, and found that • theii 
possets had been drugged ; ' the consequence ol 
which was, much scandal and several suits at law. 
This is really and truly the subject of the musical 
piece at the "Fenice ; and you can't conceive what 
pretty things are sung and recitativoed about the 
j horrenda strage. The conclusion was a lady's head 
about to be chopped oflf by a lict<»r, but (I am sorrj 



LETTERS. 



847 



.0 say) he left it on, and she got up <tnd sung a trio (tc. on the day of the date of the Corsalr; ' and 
with the two Consuls, the Senate in the back ground : I also received one from my sister, written on the 
being chorus. The ballot- was distinguished by' 10th of December, my daughter's uirth-day, Cano 
nothing remarkable, except that the principal she- j relative chiefly to my daughter,) and aniving on 
dancer went into convulsions because she was not: the day f)f the date of my marriage, this present 
applauded on her first appearance; and the man- j 2d of January, the month of iny birth, — and varioiu 
ager came forward to ask if there was ' ever a physi- 1 other astrologous matters, which I have no time to 
cian in the theatre.' There was a Greek one in my j enumerate. 

box, whom I wished very mucn to voluntefr his I " By the way, you might as well write to Hentscli 
services, being sure that in this case these would j my Geneva banker, and inquire whether the two 
have been the last convulsions which would hny a packets consigned to his care were or were not de- 
troubled the ballarina ; but he would not. Thellivered to Mr. St. Aubvn. or if they are still in hi« 
crowd v;as enormous, and in coining out, h"ving a i keeping. One contains 



lady under my arm, I waa oliligcd, in making way, 
jtlmost to * beat a Venetian, and traduce die state,' 
teing compelled to regale a person mth ar English 
punch in the guts, which sent him as fa' buck as the 
squeeze and the passage would admit, ile did not 
ask for another, but with great signs of disapproba- 
tion and dismay, appealed to his coffpatriots, who 
laughed at him. 

*'T am going on with my Armenian studies in a 
morning, and assisting and stimulating in the Eng- 
lish portion of an English and Ar^renian gramnnar, 
now publishing at the convent of ftt. Lazarus. 

" The superior of the friars is a. bishop, and a fine 
old fellow, with the beard of a meteor. Father' 
Pascjial is also a learned and pious soul. Ke was 
two years in England. 

" I am still dreadfully in love with the Adriatic 
lady whom I spake of in a former letter (and not in 
this — I add, for fear of rvstakes, for the only one 
mentioned in the first part of this epistle is elderly 
and bookish, two th'fl£,s which I have ceased to 
admire,) and love in this part of the world is no 
sinecure. This is also the season when every body 
niiike up their intrigues for the ensuing year, and 
cut for partners for the next dead. 

•' And now, if you don't write, I don't know what 
I won't say or do, r.or what I will. Send me some 
•\?;ws — good neAvs. 

" Yours, very truly, &c., (fee, &c., 
"B. 

"P. S. Remember me to Mr. GifFord, with all 
luty. 

<' I hear that the Edinburgh Review has cut up 
Uoferidge's Christabel, and me for praising it, which 
omen, I think, bodes no great good to your forth- 
come or coming canto and Castle (of Chillon.) My 
run of luck within the last year seerns to have taken 
a turn every way ; but never mind, I will briiig my- 
self through in the end — if not, I can be but where I 
began. In the mean time, I am not displeased to 
be where J am — I mean at Venice. My Adriatic 
nymph i<- tMs moment here, and I must therefore 
repoHc from this letter." 



LETTER CCCXV. 

TO MK. MrilK.VY. 

" Venlcft, Jin. 9, 1817. 

•* Your letter has arrived. Pray, in publisliing 
tbe third canto, have you omiited any passages ? 1 
hope not ; and indeed wrote to you on uiy way j)ver 
the Alps to prevent such an incident. Say in your 
next wlu'tlier or not the lolio'e of the canto (as sent 
to you) has been publi.-,lu;d. I wrote to vou again 
the other day, {tvnce I think,) and shall be glad to 
tear of the reception of those letters. 

" To-day is tlie 2d of January. (.)n (his day three 
vcars agf the Corsair's publication is dated, I think. 

;n my XeWvr to Mooro. On this day two years I grammar, English and AnnoniHU, for the 
fuaTird (' Whom the Lord lovoth he chasteneth," — 'the Armenians, of which I promoted, and 
r rtb.p t forget the day in a hurry,) uiul it is odd lindnoed. the publiontiou. (It cost n»e but u Uiow 

trjuj()r. that I this day received a letter from vou j ^ ■ . • — — ' 

inii^iuit intr the puUcutlou of Childe iiarold, ^o.J • ■#<■ rhUti^ u«rukL Mink< ui.. tunM IbM. umJ nut- 



papers, letters, and all the 
orig'inal MS.* of your third canto, as first conceived ; 
and the other some bones from the field of Morat. 
Many thanks for your news, and the good spuits in 
which your letter is A^Titten. 

"Venice and I agree very well; but I do net 
know that I have any thing new to say except of 
the last new opera, which I sent in my late letter. 
The Carnival is commencing, and there is a good 
deal of fun Aere and there — besides business ; for 
all the world are making up their intrigues for the 
season, changing, or going on upon a renewed 
lease. I am "very well oflT with Marianna, who is 
not at all a person to tire me ; firstly, because I do 
not tire of a woman persomtlly, but because they 
are freuerally bores in their disposition ; and, se- 
condly, because she is amiable, and has a tact which 
is not alw;iys the poi tioii of the fair creation ; and, 
thirdly, she is very pretty ; and, fourthly, — there is 
no occasion for farther specification. * * ♦ 
So far we have gone on very well ; as to the future, 
[ never anticipate, — rarpe diem — the past at least is 
one's own, which is one reason for making sure of 
the i)re8ent. So much for my proper liaison. 

" The general state of morals here is much the 
same as in the Doges' time : a woman is virtuous 
(according to the code) who limits herself to het 
liusband and one lover ; those who have two, three, 
or more, are a little wild ; but it is only tliose who 
ire indiscriminately diffuse, and form a low connex 
ion, such as the Princess of Wales wth her courier, 
(who, by the way, is made a knight of Malta,) who 
are considered as overstejjping the modesty of mat 
ria<;:e. In Venice, the nobility have a trick of ma' 
rying with dancers and singers ; and, truth to say, 
the women of their own order are by no means 
handsome; but the general race, the women of the 
second and other orders, the wives of the mer 
chants, and i)roprietors, and untitled gentry, are 
mostly heV sam/m, and it is with these that the 
more amatory conne.vions are usually formed. There 
are also iv.stances of stupendous constancy. I knew 
a woman of fifty who never had but one lover, who 
dving early, she became devout, renouncing all 
but her husband. She piques herself, as may be 
presimied, upon this mirmulous fidelitv, talking of 
it occasionally witli a species of niisnlaced moral 
ity, which is rather amusing. T|iere is no conviue 
ing a woman here that she is in the smallest dcssMei 
deviating from the rule of right or the Htiu -s of 
things in having an amoroso. The great sin sicms 
to lie in concealing it, or having more than one, 
that is, unless such an extension of the prerotfutive 
is understood and approved of by the prior cl r' ' 
In my case, I do not know that I had an} 
eessor, and am pretty sure that there is no ]' 
pator; aijd am incliiwd to think, from the vouih ui 
the imrty, and from the frank, undisgui«ed way in 
wliicn every body avows every thing in this. i)art of 
the WMrld. "wlien there is any' thing to avow, a« weU 
as from some other circumstances, such as the mar- 
riage being recent, Xc., \'i'.. Xc. that this 1« tbf 
premier pas. It does not much signify. 

•'In another sheet, I send vou some sheets of 9 

e ol 
.leed 



«48 



BYROJS'S WORKS. 



sand francs'- French li res.) I still pursue my 
essoas in thp langu.age vithout any rapid progress, 
Diit advancir.g a little daily. Pa<ire Paschal, with 
»ome little help from me, as translator of his Italian 
into English, is also proceeding in a MS. grammar 
for the English acquisition of Armenian, which will 
be printed also when finished. 

" We want to know if there are any Armenian 
types and letter-press in England, at Oxford, Cam- 
Dridge, or elsewhere ? You know, I suppose, that, 
uianv years ago, the two Whistons published in 
England an original text of a history of Armenia, 
with their own Latin translation ? Do those types 
still exist ? and where ? Pray inquire among your 
learned acquaintance. 

" When this grammar (I mean the one now print- 
ing) is done, will you have any objection to take 
forty or fifty copies, which will not cost in all above 
five or ten guineas, and try the curiosity of the 
learned with a sale of them ? Say yes or no, as you 
like. I can assure you that they have some very 
curious books and MSS., chiefly translations from 
Greek originals now lost. They are, besides, a 
much-respected and learned community, and the 
study of their language was taken up with great 
ardor by some literary Frenchmen in Bonaparte's 
time. 

"I have not done a stitch of poetry since I left 
Switzerland, and have not at present the estro upon 
me. The truth is, that you are afraid of having a 
fourth canto before September, and of another copy- 
right, but I have at present no thoughts of resum- 
ing that poem, nor of beginning any other. If I 
write, I think of trying prose, but I dread intro- 
ducing living people, or applications which might 
be made to living people. Perhaps one day or other 
I may attempt some work of fancy in prose, descrip- 
tive of Italian manners and of human passions ; 
but at present I am preoccupied. As for poesy, 
mine is the dream of the sleeping passions ; when 
they are awake, I cannot speak their language, 
only in their somnambulism, and just now they are 
not dormant. 

" If Mr. GifFord wants carte blanche as to the Siege 
of Corinth, he has it, and may do as he likes with 
it. 

"I sent you a letter contradictory of the Cheap- 
side man (who invented the story you speak of) the 
other day. My best respects to Mr. GifFord, and 
such of my friends as you may see at your house. 
I wish you all prosperity and new year's gratula- 
tion, and am. "Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXVI. 

TO MB. MOOBE. 

" Venice, Jan. 28, 1817. 

Your letter of the 8th is before me. The reme- 
dy for your plethora is simple — abstinence. I was 
obliged to have recourse to the like some years ago, 
I mean in point of diet, and, with the exception of 
some convivial weeks and days, (it might be months 
now and then,) have kept to Pythagoras ever since. 
For all this, let me hear that you are better. You 
must not indulge in ' filthy beer,' nor in porter, nor 
eat suppers— t\iQ last are the devil to those who 
swallow dinner. « * « ♦ 

" I am truly sorry to hear of your father's mis- 
fortune — cruel at any time, but doubly cruel in 
advanced life. However, you will, at least, have 
the satisfacticn of doing your part by him, and, 
depend upon it, it will not be in vain. Fortune, to 
be sure, is a female, but not such a b— h as the rest 
(always excepting your wife and my sister from 
such sweeping terms ;) for she generally has some 

(ustice in the lung run. I have no spite against 
ler, though, between her and Nemesis, I have had 
some sore gavntlets to run — ^but then I have done 



my best to deserve no better. But to you, she is n 
good deal in arrear, and she will come round — mind 
if she don't : you have the vigor of life, of inde- 
pendence, of talent, spirit, and character, all with 
you. What you can do for yourself, you have done 
and will do ; and surely there are some others in 
the world who would not be soiTy to be of use, il 
you would allow them to be vseful, or at least 
attempt it. 

'* I think of being in England in the spring. If 
there is a row, by the sceptre of King Ludd, but 
I'll be one ; and if there is none, and only a con- 
tinuance of * this weak, piping time of peace,' I 
will take a cottage a hundred yards to the south ci 
your abode, and become your neighbor ; and we 
vnW compose such canticles, and hold such dia- 
logues, as shall be the terror of the times, (includ- 
ing the newspaper of that name,) and the wonder, 
and honor, and praise of the Morning Chronicle 
and posterity. 

" I rejoice to hear of your forthcoming in Febru- 
ary — though I treruble for the magnificence which 
you attribute to the new Childe Harold. I am glad 
you like it ; it is a fine, indistinct piece of poetical 
desolation, and my favorite. I was half mad during 
the time of its composition, between mataphysics, 
mountains, lakes, love unextinguishable, thoughts 
unutterable, and the nightmare of my own delin 
quences. I should, many a good day, have bloven 
my brains out, but for the recollection that it would 
have given pleasure to my mother-in-law ; and. 
even then, if I could have been certain to hauni 
her, and fling the shattered scalp of my sinciput 
and occiput in her frightful face — but I won't dwell 
upon these trifling family matters. 

'•Venice is in the estro of her Carnival, and I 
have been up these last two nights at the ridotto 
and the opera, and tell that kind of thing. Now 
for an adventure. A few days ago a gondolier 
brought me a billet without a subscription, intimat- 
ing a wish on the part of the writer to meet me 
either in gondola, or at the island of San Lazaro, or 
at a third rendezvous indicated in the note. ' I 
know the country's disposition well,' — in Venice 
' they do let heaven see those tricks they dare not 
show,' &c., &c. ; so for all response, I said that 
neither of the three places suited me ; but that I 
would either be at home at ten at night alone, or 
be at the ridotto at midnight, where the vrriter 
might meet me masked. At ten o'clock I was at 
home and alone, (Marianna was gone with her hus- 
band to a conversazione,) when the door of my 
apartment opened, and in walked a well-looking 
and (for an Italian) bionda girl of about nineteen, 
who informed me that she was married to the bro- 
ther of my amoroso, and wished to have som« 
conversation with me. I made a decent reply, 
and we had some talk in Italian and Romaic, (hei 
mother being a Greek of Corfu;) when, lo ! in a 
very few minutes in marches, to my very great 
astonishment, Marianna S * *, in propria pei-son<B; 
and, after making a most polite curtsey to her 
sister-in-law and to me, without a single wnrd, 
seizes her said sister-in-law by the hair, and oe- 
stows upon her some sixteen slaps, which would 
have made your ear ache only to hear their echo. 
I need not describe the screaming which ensued. 
The luckless visiter took flight. I seized Marianna, 
who, after several vain efforts to get away in pursuit 
of the enemy, fairly went into fits in my arms ; and, 
in spite of reasoning, eau de Cologne, vinegar, half 
a pint of water, and God knows what other watei 
besides, continued so till past midnight. 

'' After damning my servants for letting people 
in without apprizing me, I found that Marianna in 
the morning had seen her sister-in-law's gondolier 
on the stairs ; and, suspecting that his apparition 
boded her no good, had either returned of her own 
accord, or been followed by her maids or some other 
spy of her people to the conversazione, from whenM 
she returned to perpetrate this piece of pugilism 



LETTERS. 



84d 



1 had seen fees befi " a/^d also some small scenery 
of the same geirns m and out of our island ; but 
this was not all. After about an hour, in comes — 
who ? why, Signor S * *, her lord and husband, 
and finds me with his wife fainting upon a sofa, 
and all the apparatus of confusion, dishevelled hair, 
hats, handkerchiefs, salts, smelling bottles — and 
the lady as pale as ashes, without sense or motion. 
His first question was, ' What is all this } ' The 
lady could not reply — so I did. I told him the 
explanation was the easiest thing in the world ; but 
in the mean time, it would be as well to recover his 
wife — at least her senses. This came about in due 
time of suspiration and respiration. 

'• You need not be alarmed — jealousy is not the 
order of the day in Venice, and daggers are out of 
fashion, while duels on love matters, are unknown 
— at least, with the husbands. But, for al] this, it 
was an awkward affair , and though he must have 
known that I made love to Marianna, yet I believe 
: he was not till that evening, aware of the extent 
I to which it had gone. — It is very well known that 
1 almost all t'le married women have a lover ; but it 
; is usual to keep up the forms, as in other nations. 
I did not, therefore, know what the devil to say. I 
could not out with the truth, out of regard to her, 
and I did not choose to lie for my sake ; — besides, 
the tiling told itself, I thought the best way would 
be to let her explain it as she chose, (a woman 
being never at a*loss — the Devil always sticks by 
them) — only determining to protect and carry her 
? off, in case of any ferocity on the part of the Signor. 
I I saw that he was quite calm. She went to bed, and 
I next day — how they settled it, I know not, but settle 
1 it they did. "Well — then I had to explain to Mari- 
anna about this never-to-be- sufficiently-confounded 
! sister-in-law ; which I did by sWearing innocence, 
eternal constancy, &c., &c. * * * 

****** 

But the sister-in-law, very much discomposed with 
being treated in such wise, has (not having her own 
shame before her eyes), told the affair to half Ve- 
nice, and the servants (who were summoned by the 
fight and the fainting), to the other half. But here, 
nobody minds such trifles, except to be amused by 
them. I don't know whether you will be so, but 1 
have scrawled a long letter out of these follies. 

♦' Believe me ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Jan. 34, 1817. 

• •«««« 

•' I have been requested by the Countess Albrizzi 
here to present her. with 'the Works:' and wish 
you therefore to send me a copy, that I may comply 
with her requisition. You may include the last 
published, of which I have seen and know nothing, 
put from your letter of the 13th of December. 

*' Mrs. Leigh tells me that most of her friends 
prefer the first two cantos. I do not know whether 
this be the general opinion or not, (it is not hers)) 
but it is natural it should be so. I, nowevor, think 
differently, which is natural also ; but who is right, 
or who is wrong, is of very little consequence. 

Dr. Polidori, as I hear from him by letter from 
Pisa, is about to return to England, to go to the 
Brazils on a medical speculation with the Danish 
consul. As you are in the favor of the powers 
that be, could you not get him some letters of 
recomniendation from some of your government 
friends to some of the Portuguese settlers } he 
understands his profesHiori well, and has no want 
of general talents ; his faults are the faults of a 
pnrdonablc vanity and yoiith. His remaining with 
wne wan out of the question: I have orOMgh to do 
107 







to manage my owt» bcrapes ; and as precepts with- 
out example are not the most gracious homilies, 1 
thought it better to give him his conge : but I know 
no great harm of him, and some good. He is clever 
and accomplished ; knows his profession; by aL 
accounts, well ; and is honorable in his dealings 
and not at all malevolent. I think, with luck, he 
will turn out a useful member of society, (from 
which he will lop the diseased members,) and the 
College of Physicians. If you can be of any use 
to him, or know any one who can, pray be so, as he 
has his fortune to make. He has kept a medical 
jouTTial under the eye of Vacca, (the first surgeoi\ 
on the continent,) at Pisa : Vacca has corrected it, 
and it must contain some valuable hints or informa- 
tion on the practice of this country. If yr^i can 
aid him in publishing this also, by your influer ce 
with your brethren, do ; I do not ask you to publish 
it yourself, because that sort of request is too per- 
sonal and embarrassing. He has also a tragedy, of 
which, having seen nothing, I say nothing : hut the 
very circumstance of his having made these efforts 
(if they are only efforts), at one-and-twenty, is in 
his favor, and proves him to have "ood dispositions 
for his own improvement. So if, in the way of 
commendation or recommendation, you can aid his 
objects with your government friends, I wish you 
would. I should think some of your Admiralty 
Board might be likely to have it in their power." 



LETTER CCCXVIIT 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Feb. 15, 181/. 

*' I have received your two letters, but not tho 
parcel you mention. As the Waterloo spoils arf 
arrived, I will make you a present of them, if yoM 
choose to accept of them ; pray do. 

" I do not exactly understand from your letter 
what has been omitted, or what not, in the publi- 
cation ; but I shall see probably some day or other 
I could not attribute any but a good motive to Mr. 
Gifford or yourself in such omission ; but as our poli- 
tics are so very opposite, we should probably differ 
as to the passages. However, if it is only a note or 
notes, or a line or so, : annot signify, You say ' a 
poem;' what poem? You can tell me in your 
next. 

"Of Mr. Hobhouse's quarrel mth the Quarterh 
Review, I know very little except ♦ ♦'s article itself, 
which was certainly harsh enough : but I quite agree 
that it would have been better not to answer — par- 
ticularly after Mr. IF. IF. who never more will trouble 
you, trouble you. I have been uneasy, because Mr, H 
told me that his letter or preface was to be addressed 
to me. Now, he and I are friends of many years- 
I have many obligations to him, and he none to me, 
which have not been cancelled and more than re- 
paid ; but Mr. Gifford and I are friends also, tudhc I 
has moreover been literally so throuL'h th;. k ana 
thin, in despite of diiference of ycius, lu.irals, 
habits, and even politics ; and therefore I feel in a 
very awkward situation between the two, Mr. Gif- 
ford and my friend ^lobhouse, and can only wish 
that they had no difference, or that such as thoy 
have were acommodated. The answer I have nol 
seen, for — it is odd enough for jioople so intimate— 
but Mr. Ilobhouse and I are very K])aring of our lit- 
erary confidences. For example, tlie other day he 
wished to have a MS. of the third canto to read over 
to his brother, v*{:c., which was refused ; — and 1 havf 
never seen his journals, nor he miiu' — (I only keol 
the short one of the mountains for my sister) — nor 
do I think that hardly ever he or 1 saw uny of th* 
other's productions previous to their puhlicution. 

"The article in the Kdingbnrgh Review on Col*. 
iMgc I have not seen; but whether I aniattaokvl 



850 



BYRON'S WORKS 



in it or not, or in any other of the same journal, I 

shall never think ill of Mr. Jeffrey on that account, 
ri(»r forget that his conduct towards me has been 
certainly most handsome during the last four or 
more years. 

" I forgot to mention to you that a kind of poem 
in dialogue* (in blajik verse) or drama, from which 
* The Incantation' is an extract, begun last summer 
in Switzcrla-nd, is finished ; it is in three acts ; but of 
a very wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable kind. 
Almost all the persons— but two or three— are 
spu-its of the earth and air, or the waters ; the 
scene is in the Alps ; the hero a kind of magician, 
who is tormented bv a species of remorse, the cause 
of which is left half unexplained. He wanders 
about invokiug these spirits, which appear to him, 
aTi 1 are of no use ; he at last goes to the very abode 
of the EvU Principle, in propria joersonce, to evocate 
% ghost, which appears, and gives him an ambiguous 
and disagreeable answer ; and in the third act he is 
found bv his attendants dying in a tower where he 
had studied his att. You'may perceive by this out- 
'ine that I have no great opinion of this piece^ of 
phantasy ; but I have at least rendered it quite im- 
possible for the stage, for which my intercourse with 
Drnry Lane has given me the greatest contempt, 

" I have not even copied it off, and feel too lazy 
at present to attempt the whole ; but when I have, 
I will send it you, and you may either throw it into 
die fire or not," 



LETTER CCCXIX. 

•^n MT^. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Feb. 25, 1817. 

" I wrote to you the other day in answer to your 
letter ; at present, I would trouble you with a com- 
mission, if you would be kind enough to under- 
take it. 

" You perhaps know Mr. Love, the jeweller, of 
Old Bond street. In 1813, when in the intention of 
; returning to Turkey, I purchased of him, and paid 
' (argent comptant) about a dozen snuff-boxes, of 
more or less value, as presentsfor some of my AIus- 
sulman acquaintance. These I have now with me. 
The other day, having occasion to make an altera- 
tion in the lid of one, (to place a portrait in it,) it 
has turned out to be sUver-gilt instead of gold, for 
which last it was sold and paid for. This was dis- 
covered by the workman in trying it, before taking 
of the hinges and working upon the lid. I 
have of course recalled and preserved the box in 
statu qux). What I wish you to do is, to see the 
said Mr. Love, and inform him of this circum- 
. stance, adding from me, that I will take care he 
/• shall not have done this with impunity. 

" If there is no remedy in law, there is at least 
! the equitable one of making known his guilt, — that 
is, his ^Vver gilt, and be d — d to him. 

"I '^i 11 carefully preserve all the purchases I 
mtide . : him on that occasion f6r my return, as the 
plague ii: Turkey is a barrier to travelling there at 
present, or rather the endless quarantine which 
would bs the consequence before one could land in 
coming back. Pray state the Aatter to him with 
due ferocity. 

" I sent you the other day some extracts from a 
kind of drama which I had' begun in Switzerland 
and finished here ; you will tell me if they are re- 
ceived. They were only in a letter. I have not yet 
Jiad energy to copy it out, or I would send you the 
whole in different covers. 

" The carnival closed this day last week. 

" Mr. Hobhouse is still at Rome, I believe. I am 
at present a little unwell ; sitting up too late and 
9ome subsidijiry dissipations have lowered my blood 



a good deal; but I l'.«ive a', present the quiet auJ 

temperance of Lent before me. 

"P. S. Remember me to Mr. Gifford. I have 

not received your parcel or parcels. Look into 
' Moore's (Dr. Moore's) View of Italy' for me ; iv 
one of the volumes you will find an account of the 
Doge Valiere (it (^ght to be Falieri) and his con 
spiracy, or the motives of it. Get it transcribed foj 
me, and send it in a letter to me soon. I want r't, 
and cannot find so good an account of that busir -.s/i 
here ; though the veiled patriot, and the place 
where he was crowned, and afterwards decapitated, 
still exist, and are shoAA'n. I have searched all theii 
histories ; but the policy of the old aristocracy madf. 
their writers silent on his motives, which were a j.ii 
vate grievance against one of the patricians. 

" I mean to write a tragedy on the subject, whi'.h 
appears to me very dramatic; an old man, jealoi.;^, 
and conspiring against the state, of which he W5.a 
ttie actually reigning chief. The last circumstance 
makes it the most remarkable and only f??t of the 
kind in all history of all nations. 



LETTER CCCXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. • 

" Venice, Feb. 98, 1817. 

"You will, perhaps, complain as much of th« 
frequency of my letters now, as you we^e wont to 
do of their rarity. I think this is the fourth within 
as many moons. I feel anxious to hear' from you, 
even more than usual, because your last indicated 
that you were unwell. At present, I am on the in- 
valid regimen. myself. The Carnival — that is, the 
latter part of it — and sitting up late o' nights^ had 
knocked me up a little. But it is over, — and it 
is now Lent, with all its abstinence and sacred 
music. 

" The mumming closed with a masked ball at the 
Fenice, where I went, as also to most of the 
ridottas, &c., &c. ; and though I did not dissipate 
much upon the whole, yet I find ' the sword wearing 
out the scabbard,' though I have but just turned the 
corner of twenty-nine. 

" So we'll g'o no more a rovinjf 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 
For the sword outwears its sheath. 

And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 

And !ove itself have rest. 
Though the tiight was made for loving. 

And the day returns too soon, 
yet we'll go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 

I have lately had some news of litterafoof , as 1 
heard the editor of the Monthly pronounce it once 
upon a time. I heard that W. W. has been pub 
lishing and responding to the attacks of the Quiur- 
terly, in the learned Perry's Chronicle. I read hJ3 
poesies last autumn, and', among them, found aa 
epitaph on his bull-dog, and another on myself. 
But I beg leave to assure him (like the astrologer 
Partridge) that I am not only alive now, but was 
alive also at the time he wrote it. * * 

♦ ♦***•" 

Hobhouse has (I hear, also) expectorated a letter 
against the Quarterly, addressed to me. I feel 
awkwardly situated between him and Giffoid, both 
being my friends. 

" And this is your month of going to press — by 
the body of Diana ! Ta Venetian oath,) I feel as 
anxious — but not feaj-ful for you — as if it were my- 
self coming out in a work of humor, which would, 
you know, be the. antipodes of all my preriouf 



LEITERS. 



85: 



publiBations. I don't think you have any thing to 
dread but your OAvn reputation. You must keep 
ap to that. As you never showed me a line of your 
T7ork, I do not even know your measure ; but you 
must send me a copy by Murray forthwith, and then 
you shall hear what I think. I dare say you are in 
a pucker. Of all authors, you are the only really 
modest one I ever met with, which would sound 
oddly enough to those who recollect your morals 
when you were young — that is, when you were ex- 
tremely young — I don't mean to stigmatize you 
either with years or morality. 

" I believe I told you that the Edinburgh Review 
nad atttacked me, in an article on Coleridge (I have 
not seen it) — ^ Et tu, Jeffrey?' — 'there is nothing 
but roguery in villanous man.' But I absolve him 
of all attacks, present and future ; for I think he 
had already pushed his clemency in my behoof to 
the utmost, and I shall always think well of him. 
I only wonder he did not begin before, as my domes- 
tic desti uction was a fine opening for all the world, 
of which all, who could, did well to avail themselves. 
"If I live ten years longer, you" will see, however, 
that it is not over with me — I don't mean in litera- 
ture, for that is nothing ; and it may seem odd 
enough to say, I do not think it my vocation. But 
.' you will see that I shall do something or other — 
I the time^ and fortune permitting — that 'like the 
1 cosmogony, or creation of the world, will puzzle 
Vythe philoso])hers of all ages.' But I doubt whether 
my constitution will bold out. I have, at intervals, 
exorcised it most devilishly. 

"I have not yet fixed a time of return, but I 
think of the spring. I shall have been away a year 
in April next. You never mention Rogers, nor 
Hodgson, your clerical neighbor, who has lately got 
a living near you. Has he also got a child yet ? — 
his desideratum when I saw him last. 

* * It * * It 

" Pray, let me hear from you, at your time and 
leisure, believing me ever and truly, and affection- 
ately, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, March 8, 1817. 

" In acknowledging the arrival of the article from 
the ' Quarterly,'* which I received two days ago, I 
cannot express myself better than in the words of 
my sister Augusta", who (speaking of it) says, that 
it is written in a spirit ' of the most feeling and 
kind nature.' It is, however, something more : it 
Bceras to uie (as far as the subject of it may be 
permitted to judge) to be very well written as a 
composition, and I think will do the journal no 
discredit, because even those who condemn its 
partiality must praise its generosity. The temp- 
tations to take another and a less favorable view 
of the question have been so great and numerous, 
that, what with public opinion, politics, I'ic, he 
must be a gallant as well as a good man, who has 
ventured in that place, and at this time, to >Yrite 
such an article even anonymously. Stich things 
are, however, their own reward, and I even liattcr 
mys(!lf that the writer, whoever he may be, (and 1 
have no guess,) will not regret that the perussil of 
this has given me as much gratification as any 
composition of that nature could give, and more 
than iiny other has givrn, — and I have had a good 
many in my time of one kind or the other. It is 
ttot the nu're i)raise, but there is a tact and a dcli- 
sary throiighout, not onlv with regard to me, btit 
to others, which, as it had not been observed eUe- 



* &i nrUcIo III niiintier xxxl. uTdiit Hcvtow,^ 
Waid diMororad, by 8U Walter Hcuu. 



en, u Lord Byron Hftor- 



where, I had till now doubted whether it could Of 
observed any where. 

"Perhaps some day or other you will know oz 
tell rue the writer's name. Be assured, h;td tlip 
article been a harsh one, I should not have asked it 

" I have lately written to you frequently, with 
extracts, &c., which I hope you have received, or 
will receive, with or befcre this letter. — Ever since 
the conclusion of the Carnival I have been unwell^ 
(do not mention this, on any account, to Mrs. 
Leigh : for if I grow worse, she will know it too 
soon, and if I get better, there is no occasion tbi.t 
she should know it at all,) and have hardly stirred 
out of the house. However, I don't want a physi- 
cian, and if I did, very luckily those of Italy ara 
the Avorst in the world, so that I should still hs ve a 
chance. They have, I believe, one famous surgecti, 
Vacca, who lives at Pisa, who might be useful in 
case of dissection : — but he is some hundred miles 
off. My malady is a sort of slowish fever, originat- 
ing from what my 'pastor and master,' Jackson, 
would call ' taking too much out of one's self.' 
However, I am better within this day or two. 

"I missed seeing the new Patriarch's procession 
to St. Mark's the other day, (owing to my indispo- 
sition,) with six hundred and fifty priests in his 
rear — a 'goodly army.' The admirable government 
of Vienna, in its edict from thence, authorizing hia 
installation, prescribed, as part of the pageant ' a 
coach and four horses.' To show how very ^ ger 
man to the matter ' this was, you have only to 
suppose our parliament commanding the Archbishop 
of Canterbury to proceed from Hyde Park Corner 
to St. Paul's Cathedral in the Lord Mayor's barge, 
or the Margate hoy. There is but St. Mark'u 
Place in all Venice broad enough for a carriage to 
move, and it is paved with large smooth flag stones, 
so that the chariot and horses of Elijah himself 
would be puzzled to manoeuvre upon it. Those of 
Pharaoh might do better ; for the canals, — and 
particularly the Grand Canal, are sulficiently ca- 
]iacious and extensive for his whole host. 01 
course, no coach could be attempted ; but the 
Venetians who are very naive as well as aich, 
were much amused wth the ordinance. 

" The Armenian Grammar is pul)lished ; but my 
Armenian studies are suspended for the present till 
my head aches a little less. I sent you t^ie other 
day, in two covers, the first act of 'Manfred,' a 
drama as mad as Nat. Lee's Bedlam tragedy, which 
was in twenty-five acts, and some odd scenes :— 
mine is but in three acts. 

" I find I have begun this letter at the wrong end 
never mind ; I must end it, then, at tlie right. 
"Yours ever, very truly and ol)ligedly, »tc 



LETTER CCCXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venlc*. Mareh 9, \9\l , 

" In remitting the third act* of the sort of dra 
matic poem, of which you will by this tinie ha\e 
received the first t vo, (at Irast 1 hope so,) which 
were sent within tlu last tluee weeks, I have little 
to observe, except I'lat you nmst not puMish it (if it 
ever is ptiblislii'd) w thout giving me previous notice. 
1 have reallv and truly no notion whether it is good 
or bad ; anfl as this was not the case with the prin 
cipal of my former publications, 1 am, therelore, 
inclined to/iank it very humbly. You will s\ii>mit 
it to Mr. Gidbrd, ami to whomsoever you pie ist' 
besides. With regard to the question of copyriglil 
(if it ever comes to publieatitui,) I do not know 
whe»l»er you would think three htiiuircd guiuctu* ac 
over-estiinutc; if you do, you may diminiaU it- 1 



B.52 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Jo not think it worth more ; so you may see I make 
some difference between it and the others. 

" I have received your two reviews, (but not the 
• Tales of My Landlord ; ') the Quarterly I acknow- 
ledged particularly to you, on its arrival, ten days 
ago. What you tell me of Perry petrifies me ; it 'is 
a rank imposition. In or about February or March, 
1816, I was given to understand that Mr. Croker 
was not only a coadjutor in the attacks of the 
Courier in 1814, but the author of some lines tolera- 
bly ferocious, then recently published in a morning 
paper. Upon this I wrote a reprisal. The whole of 
the lines I have forgotten, and even the purport of 
them I scarcely remember ; for on your assurmg me 
that he was not, &c., &c., I put them into the Jlre 
before your face, and there never was but that one 
rough copy. Mr. Davies, the only person who ever 
heard them read, wanted a copy, which I refused. 
If, however, by some impossibility , which I cannot 
divine, the ghosts of these rhymes should walk into 
the world, 1 never will deny what I have really 
written, but hold myself personally responsible for 
satisfaction, though I reserve to myself the right of 
disavowing all or siny fabrications. To the previous 
facts you are a witness, and best know how far my 
recapitulation is correct; and I request that you 
will inform Mr. Perry from me, that I wonder he 
should permit such an abuse of my name in his 
paper ; I say an abuse, because my absence, at least, 
demands some respect, and my presence and posi- 
tive sanction could alone justify him in such a pro- 
ceeding, even were the lines mine; and if false, 
there are no words for him. I repeat to you that 
the original was burnt before you on your assurance, 
and there never was a copy, nor even a verbal repeti- 
tion, — very much to the discomfort of some zealous 
Whigs, who bored me for them (having heard it 
oruited by Mr. Davies that there were such matters) 
to no purpose ; for, having written them solely with 
the notion that Mr. Croker Avas the aggressor, and 
for my own and not party reprisals, I would nt)t lend 
me to the zeal of any sect when I was made aware 
that he was not the Avriter of the offensive passages. 
You know, if there was such a thing, I would not 
deny it. I mentioned it openly at the time to you, 
and you will remember why and where I destroyed 
it ; and no power nor wheedling on earth should 
have made, or could make me, (if I recollected 
them,) give a copy after that, unless I was well 
assured that Mr. Croker was really the author of 
that which you assured me he was not. 

" I intend for England this spring, where I have 
some affairs to adjust : but the post hurries me. 
For this month past I'have been unwell, but am 
getting better, and thinking of moving homewards 
towards May, without going to Rome, as the un- 
healthy season comes on soon, and I can return 
when I have settled the business I go upon, which 
need not be long. * * * * I should have thought 
ihe Assyrian tales very succeedable. 

" I saw, in Mr. W. W.'s poetry, that he had writ- 
ten my epitaph : I would rather have vnritten his. 

" The thing I have sent you, you will see at a 
glimpse, could never be attempted" or thought of for 
Mio stage ; I much doiibt it for publication even. It 
\b too much in my old style; but I composed it 
a^rtually with a horror of the stage, and with a view 
to render the thought of it impracticable, knowing 
the zeal of my friends that I should try that for 
w'u'ih I have an invincible repugnance, viz., arepre- 
eentation. 

•' I certainly am a devil of a mannerist, and must 
leave otf; but what could I do ? Without exertion 
of some kind, I should have sunk under my imagi- 
nation and reality. My best respects to Mr. Gif- 
f rd, to Wa 'isr Scott, and to all friends. 

"Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCXXIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, Marth\e,l«l/ 

"I wrote again to you lately, but I tope you 
won't be sorry to have another epistle. I have beei\ 
unwell this last month, with a kind of slow and loir 
fever, which fixes upon me at night, and goes off in 
the morning ; but, however, I am now better. Ie 
spring it is probable we may meet ; at least I intend 
for England, where I have business, and hope to 
meet you in your restored health and additional 
laurels. 

** Murray has sent me the Quarterly and the Edin- 
burgh. When I tell you that Walter Scott is the 
author of the article in the former, you will agree 
with me that such an article is still more honorable 
to him than to myself. I am perfectly pleased with 
Jeffrey's also, which I wish you to tell hira, with my 
remembrances — not that I suppose it is of any con- 
sequence to him, or ever could have been, whether 
I am pleased or not,— but simply in my private rela- 
tion to him, as his well-wisher, and it maybe, one 
day, as his acquaintance. I wish you would also 
add, — what you know, — that I was not, and, indeed, 
am not even now, the misanthropical and gloomy 
gentleman he takes me for, but a facetious com- 
panion, well to do with those with whom I am inti- 
mate, and as loquacious and laughing as if I were 
a much cleverer fellow. 

' I suppose now I shall never be able to shake off 
my sables in public imagination, more particularly 
since my moral * * clove down my fame. However, 
nor that, nor more than that, has yet extinguished 
my spirit, which always rises with the rebound. 

' At Venice we are in Lent, and I have not lately 
moved out of doors, — my feverishness requiring 
quiet, — and — by way of being more quiet — here is 
the Signora Marianna just come in and seated at my 
elbow. 

' Have you seen * * *'s book of poesy ? and, if 
you have seen it, are you not delighted with it ? 
And have you — I really cannot go on. There is a 
pair of great black eyes looking over my shoulder, 
like the angel leaning over St. Matthew's in the old 
frontispiece to the Evangelists, — sD that I must 
turn and answer them instead of you. 

" Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, March 25, 1817. 

"I have at last learned, in default of your own 
writing, (or not writing — which should it be ? for I 
am not very clear as to the application of the word 
default,) from Murray, two particulars of (are belong- 
ing to) you ; one, that you are removing to Homsey, 
which is, I presume, to be nearer London ; and the 
other, that your poem is announced by the name ol 
Lalla Rookh. I am glad of it, — first, that we are 
to have it at last, and next, I like a tough title my 
self — witness the Giaour and Childe Harold, which 
choked half the Blues at starting. Besides, it is the 
talk of Alcibiades's dog, — not that I suppose you 
want either dog or tail. Talking of tail, I wish you 
had not called it a 'Persian Tale.' Say a* poem' 
or ' romance,' but not ' lale.' I am very sorry that 
I called some of my own things tales, because I 
think that they are something better. Besides, we 
have had Arabian, and Hindoo, and Turkish, and 
Assyrian Tales. But, after all, this is frivolous in 
me ; you won't, however, mind my nonsense. 

"Really and truly, I want you to make a greai 
hit, if only out of self-love, because we happen to be 
old cronies, and I have no doubt you will—I am 
Bure vou can. But you are, I'll be sworn, in a devil 



LETTERS. 



8 55 



of a pucker ; and I am not at your eloow, and 
Rogers is. I envy him ; which is not fair, because 
ae does not envy any body. Mind you send to me 
—that is, make Murray send — the moment you are 
forth. 

'* I have been very ill with a slow fever, which at 
fast took to tiying, and became as quick as need be. 
But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burn- 
ing skin, thirst, hot headache, horrible pulsation, 
and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and 
refusing to see any physician, Ixecovered. It is an 
epidemic of the place, which is annual, and visits 
strangers. Here follow some versicles, which I 
made one sleepless night : 

" I reatJ '.he ' Ghristabel : ' 

Very well : 
I read the ' Missionary ; ' 

PreKy — very : 
1 tried at ' llderim; ' 

Ahem 1 
1 »ead a slieet of ' Marg'ret of Anjou ; 

Oz/i you 7 
I turn'd a page of ' * • 's Waterloo ; ' 

Pooh I Pooh t 
. looked at Wordsworth's milk-white ' Rylctone Doe ; 

Hillo ! 
I read ileiiarvon ' too, by * * * • 

God d— n I " 



" I have not the least idea where I am going, 
nor what I am to do. I wished to have gone to 
Kome ; but at present it is pestilent with English, 
—a parcel of staring boobies, who go about gaping 
and wishing to be at once cheap and magnificent. 
A man is a fool who travels now in France or Italy, 
till this tribe of wretches is swept home again. In 
two or three years the first rush will be over, and 
/ the Continent will be roomy and agreeable. 

" I stayed at Venice chiefly because it is not one 
of their ' dens of thieves ; ' and here they but pause 
and pass, in Switzerland it was really noxious. 
Luckily, I was early, and had got the prettiest place 
on ail the lake before they were quickened into 
motion Avith the rest of reptiles. But they crossed 
me every whore. I met a family of children and 
old women half way up the Wengen Alp (by the 
Jungfrau) upon mules, some of them too old and 
others too young to be the least aware of what they 
saw. 

** By-the-way, I think the Jungfrau, and all that 
region of Alps, which I traversed in September — 
going to the very top of the Wengen, which is not 
the highest, (the Jungfrau itself is inaccessible,) 
but the best point of view — much finer than Mont 
Blanc and Chamouni, or the Siniplon. I ke[)t a 
journal of the whole for my sister Augusta, part of 
which she copied and let Murray see. 

" I wrote a sort of mud drama, for the sake of 
introducing the Alpine scenery in description ; and 
this 1 sent lately to Murray. Almost all the dram, 
pern, are spirits, ghosts, or magicians, and the scene 
IS in the Alps anu the othtu- world ; so you may sup- 
pose what a bedlam tragedy it must be : make him 
show it you. I sent him all three acts piecemeal, 
by the post, and suppose tliey have arrived. 

♦' I have now written to you iit least six letters, or 
letten/A', and all 1 have received in return is a note 
about the length you Jised to write from Bury street 
to St. James's street, when we used to dine with 
Ilogers, and talk laxly, and go to parties, and hear 
poor Sheridan now and then. Do you remember 
one night he was so tipsy that I was forced to put 
tiis cocked hut oti for him, — for he could not, — and 
I let him down at Ikookes's, much as he must since 
have been let down into his grave. Heigh ho ! 1 
wish 1 wai: driink — hut I have nothing but this d^^l 
barley wafcer l)ofnve me. 
I •' I am still in love — which is a dreadful drawback 

*■ In quitting a place, and I can't stay at Venice minh 
onger V hat I shall do on this point I don't 



know. The gir« means to gi with me, but I do not 
like this for her own sake. I have had so many 
conflicts in my own mind on this subject, that I axa 
not at all snre they did not help me to the fever I 
mentioned above. I am ceitainly very much at- 
tached to her, and I have cause to be so, if you 
knew all. But she has a child ; and though, like 
all the 'children of the sun,' she consults nothing 
but passion, it is necessary I should think for both ; 
and it is only the virtuous, like * * ♦ *, who can 
afford to give up husband and child, and Uve happy 
ever after. 

"The Italian ethics are the most singular evei 
met with. The perversion, not only of actio'i, bit 
of reasoning, is singular in the women. It is not 
that they do not consider the thing itself as wiong 
and very wrong, but love (the sentiment of love) is 
not merely an excuse for it, but makes itan acttial 
virtue, provideuit is disinterested, and nofa caprice, 
and is confined to one object. They have awful no- 
tions of constancy ; for I have seen some ancient 
figures of eighty pointed out as amorosi of forty, 
fifty, and sixty years' standing. I can't say I have 
ever seen a husband and wife so counled. 

" Ever, &c. 

"P. S. Marianna, to whom I have just translated 
what I have written on our subject to you, says— 
' If you loved me thoroughly, you would not make 
so many fine reflections, which are only good for 
birsi i scarpi,' — that is, 'to clean shoes withal,' — a 
Venetian proverb of appreciation, which is applica 
cable to reasoning of all kinds." 



LETTER CCCXXV 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Mivrch 25, 1817. 

"Your letter and enclosure are safe; but ' Eng- 
lish gentlemen ' are very rare — at least in Venice. I 
doubt whether there are at present any save the 
consul and vice-consul, with neither of whom I have 
the slightest acquaintance. The moment I can 
pounce upon a witness, 1 will send the deed properly 
signed : but must he necessarily be genteel ? Venice 
is not a place where the English are gregariiais ; 
their pigeon-houses are Florence, Naples, Kome, 
&c. ; and to tell you the truth, this was one reason 
why I stayed here till the season of the purgation 
of llome from these people, which is infected with 
them at this time, should arrive. Besides, 1 abhor 
the nation, and tlie nation me ; it is impossible for 
me to describe my otrn sensation on that point, but 
it may suffice to say, that, if I met with any of the 
race in the beautiful parts of Switzerland, t^ie mon 
distant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the 
whole scene ; and I do not choose tt) have the Tan- 
theon, and St. I'oter's, and the Capitol, spoiled for 
me too. This feeling may be probably owing to 
recent events; but it does not exist the less, »nd 
while it exists, I shall conceal it s.8 little is awj 
other. 

•' I have been seriously ill with a fever, but it u 
gone. I believe or supnose it was tne iniignioi* 
fever of the place, which comes ev«'ry year at thia 
time, and of which the physicians change the name 
annually, to despatch the people sooner. It is • 
kind of typhus, and kills occasi()nally. It was pret 
ty smart, l)ut nothing particular, and has left me 
some diibility and a great appetite. There are a 
good many ill at present, I supposf of the same. 

" 1 I'oi'l sorry for Horner, if tlure vas unv thing 
in the world to make him like it: jiul still niore 
sorry for his friends, as there was nuuh to m.ikc 
them rigret him. I had not heard of his death tiU 
by yotir letter. 

•• Son>e weeks ago I wrote to you my acknow 
ledgmunts uf Walter Scott'u tutielo. Now I kuo\« 



654 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



it to oe hw, it cannot add to my good opinion of 
him but it adds to tha : of myself. He, and GifFord, 
and Moore are the only regulars I ever knew who 
had nothing of the garrison about their manner : 
no i.onsense, nor affectations, look you ! As for 
the rest whom I have known, there was always 
more or less of the author about them — the pen 
peeping from behind the ear, and the thumbs a little 
inky or so. 

" ' Lalla Rookh ' — you must recollect that in the 
way of title, the ' Giaour ' has never been pro- 
tiouuced to this day ; and both it and Childe Harold 
sotnided very facetious to the blue-bottles of wit 
and humor about town, till they were taught and 
Btart'.ed into a proper deportment; and therefore 
Lallu liookh, which is very orthodox and oriental, 
is as good a title as need be, if not better. I could 
wish rather that he had not called it ' a Persian 
Tale ; ' firstly, because we have had Turkish Tales, 
and Hindoo Tales, and Assyrian Tales akeady ; and 
tale is a word of which it repents me to have nick- 
named poesy. ' Fable' would be better ; and, sec- 
ondly, ' Persian Tale ' reminds one of the lines of 
Pope on Ambrose Phillips ; though no one can say, 
to be sure, that this tale has been ' turned for half- 
a-crown ; ' still it is as well to avoid such clashings. 
' Persian Story ' — why not ?— or Romance ? I feel 
as anxious for Moore as I could do for myself, for 
the soul of me, and I would not have him succeed 
othermse than splendidly, which I trust he will do. 

" With regard to the ' Witch Drama,' I sent all 
the three acts by post, week after week, within this 
last m( nth. I repeat that I have not an idea if it 
is good or bad. If bad, it must, on no account, be 
risked in publication ; if good, it is at your service. 
/I value it at three hundred guineas, or less, if you 
like it. Perhaps, if publishe.d, the best way will be 
to add it to your winter volume, and not publish 
separately. Th° price will show you I don't pique 
myself upon it ; so spetik out. You may put it in 
the fire, if you like, and Gifford don't like. 

'* The Armenian Grammar is piiblished — that is, 
one ; the other is still in MS. My illness has pre- 
vented me from moving this month past, and I have 
done nothing more with the Armenian. 

" Of Italian or rather Lombard manners, I could 
tell you little or nothing : I went two or three times 
to the governor's conversazione, (and if you go 
once, you are free to go always,) at which, as I only 
saAv very plain women, a formal cii-cle, in short, a 
worst sort of rout, I did not go again. I went to 
Academie and to Madame Albrizzi's, where I saw 
pretty much the same thing, with the addition of 

t Bome literati, who are the same blue,* by , all 

the world over. I fell in love the first week with 
M.idame * *, and I have continued so ever since, 
because she is very pretty and pleasing, and talks 
Venetian, which amuses me, and is naive. I have 
Been all their spectacles and sights; but I do not 
Know any thing very worthy of observation, except 

that the women /cm better than those of any other 

naCioiT, whicTTls' noTofious, and attributed to the 
w^orship of images, and the early habit of osculation 
iLduced thereby. *' Very truly, &c. 

"P. S. Pray send the red tooth-powder by a safe 
\and, and speedily. 

• * * * * * .j- 

" To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 

Have putlUhed ' Anjou's Margaret,' 
Which won't be sold ofl' in a hurry, 

(At least, it hag not been as yet ;) 
And th}n, still farther to bewililer 'em, 
Wilho 11 remorse you set up ' Ilderim ; ' 

So mind you don't get into debt, 
Because oa how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 



" Whenever a word or passage occurs, (as in this instance,) which Lord 
tfTroo would have pronounced emphatically in speaking, it appears, in his 
tAD't.t'VTiting, as if written with eotncthing of the same vehemence. — Moore. 

t IIct* fcllo* s llie same rhymes (" I read the Christabel," &c.) which 
*»!«» ffven in one of bis letters Us -myself. — Moore. 



'' And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Morning Post or Pwtfjr. 

Which would be very treacherona — very, 
And get me into such a scrape I 
For, firstly. I sliould have to sally, 
All in my little boat, against a GalUy ;* 
And should 1 chance to slay the Assyrian wifht, 
Have next to combat with the female knight, 
And, prick'd to death, expire upon her neerlle— 
A sort of end which 1 should take indeed Ul t 

*' You may show these matters to Moore and the 
select, but not to lh.e profane ; and tell Moore, that 
I wonder he don't write to one now and then." 



LETTER CCCXXVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, March 31, 1817. 

" You will begin to think my epistolary ofFeringH 
(to whatever altar you please to devote them) rathei 
prodigal. But until you answer I shall not abate, 
because you deserve no better. I know you are well, 
because I hear of your voyaging to London and the 
environs, which I rejoice to learn, because your note 
alarmed me by the purgation and phlebotomy there- 
in prognosticated. I also hear of your being in 
the press ; all which, methinks, might have fur- 
nished you with subject matter for a middle-sized 
letter, considering that I am in foreign parts, and 
that the last month's advertisements and obituary 
would be absolute news to me from your Tramontane 
country. 

•' I told you, in my last, I have had a smart fever. 
There is an epidemic in the place ; but I suspect, 
from the symptoms, that mine was a fever of my 
own, and had nothing in common with the low, vul- 
gar typhus, which is at this moment deceminating 
Venice, and which has half-unpeopled Milan, if the 
accounts be true. This malady has sorely discom- 
fited my serving men, who want sadly to be gone 
away, and get me to remove. But, besides my 
nutural perversity, I was seasoned in Turkey, by 
the continual whispers of the plague, against appre- 
hensions of contagion. Besides which, apprehen- 
sion would not prevent it : and then I am still in 
love, and ' forty thousand ' fevers should not make 
me stir before my minute, while under the influence 
of that paramount delirium. Seriously speaking, 
there is a malady rife in the city — a dangerous one, 
they say. However, mine did not appear so, though 
it was not pleasant. 

" This is passion-week — and twilight — and altlthe 
world are at vespers. They have an eternal church'" 
ing, as in all Catholic countries, but are not so big- 
oted as they seemed to be in 6pain. ' 

"I don't know whether to be glad or sorry that 
you are leaving Mayfield. Had I ever been at New- 
stead during your stay there, (except during the 
winter of 1813-14, when the roads were impractica- 
ble,) we should have been within hail, and I shouW 
like to have made a giro of the Peak with you. 1 
know that country well having been all over it whsn 
a boy. Was you ever in Dovedale ? I can assure y m 
there are things in Derbyshire as noble as Greece or 
Switzerland. But you had always a lingering after 
London, and I don't wonder at it. I liked it as well 
as any body myself, now and then. 

" Will you remember me to Rogers ? whom I 
presume to be flourishing, and whom 1 regard as our 
poetical papa. You are his lawful son, and I tho 
illegitimate. Has he begun vet upon Sheridan ? 
If you see our republican friend, Leigh Hunt, pray 
present my remembrances. I saw about n.ne montha 
ago that he was in a row (like my friei>drHobhousc i, 
with the Quarterly Reviewers. For uiy part I nevei 



Mr. Galley Kni^fht, ttie author of ' Udeiim.' 



LETTERS. 



855 



/ 



could understand these quarrels of authors with 
r.ntics and with one another. ' For God's sake, 
gentlemen, what do they mean ? ' 

'* What think you of your countryman, Maturin ? 
1 take M>nie credit to myself for having done my 
best to Dring out Bertram ; but I must say my col- 
leagues were quite as ready and willing. Walter 
Bcott, however, was the _first who mentioned him, 
which he did to me, with great commendation, in 
1815 ; and it is to this casualty, and two or three 
other accidents, that this very clever fellow owed his 
first a \d well-merited public success. What a 
chance is fame ! 

" Did J. tell you that I have translated two Epis- 

- ties ?—a'oorrespondence between St. Paul and the 

CorintlJTins, not to be found in our version, but the 

Armen an — but which seems to me very orthodox, 

Mid I ] ave dene it into scriptural prose English. 

" E\ei, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, April 2, 1817. 

I sent you the whole of the drama at three sev- 
eral times, act by act, in separate covers. I hope 
that you have, or will receive, some or the whole 
of it. 

•* So Love has a conscience.* By Diana I I shall 
make him take back the box, though it were Pando- 
ra's. The discovery of its intrinsic silver occurred 
on sending it to have the lid adapted to admit Mari- 
anna's portrait. Of course I had the box remitted 
in statu quo, and h id the picture set in another, 
which suits it (the picture) very well. The default- 
ing box is not touched, hardly, and was not in the 
man's hands above an hour. 

" 1 am aware of what you say of Otway ; and am 
' a very great admirer of his, — all except of that maud- 
lin b— h of chaste lewdness and blubbering curiosi- 
ty, Belvidera, whom 1 utterly despise, abhor, and 
detest. But the story of Marino Faliero is different, 
and, I think, so much finer, that I wish Otway had 
taken it instead : the head conspiring against the 
body for refusal of redress for a real injury, — ^jeal- 
ousy, — treason, — with the more fixed ancl inveterate 
passions (mixed with policy), of an old or elderly 
man — the devil himself could not have a finer sub- 
ject, and he is your only tragic dramatist. * * 
" Tbore is still, in the Doge's palace, the black 
veil painted over Faliero's picture, and the staircase 
whereon he was first crowned Doge, and subsetjuent- 
ly decapitated. t This was the thing that most 
Struck my imagination in Venice — more than the 
Rialto, which I visited for the sake of Shylock ; 
and more, too, than Schiller's ^Armenian,' a novel 
which took a great hold of me when a boy. It is 
also called the ' Ghost Seer,' and I never walked 
down St. Mark's by moonlight without thinking of 
it, and 'at nine o'clock, he died!' — But I hate 
thm{^fi all Jicti.un ; and therefore the Mrrc/ianf ajid 
Othello have no great associations tome : l)ut Pierre 
has. There should always be some foundation of 
fact for the most airy fabric, and pure invention is 
out tht talent of a liar. 

" Mnt'irin's tragedy. — By your account of him 
last yeai to tne, he seenu'd a bit of a coxcomb, per- 
B«mally. I'oor fellow ! to be stire, he had had a long 
Bi/UHoningof adversity which is not so hard to bear 

^ - Rfl t'other tiling. I hoi)e this wont throw him back 
.Wito the • slough of Respond.' 
/ "You talk of 'marriage; '—ever since my own 

/ funeral, the word makes me giddy, and throws nie 

i Into a cold aweat. Pray, don't repeat it. 

I " Ycj^hould close with Madame de Sta<'l. This 



■ 8rc I^leraeciTl., to Mr. Murray, u 
t Ban Chride Haiuld, unto h., lUiiu xvilL 



will be her best work, and permanently historical ; 
it is on her father, the Revolution, and Bonaparte, / 
&c. Bonstetten told me in Switzerland it was very j 
great. I have not seen it myself but the authoi 
ften. She was very kind to me at Copet. * • 
" There have b^en two articles in the Venice pa- 
pers, one a review of Glenarvon * * * *, and the 
other a review of Childe Harold, in whicli it pro- • 
claims me the most rebellious and contumacious 
admirer of Bonaparte now surviving in Europe. 
Both these articles are translations from the Literary 
Gazette of German Jean. 

* * * « * « ^ 

" Tell me that W-lter Scott is better. I would 
not have him Wi. xor the world. I suppose it was by " ' 
sympathy that I had my fever at the same time. 

" I joy in the success of your Quarterly, but I 
must still stick by the Edinburgh ; Jeffrey has done 
so by me, I must say, through everything, and this 
is more than I deserve from him. — 1 have more than 
once acknowledged to you by letter the ' Article ' 
(and articles ;) say that you have received the said 
letters, as I do not otherwise know what letters ar- 
rive. — Both Reviews came, but nothing more. M.'b 
play and the extract not yet come. 

« 4t 4t « « « 

" Write to say whether my Magician has arrived, 
with all his scenes, spells, &c. 

" Yours ever, &c. 

"It is useless to send to the Foreign Office: no- 
thing arrives^to me by that conveyance. 1 suppose 
some zealous clerk thinks it a tory duty to prevrit 
it." 



LETTER CCCXXVIII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

" Venice, April 4, 1817 

" It is a considerable time since I Avrote to you 
last, and I hardly know why I should trouble you 
now, except that I think yon will not be sorry to 
hear from me now and then. You and I were never 
correspondents, but always some thing better, which 
is, very good friends. 

" I saw your friend Sharp in Switzerland, oj 
rather in the German territory, (which is and is not 
Switzerland,) and he gave Hobhouse and me a veri 
good route for the Bernese Alps ; however, we toot 
another from a German, and went by Clarens, the 
Dent de Jaman to MontboAt)n and through Sim- 
mentlial to Thoun, and so on to Lautcrbrouim ; 
except that from thence to the Grindelwald instead 
of round about, we went right over the Wcn|,*en 
Alps' very summit, and being close under the Jul ^- 
frau saw it, its glaciers, and heard the avalanches m 
all their glory, having famous weather thcre^r. 
We of course went from the GriiuUlwald over the 
Sheidecrh to Biientz and its lake ; past the Reich 
enbach and all that mountain road, which reminded 
me of A11)ania, and .Etolia, aiul (iieecc,- exoepi 
that the people here were more civilized and rascal 
ly. 1 did not tliink so very much of C'huinuuni 
(except the so\u*e of the Arveron, to which wf 
went up to the teeth of the ice, so as to look into 
and touch the cavity,* against the warnina; of thr 
gxiides, only one of whom would go with us so 
close), as of the Jungfrau, and the Pissevache, and 
Simi)lon, which are quite out of all mortal •.•ompe • 
titioB. 

" 1 was at Milan about n moon, and saw MotlU 
and some other living curiosities, ami thence on tc 
Verona, where I did not f«)rget your slorv of the 
assassination during your sojourn there, and brought 
away with me some fragments of Juliet's tomb 
and "a lively recollection of the amjthitheatre. The 
Countess Goetz (the governor's wite heieK tt)ld m» 
that there is still a riiined castle of the Montecch; 
between Verona and Vicenia. 1 hate been at 



856 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Venice since November, but shall proceed to Rdme 
shortly. For my deeds here, are they not written 
In my letters to the unreplying Thomas Moore ? to 
him I refer you : he has received them all, and not 
answered one. 

*' Will you remember me to Lord and Lady Hol- 
land ? I have to thank the former for a book which 
I have not yet received, but expect to reperuse 
with great pleasure on my return, viz., the second 
edition of Lope de Vega. I have heard of Moore's 
forthcoming poem : he cannot wish himself more 
success than I wish and augur for him. I have 
also heard great things of ' Tales of my Landlord,' 
b-wt I have not yet received them ; by all accounts 
ihcy beat even Waverly, &c., and are by the same 
iuthor. Maturin's second tragedy has, it seems, 
failed, for which I should think any body would be 
sorry. My health was very victorious till within 
the last month, when I had a fever. There is a 
typhus in these parts, but I don't think it was 
that. However, I got well without a physician or 
dnigs. 

"I forgot to tell you that, last autumn, I fur- 
nished Lewis with ' bread and salt ' for some days 
at Diodati, in reward for which (besides his con- 
versation) he translated * Goethe's Faust ' to me by 
rord of mouth, and I set him by the ears with 
Madame de Stael about the slave trade. I am 
indebted for many and kind courtesies to our Lady 
of Copet, and I now love her as much as I always 
did her works, of which I was and am a great 
admli-er. When are you to begin \fith Sheridan ? 
wha'j are you doing, and how do you do ? 

" Ever very truly, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 9, 1817. 

four letters of the 18th and 20th are arrived. 
in my own I have given you the rise, progress, 
decline, and fall of my recent malady. It is gone 
to the devil ; I won't pay so bad a compliment as. 
to say it came from him : — he is too much of a 
gentleman. It was nothing but a slow fever, which 
quickened its pace towards the end of its journey. 
I had been bored with it some weeks — with noc- 
turnal burnings and morning perspirations ; but I 
am quite well again, wliich I attribute to having 
had neither medicin0»nor doctor therefor. 

"In a few days I set otf for Rome: such is my 
purpose. I shall change it very often before Mon- 
day next, but do you continue to direct and address 
to Venice, as heretofore. If I go, letters will be 
forwarded: I say '//',' because I never know what I 
shall do till it is done ; and as I mean most firmly 
to set out for Rome, it is not unlikely I may find 
myself at St. Petersburg. 

"You tell me to ' take care of myself;' — faith, 
and I. will. I won't be posthumus yet, if I can help 
it. Nowithstanding, only think what a ' Life and 
Adventures,' while I am in full scandal, would be 
worth, together with the remembra' of my writing- 
■iosk, the sixteen beguinings of poems never to be 
finished! L)o you think i would not have shot 
myself last year, had i not luckily recollected that 
Mrs. Chairmont, and Lady Noel, and all the old 
women in England would have been delighted;-— 
besides the agreeable ' Lunacy ' of the ' Crowner's 
Quest,' and the regrets of two or three or half a 
dozen.? ***** Be assured that I would 
live for two reasons, or more ; — there are one or two 
people whom I have to put out of the world, and as 
many vnto it, before I can ' depart in peace ; ' if I 
do St before, I have not fulfilled my mission. 
Besides, whoa I turn thirty, I will turn devout ; I 
feel a great vtjcation that way in Catholic churches, 
irid when I hetir the organ. 



"So * * is writing again ! Is there na bedlaa 
in Scotland ? nor thumb-screw ? nor gag ? noi 
handcuff"? I went upon my knees to him almost 
some years ago, to prevent him from publishing a 
political pamphlet, which would have gilpn him u 
livelier idea of ' Habeas Corpus ' than tne world 
will derive from his present production upon that 
suspended subject, which will doubtless be followed 
by the suspension of other of his majesty's sub- 
jects. 

" I condole with Drury Lane and rejoice with 
* *, — that is, in a modest way, — on the tragi.^ 
end of the new tragedy. 

" You and Leigh Hunt have quarrell^ then, it 
seems ?*****! introduce him and hia 
poem to you, in the hope that (malgre politics), 
the union would be beneficial to both, and the end 
is eternal enmity ; and yet I did this with the best . 
intentions : I introduce * * *, and * * * runs away \ 
with your money : my friend Hobhouse quarrels, ^ 
too, mth the Quarterly: and (except the last), I | 
am the innocent istmhus (damn the word! I can t ' 1 
spell it, though I have cros&ed that of Corinth a / 
dozen times), of these enmities. 

" I will tell you something about Chillon. — A Mt 
De Luc, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read U 
him, and is pleased with it, — so my sister writes. 
He said that he was with Roicsseau at Chillon, ana 
that the description is perfectly correct. But thi« 
is not all : I recollect something of the name and 
find the following passage in ' The Confessions,' 
vol. 3, page 247, liv. 8. 

"'De tons ces amusemens celui qui me plut 
davantage fut une promenade autour du Lac, que 
je fis en bateau avec De Luc pere, sa bru, ses deux 
Jils, et ma Thert-se. Nous mimes sept jours a cette 
tournee par le plus beau temps du monde. J'en 
gardai le vif souvecir des sites qui m'avoient frappe 
a I'autre extremite du Lac, et dont je fis la de- 
scription, quelques annces aprts, dans la Nouvelle 
Heloise.' 

" This nonagenarian, De Luc, must be one of the 
'deux fils.' He is in England — infirm, but still in 
faculty. It is odd that he should have lived sc 
long, and not wanting in oddness, that he shoulu 
have made this voyage with Jean Jacques, and 
afterward, at such an interval, read a poem by an 
Englishman (who had made precisely the same cir- 
cumnavigation), upon the same scenery. 

" As for ' Manfred,' it is of no use sending proofs; 
nothing of that kind comes. I sent th* whole at 
different times. The two first acts are the best ; 
the third so so; but I was blown with the fiist and 
second heats. You must call it a ' Poem,' for it ia 
no Drama, and I do not choose to have it called by 
so * * a name — a ' Poem in Dialogue,' or Pan- 
tomime, if you will ; any thing but a green-rootu 
synonyme, and this is your motto — 

' There are more things in lieaven apd eartii, Horatio, 
Thau are dreamt of in your pliiloaophy.' 

" Yours ever, &c 
" My love and thanks to Mr. Giffbrd." 



LETTER CCCXXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Venice, Apri] U, 1817. 

" I shall continue to write to you while the fit i« 
on me, by way of penance upon you for your formex 
complaints of long silence. •! dare say you would 
blush, if you could, for not answering Next week 
I set out for Rome. Having seen Constantinople. 
I should like to look at t' other fellow. Besides 
I want to see th : Pope, and shall take caje to tell 
him that I vote for the Catholics and no Veto. 

" I shan^t go to Naples. It is bnt the second- 
best sea-vib»vr, and I have seen the fi/-s: aud third 



LETTERS. 



85 



nz., Oonstantinop'8 and Lisbon, (by-fhe-way, the] 
last is but a review ; however, they reckon it after 
Stamboul and Naples, and before Genoa,) and 
Vesuvius is silent, and I have passed by Etna. So 
I shall e'en return tr Venice in July ; and if you 
write, I pray you adQ^e^s to Venice which is my 
head, or rather my heart-qv.a.TteTS. 

" My late physician, Dr. Polidori, is here, on his 

way to England, with the present Lord Guilford 

and the widow of the late earl. Doctor Polidori 

has, just now, no more patients, because his patients 

i^e nc more. He had lately three, who are now all 

dead — one embalmed. Horner and a child of 

Thomas Hope's are interred at Pisa and Rome. 

Lord Guilford died of an inflammation of the 

hoT»els ; so they took them out, and sent them .(on 

account of their discrepancies), separately from the 

S tarcass, to England. Conceive a man going one 

I way, ard his iiitestines another, and his immortal 

/ 8onl a third ! — was there ever such a distribution ? 

I Une certainly has a soul ; but how it came to allow 

I itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can 

'■imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll 

/ have a bit of a tustle before I let it get in again to 

/ that or any other. 

" And so poor dear Mr. Maturin's second tragedy 
has been neglected by the discerning public. * * * 
will be d — d glad of this, and d — d without being 
glad, if ever his own plays come upon ' any stage.' 

,y I wrote to Rogers the other day, with a mes- 
,fcige for you. I hope that he flourishes. He is the 
/ Tithonus of poetry — immortal already. You and I 
must wait for it. 

*' I hear nothing — know nothing. You may 
easily suppose that the English don't seek me, ana 
I avoid them. To be sure, there are but a few or 
none here, save passengers. Florence and Naples 
are their Margate and Ramsgate, and much the 
same sort of company too, by^ all accounts, which 
hurts us among the Italians. 

" I want to hear of Lalla Rookh — are you out? 

Death and fiends ! Avhy don't you tell me where you 

are, what you are, and how you are ? I shall go to 

Bologna by Ferrara, instead of Mantua ; because I, 

would rather see the cell where they caged Tasso, 

/and where he became mad and * *, than his own 

V^iMSS. at Modena, or the Mantuan birthplace of that 

''/ harmonious plagiary and miserable flatterer, whi.se 

cursed hexameters were drilled into me at Harrow. 

I saw Verona and Vioenza on my way here — Padua 
too. 

" I go alone — but alone, because I mean to return 
here. I only want to see Rome. I have not the 
least curiosity about Florence, though I nmst see it 
for the sake of the Venus, &c., <!<:c. ; and I wi^h 
also to see the Fall of Terni. I think to return to 
Venice by Ravenna and Rimini of both of which 1 
mean to take notes for Leigh liun^, who will be 
glad to hear of the scenery of his Poem. There 
was a devil of a review of him in the Quarterly, a 
year ago, which he answered. All answers are 
unprudent; but, to be sure, poetical flesh and blood 
must have the last word — that's certain. I thought, 
and -think, very highly of his Poem ; but I warned 
him of the row his favorite antique phxaseology 
would bring him into. 

"You have taken a house at Hornsey ; I had 
OQTich rath(!r you had taiien one in the Apenines. 

II yoM think of conung out for a sununer or so, 
tell me, that I mav be upon the hover for you. 

" Ever, &.C." 



LETTER CCCXXXI. 

TO MU. MUKKAY. 

•• Veiilcn, April U, 1816. 

By the favor of Dr. Polidori, who is here on. 
yib way to England, with the present Lord Gxiilford, 
(lius late earl liaving gone to England, by unuther 
lUH 



road, accompanied by .is bowels in a separate 
coffer,) I remit to you, to deliver *o Mrs. L^'igh, 
two miniatures; but previously you will havft the 
goodness to desire Mr. Love (as a peace-offering 
between him and me) to set them in pkin gold, 
with my arms complete, and * Painted by Prepiani, 
— Venice, 1817,' on the back, I wish also that you 
would desire Holmes to make a copy of each — that 
is, both — for myself, and that you will retain the 
said copies till my return. One was done while ] 
was very unweU; the other in my health, wliich 
may account for their dissimilitude. I trust that 
they will reach their destination in safety. 

" I recommend the doctor to your good offices 
with your government friends ; and if you can be 
of any use to him in a literary point of view, pray 
be so. 

** To-day, or rather yesterday, for it is jast a&id- 
night, I have been up to the battlements ol the 
highest tower in Venice, and seen its view, in all 
the glory of a clear Italian sky. I also went over 
the Manfrini Palace, famous for its pictures. Among 
them, there is a portrait of Ariosto by Titian, sur- 
passing all my anticipation of the power of painting 
or human expression : it is the poetry of portrait, 
and the portrait of poetry. There was also one oi 
some learned lady, centuries old, whose name I 
forget, but whose features must always be re 
membered. I never saw greater beauty, or sweet 
ness, or wisdom : — it is a kind of face to go mad 
for, because it cannot walk out of its frame. There 
is also a famous dead Christ and live Apostles, fur 
which Bonaparte offered in vain five thousand 
louis ; and of which, though it is a capo d'opera o 
Titian, as I am no connoisseur, I say little, and 
thought less, except of one figure in it. Therc^are 
ten thousand others, and some very fine Giorgiones 
among them, &c., &c. There is an original Laura 
and Petrarch, very hideous both. Petrarch has not 
only the dress, but the features and air of an old 
woman, and Laura looks by no means like a young 
one, or a pretty ono. What struck me most iu 
the general collection was the extreme resem- 
blance of the style of the female faces in the 
mass of pictures, so many centuries or generations 
old, to those you see and meet every day among 
the existing Italians. The queen of Cyprus and 
Giorgione's wife,* particularly the latter, are Ven- 
tians as it were of yesterday ; the same eyes and 
expression, and, to my mind, there is none finer. 

" You must recollect, however, that 1 know 
nothing of painting ; and that I detest it, unlejs 
it reminds me of something I have sien, or think 
it possible to see, for which reason I spit upon and 
abhor all the saints and subjects of one hall" the 
impostures I see in the churches and pahices ; and 
when in Flanders, I never was so disgusted in my 
life, as with Rubens and his eternal wives and 
inferniil glare of colors, as they appeared to me ; 
and in Spain I did not think much of Murillo and 
Velasquez. Depend upon it, of oil the arts, it is 
the most artificial and unnatural, and that by 
wliich the nonsense of mankind is most iniposod 
unon. 1 never yet saw the picture or tbe statue 
which came a league within my conceptiiui or ex- 
pectation ; but I nave seen many mountains, and 
sous, and rivers, and views, and two or thre« 
women, who went as far beyond it, — besides some 
horses, and a lion (at Veli l^icha's) in the Moroa ; 
and u tiger at su])per in Exeter 'Change. 

" When you write, continue to address lo me at 
Venice. W here do you supnose me bojks you 
sent me are? At Turin! This comes of ' tht 
Forviyn i)^ce,' which in foreign enough, God 
knows, for any good it can be of to me, or any 
one else, and be d — d to it, to its last clerk and 
first charlatan, Castlereagh. 

"This makes my hundrcth letter at least. 

" YouTi, Ac." 



U«Bep|».l 



858 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCXXXII. 



TO MB. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 14, 1817. 

"Tne present proofs* (of the whole) begins on]y 
at the 17th page; but as I had corrected and sent 
Dack the first act, it dr^es not signify. 

" The third act is certainly d d bad, and, like 

the Archbishop of Grenada's homily, (which savor- 
ed of the palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during 
vrhich it was AArritten. It must on no accouttt be pub- 
bshed in its present state. I will try and reform it, 
or rewrite it altogether ; but the impulse is gone, 
and I have no chance of making any thing out of it. 
I would not have it published as it is on any ac- 
count. The speech of Manfred to the sun is the 
only part of this act I thought good myself; the rest 
is as bad as bad can be, and I wonder what the de^il 
possessed me. 

" I am very glad indeed that you sent nee Mr. Gif- 
ford's opinion without deduciioti. Do you suppose 
me such a booby as not to be very much obliged to 
him ? or that in fact I was not, and am not, con- 
vinced and convicted in my conscience of this same 
overt act of nonsense ? 

" I shall try at it again ; in the mean time lay it 
dpon the shelf, (the whole drama, I mean ;) but pray 
correct your copies of the first and second act frorn 
th€ original MS. 

** I am not coming to England ; but going to Rome 
in a few days. I return to Venice in June ; so, pray, 
address all letters, &c., to me here, as usual, that is, 
to Venice. ' Dr. Polidori this day left this city A^-ith 
Lord Guilford for England. He is charged with 
some books to your care (from me), and two minia- 
tures also to the same address, both for my sister. 

" Recollect not to publish, upon pain of I know 
not what, until I have tried again at the thii-d act. 
I am not sure that I shall try, and still less that I 
shall succeed if I do ; but I am very sure, that (as it 
is) it is unfit for publication or perusal ; and unless 
I can make it out to my own satisfaction, I won't 
have any part published. 

" I write in haste, and after having la*ely written 
very oflen. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" PoUn^o, April 26, 1817. 

*' I wrote to you the other day from Florence, in- 
closing a MS. entitled ' The Lament of Tasso.' It 
was written in consequence of my having been lately 
at Ferrara. In the last section of this MS. but one 
(that is, the penultimate), I think that I have omitted 
a line in the copy sent you from Florence, viz., after 
the line — 

" And woo compastiou to a blighted name, 

insert, 

" Sealinjr the sentence which ray foes proclaim. 

The context will show you the sense, which is not 
clear in this quotation. Remetnber, I write this in 
the supposition that you have received my Florentine 
packet. 

" At Florence I remained but a day, having a 
hurry for Rome, to which I am thus far advanced. 
However, I went to the two galleries, from which one 
returns drunk with beauty. The Venus is more for 
admiration than love : but there are sculpture and 
painting, which for the first time at all gave me an 
idea of what people mean by their cant and what 
Mr. Braham calls ' entusimusy ' (i.e. enthusiasm,) 
ftbout those vwo most artificial of the arts. "What 
struck me most were, the mistress of Raphael, a 



OfManfied. 



portrait ; the mistr<«ss of Titian, a portrait ; a Venuf 
of Titian in the MuclIcL gaUer- — the Venus ; Canora'B 
Venus also, in the o.''ht'r gallery: Titian's mistress 
is also in the other gallery (that is, in the Pitti 
Palace gallerj-^ :) the Farccc of Michael Augelo, a 
pictm-e ; and the Antiuo j.s, the Alexander, and one 
or two not very decent groups in marble ; the GerJua - 
of Death, a sleeping figure, &.c., &c. 

" I also went to the Medio' chapel — fine frippery 
in great slabs of various exptnc-drt stones', to com- 
memorate fifty rotten and forgotten carcasses. It is 
unfinished and will remain so. 

" The church of ' Santa Croce ' contains much 
illustrious nothing. The tombs * of ^lachiavelli, 
Michael Angelo, Galileo Galilei, anc" Altieri, make it 
the Westminster Abbey of Italy. I did rot admire cny . 
of these tombs — beyond their contenCs. That oi \ 
Alfieri is hea\y, and idl of them seem to me over- 
loaded. What is necessaiy but a bust an4 a name ? 
and perhaps a date } the last for the unchi onological, 
of whom I am one. But all your allegory and eu- 
logy is infernal, and worse than the long wigs oi 
English numskulls upon Pi-oman bodies in the statr 
ary of the reign of Charles II., Wilham, and Ann*. 

" When you \ATite, \\Tite to Venice, as usual ; ^/ 
mean to return there in a fortnight. I shall not bo 
in England for a long time. This afternoon I met 
Lord and Lady Jersey, and saw them for some time : 
all well ; children grown and healthy ; she very pretty, 
but sunburnt ; he very sick of travelling ; bound fol 
Paris. There are not many English on the move, 
and those wlio are, mostly homewards. I shall not 
return till business makes me, bemg much better 
where I am in health, &c., Szc. 

" For the sake of my personal comfort, I pray you 
send me immediately to Venice — mind, Venice — viz., 
W\utes's tooth-powder, red, a quantity ; calcined 
magnesia, of the best quality, a quantity ; and all this 
bv safe, sure, and speedy means ; and, by the Lord ! 
do it. 

" I have done nothing at Manfred's third act. 
You must wait; I'll have at it in a week or two, ol 
so. " Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Rome, May 5. 1817. 

" By this post (or next at farthest) I send you in 
two other covers, the new third act of ' Manfred.' 
I have re-written the greater part, and returned 
•ivhat is not altered in the proof you sent me. The 
Abbot is become a good man, and the Spirits are 
brought in at the death. You \d\\ find, I thinkj 
some good poetry in this new act, here and there ; 
and if so, print it, without sending me farther proofs, 
iMder Mr. Gijford's correction, if he will have the 
goodness to overlook it. Address all answers to 
Venice, as usual ; I mean to return there in ten 
days. 

" * The Lament of Tasso,* which I sent from Flo 
rence, has, I trust, arrived : I look upon it as 
* these be good rhymes,' as Pope's papa said to him 
when he was a boy. For the two — it and the Drama 
— you will disburse to me {via. Kinnaird) six hundred 
guineas. You will perhaps be surprised that I set 
the same price upon this as upon the drama ; but, 
besides that I look upon it as yood, I won't tak 3 less 
than three hundred guineas for any thing. The 
two together will make yoii a larger publication 
than the ' Siege ' and * Parisina ; ' so you may think 
yourself let off very easy : that is to say, if thes« 
poems are good for any thing, which I hope and 
believe. 

" I have been some days in Rome the Wonderful 
I am seeing sights, and have done nothing else, ex 



See Childe Jiarotd. canto iiL. 



LETTEKS. 



85S 



jept the new tliird act for you. I have this morning 
neen a live popo'anda dead cardinal: Pius VII. has 
been burying Cardinal Bracchi, whose body I saw 
in state at the Chiesa Nuova. Rome has de- 
lighted me beyond every thing, since Athens and 
Constantinople. But I shall not remain long this 
visit. Address to Venice. 

" Ever, &c. 
" r. S. I have got my saddle-horses here, and 
have ridden, and am riding, all about the country." 



LETTER CCCXXXV. 

TO MR^ MURRAY. 

" Rome, May 9, 1817. 

" Adiress all answers to Venice ; for there I shall 
return in fifteen days, God willing. 

"I sent you from Florence ' The Lament of Tasso,' 
and from Rome, the third act of Manfred, both of 
which, I trust, will duly arrive. The terms of thesie 
two I mentioned in my last, and will repeat in this : 
it is three hundred for each, or six lumdied guineas 
for the two — that is, if you like, and they are good 
for any thing. 

'' At last one of the parcels is arrived. In the 
notes to Childe Harold there is a l)lunder of vours 
or mine ; you talk of arrival at St. Ginao, and im- 
mediately after, add — 'on the height is the chateau 
of Clarens.'* This is sad work : Clarens is on tlie 
oi/nr side of the lake, and it is quite impossible that 
I should have so bungled. Look at the MS. ; and, 
at any rate, rectify. 

" The ' Tales of my Landlord ' I have read with 
great pleasure, and perfectly understand now wliy 
my sister and aunt are so very positive in the very 
erroneous persuasion that they must have been 
written by me. If you knew me as well as they do, 
you would have fallen, perhaps, into the same mis- 
take. Some day or other, 1 will explain to you w/iy 
— when I have time ; at present it does not much 
matter; but you must have thought this blunder of 
theirs very odd, and so did I, till I had read the 
book. Croker's letter to you is a very great compli- 
ment; I shall return it to you in my next. 

'* I perceive you are i)ublishing a life of Raffael 
d'Urbino : it may perhaps interest you to hear that 
a set of Germ>'.n artists here allow their hair to grow, 
and trim it into ?iis fashion there by drinking the 
cummin of the disciples of the old philos()])her ; if 
they would cut their hair, convert it into brushes, 
anu paint like him, it would be more ^ (/crman to the 
matter.' 

" I'll tell you a story: the other day, a man here 
—an English — mistaking the statues of Cliarle- 
magne and Constantino, which are ec/Hcstrian, Cor 
those of Peter and Panl, asked another which was 
Paul of these same horsemen ? — to which tin- rcjily 
was — ' I tliought, sir, that St. Paul had never got 
on horseback since his accidnitf 

"I'll tell you another: Henry Fox, writing to 
Bomc one from NapUis the other day, after an ill- 
ness, adds — ' and I am so changed, tliat my o/dest 
treditors would liardly know me.' 

'* I am delighted witli Rome — as I would be with 

a bandbox — tluit is, it is a fine tiling to see, finer than 

Greece; but I hiive not bfen here hnig enough to 

affect it as a resideiu-e, and 1 must go back to Loui- 

f hardy, because I am wretched at Ijeiny awav from 

f l^urianna. 1 have been riding my saddle-horses 

l^errrj dny, and been to Albano, its lakes, and to the 

If top of tlie Alban Moimt, and to Frescati, Aricin, 

&e., Ac, with an &.C., Xc, ^c, ;ibout the lity, and 

In the city: for all of which — vide guide-book. Ah 

A whole, ancient and modern, it b(>ats (ireoce, Con- 

B1 biitiuople, every thing — at least that 1 have over 



seen. But 1 can't describe, because my first imprc!*- 
sions are always strong and confused, and ray 
memory selects and reduces them to order, like dis' 
tance in the landscape, and blends them better, 
although they may be less distinct. There mu.st be • 
a sense or two more than we have, us mortals ; foT -C 
* * * * * wliere there is much to be grasped we are 
always at a loss, and yet feel that we ought to have 
a higher and more extended comprehension. 

" 1 have had a letter from Moore, who is in some 
alarm about his poem. I don't see why. 

" I have had another from my poor dear Aug-.'sta. 
rho is in a sad fuss about my late illness ; do, pray, 
tell her, (the tnith,) that I am better than CNcr, and 
in importunate health, growing (if not grown) large 
and ruddy, and congratulated by impertinent jier 
sons on my robustious appearance, when I ought to 
be pale and interesting. 

"You tell me Jliat George Byron has got a son, 
and Augusta says, a daughter : which is it ? — it ia 
no great matter: the fatlier is a good man, an ex- 
cellent officer, and has married a very nice little 
woman, who will bring him more babes than in-' ^ 
come : howbeit she had a handsome dowry, and is a 
very charming girl ; — but he may as well get a ship. 

** I have no thoughts of coming among you yet 
awhile, so that I can fight "tf business. If I could 
but make a tolerable sale cff Newstead, tliere would 
be no occasion for my return ; and I can assure you 
very sincerely, that I am much happier (or, at least, 
have been so), out of your island than in it. 

" Yours ever. 

" P. S. There are few English here, but several ol 
my acquaintance: among others, the Marqtiis of 
iansdowne, with whom I dine to-morrow. I met 
the Jerscn's on the road at Foliguo — all well. 

"Oh — 1 forgot — the Italians have printed Chil- 
lon, &c., a piracy, — a pretty little edition, prcttiet 
than yours — and published, as I found to my yreat 
astonishment on arriving here ; and what is odd, is, 
tnat the English is quite correctly printed. Why 
they did it, or who did it, I know not ; but so it is : 
— I supppse, for the English people. I will seud 
you a copy." 



LETTER CCCXXXVl. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Rome, May 12, 181T. 

" I have received your letter here, where I nave 
taken a cruise lately ; but 1 shall return batJi to 
Venice in a few days, so that if you vrite .igain, 
address there, as usual. I am not for ntvmiing to 
I'ingbind so soon as you imagine; and by no njcjuia 
at all as a residence. If you cross the AIjjs iu youi 
projected ex])ertition, you \\\\\ find me somewhere in 
Loml)ardy, and very glad to see you. Onlv give uia 
a word or two beforehand, fer I would reall) diverge 
sonu^ leagues to meet you. 

"Of Ronu' I say nolliing: it is quite iiuit scriba 
ble, and the guide-book is as good as any other. I 
dined yesterday with Lt)rd Lansdiiwnc. who is ou 
his return. But there are few Enghsh here at pres- 
ent: tlie winter is their time. I have bct-n uu 
liorseOack most «)f the day, all day* since my or 
rival, and have taken it as I did Constantinople. 
IJut R(mie is the elder sister, and the finer. 1 went 
some days i.go to the toi) of the Alban Miunit, wliich 
is superb. As for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. Pe- 
ter's, the Vatican, Palatine, Xe., Xo. — as I said, 
vide guide-book. Tlu^y are quite ineonci'ivabh', and 
must hv sfcii. The Apollo Helvidere is (lie ima;(f o 
Lady Adilaide Forbes— 1 think 1 never saw such • 
likeness. 

" 1 have seen the Pone alive, and a cardinal ^load 
— both of whom lookeu very well indeed. The lat 
t(>r waa in state iu the Chiesa Nuova, previous to 
his intenneut. 



360 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



' Your poeticAl alarms are groundless ; go on 
and prosper. He e is Hobliouse just come in, and 
my horses at the door, so that 1 must mount and 
take the field in the Campus Martius, which, by- 
the-way, is all built over by modern Rome. 

"Yours very and ever, &c. 

"P. S. Hobhouse presents his remembrances, and 
is eager, with all the Avorld, for your new poem." 



LETTER CCCXXXVII. 

TO MK. MUBRAY. 

" Venice, May 30, 1817. 

" I returned from Rome two days ago, and have 
received your letter ; but no sign nor tidings of the 
parcel sent through Sir C. Stuart, which you men 
tion. After an interval of months, a packet of 

• Tales,' &c., found me at Rome ; but this is all, and 
may be all thut ever will find me. The post seems 
to be the only sure conveyr>iice, and that only for 
lettexs. From Florence I sent you a poem on Tasso, 
and from Rome the new third act of ' Manfred,' and 
by Dr. Polidori two portraits for my sister. I left 
Rome and made a rapid journey home. You will 
continue to direct here, as usual. Mr. Hobhouse is 
gone to Naples : I should have run doAvn there too 
for a week, but for the quantity of English whom I 
heard of there. I prefer hating them at a distance ; 
unless an earthquake, or a good real eruption of 
Vesuvius, were ensured to reconcile me to their 
vicinity. 

****** 

• i< -pj^g ^^y before I left Rome, I saw thi-ee robbers 
guilotined. The ceremony — including the masked 
priests ; the half-naked executioners ; the bandaged 
criminals ; the black Christ and his banner, the 
scaff'old; the soldiery; the slow procession, and the 
quick rattle and heavy fall of the axe ; the splash 
of the blood, and the ghastliness of the exposed 
heads — is altogether more impressive than the vul- 
gar and ungentlemanly dirty ' new drop,' and dog- 
like agony of infliction upon the sufferers of the 
English sentence. Two of these men behaved 
calmly enough, but the first of the three died with 
great terror or reluctance. What was very horrible, 
he would not lie down ; then his neck was too large 
for the aperture, and the priest was obliged to 
di-own his exclamations by still louder exhortations. 
The head was ofi" before the eye could trace the 
blow ; but from an attempt to draw back the head, 
notwithstanding it was held forward by the hair, 
the first head was cut off close to the ears : the 
other two were taken off more cleanly. It is better 
than the oriental way, and (I should think) than 
the axe of our ancestors. The pain seems little, 
and yet the effect to the spectator, and the prepa- 
ration to the criminal, is very striking and chilling. 
The first turned me quite hot and thirsty, and made 
me shake so that I could hardly hold the opera 
glass ; (I was close, but was determined to see, as 
as one should see every thing, once, with attention;) 
the second and third, (which shows how dreadfully 
Boon things grow indifferent,) I am ashamed to sav, 
had no effect on me as a horror, though I would 
liave saved them if I could. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXXXVIIL 

TO ME. MURRAY. 

" Venice, June 4, 1817. 

♦' I have received the proofs of the * Lament of 
Tasso,' which makes me hope that you have also 
received the reformed third act of Manfred, from 



Rome, which I sent soon after my arrival thei* 
My date will apprize you of my return home withii. 
these few days. For me, I have received n07ie of 
your packets, except, after long delay, the ' Tales 
of my Landlord,' which I before acknowledged. 1 
do not at all understand the why ywta, but so it is ; 
— no Manuel, no letters, no tooth-powder, no extract 
from Moore's Italy concerning Marino Faliero, na 
NOTHING — as a man hallooed out at one of Bur- 
dett's elections, after a long ululatus of ' No Bas- 
tille ! JSo governorities ! No — ' God knows who 
or what ;— -but his ne plus ultra was ' No nothing ' ' 
— and my receipts of your packages afnount to about 
his meaning. I want the extract from Moore's Italy 
very much, and the tooth-powder, and the magne- 
sia ; I don't care so much about the poetry, or the 
letters, or Mr. Maturin's by-Jasus tragedy. Most 
of the things sent by the post have com : — I mean 
proofs and letters ; therefore, send me Marino Fali- 
ero by the post, in a letter. 

" I was delighted ^vith Rome, and was on horse- 
back all round it many hours daily, besides in it the 
rest of my time, bothering over its marvels. I 
excursed and skirred the country round to Alba, 
Tivoli, Frescari, Licenza, &c., &c. ; besides I visit- 
ed twice the Fall of Terni, which beats" every thing,* 
On my way back, close to the temple by its banks, 
I got some famous trout of the river Clitumnus — 
the prettiest little stream in all poesy, near the first 
post from Foligno and Spoletto.f — I did not stay aX 
Florence, being anxious to get home to Venice, and 
having already seen the galleries and other sights. 
I left my commendatory letters the evening before I 
went ; so I saw nobody. 

" To-day, Pindemonte, the celebrated poet of 
Verona, called on me ; he is a little, thin man, 
with acute and pleasing features ; his address 
good and gentle ; his appearance altogether very 
philosophical : his age about sixty, or more. He 
is rne of their best going. I gave him Forsyth^ 
as he speaks, or reads rather, a little English, and 
will find there a favorable account of himself. He 
inquired after his old Cruscan friends, Parsons, 
Greathead, Mrs. Piozzi, and Merry, all of whom he 
had known in his youth, I gave him as bad an 
account of them as I could, answering, as the false 
' Solomon Lob ' does to ' Totterton ' in the farce, 
' all gone dead,' and damned by a satire more than 
twenty years ago ; that the name of their extin- 
guisher was Gifford ; that they were but a sad set of 
scribes after all, and no great things in any other 
way. He seemed, as was natural, very much 
pleased with this account of his old acquaintances, 
and went away greatly gratified with that and Mr. 
Forsyth's sententious paragraph of applause in his 
own (Pindemonte's) favor. After having been a 
little libertine in his youth, he is grown devout, 
and takes prayers, and talks to himself, to keep oil 
the devil; but for all that, he is a very nice little 
old gentleman. 

"I am sorry to hear of your row with Bfimt; but 
suppose him to be exasperated by the Quarterly 
and your refusal to deal; and when one is angry 
and edits a paper, I should think the temptatiou 
too strong for literary nature, which is not alvvay^ 
human. I can't conceive in what, and for what, ht 
abuses -you : what have you done ? you are not as 
author, nor a politician, nor a public character ; I 
know no scrape you have tumbled into. I am the 
more sorry for this because 1 introduced you to 
Hunt, and because I believe him to be a good man ; 
but till I know the particulars, I can give no opin- 
ion. 

" Let me know about Lalla Rookh, which must 
be out by this time. 

" I restore the proofs, but t\ie punctvution chould 
be corrected. I feel too lazy to have at it myseUj 
so beg and pray Mr. Gifford for me. — Address te 



* Childe Harold, canto iv., stanza Ixr. to Ixxii., and not*, 
t Chllds Harold, caiiio it., Hanu ]xfi., and cote. 



LETTERb. 



861 



A 



Venice. Iii a ^ew dav- T go to toj villeggiatura, in 
a casir.o near the P^-enta, a <^ew n?iles on''y 'jn the 
main land. I h^.'^e deteirained on another ysrr, and 
many years of residence, if I can couipass them. 
Marianna is with me, hardly recovered of the fever, 
which has been attacking all Italy last -winter. I 
eim alraid she is a little hectic ; but I hope the best. 

"Ever, &c. 
P. S. Thowaldsen has done a bust of me at 
Rome for Mr. Hobhouse, which is reckoned very 
good. He is their best after Canova, and by some 
prefarred to hire 

** I ha-^e had a letter from Mr. Hodges. He is 

very happy, has got a living, but not a child : if he 

had stuck to a curacy, babes would have come of 

course, because he could not have maintained them. 

"Remember me to ail friends, &c., &c. 

j,^' ** An Austrian officer, the other day, being in love 
with a Venetian, was ordered, with his regiment, 
into Hungary, Distracted between love and duty, 
he purchased a deadly di'ug, which, dividing with 
his mistress, both swallowed. The ensuing pains 
were terrific, but the pills were purgative, and not 
poisonous, by the contrivance of the unsentimental 
apothecary ; so that so much suicide was all thrown 

\ away. You may conceive the previous confusion 
and the final laughter ; but the intention was good 
on all sides." 



LETTER CCCXXXIX. 

T9 MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, June 8, 1817. 

"The present letter will be delivered to you by 
two Armenian friars, on their way, by England, to 
Hadras. They will also convey some copies of the 
grammar, which I think you agreed to take. If 
you can be of any use to them, either among your 
naval or East Indian acquaintances, I hope you 
will so far oblige me, as they and their order have 
been remarkably attentive ai^ friendly towards me 
since my arrival at Venice. Their names are Fa- 
ther Sukias Somalian, and Father Sarkis Theodoro- 
sian. They speak Italian, aud probably French, or 
a little English. Repeating earnestly my recom- 
mendatory request, believe me very truly yours, 

"Byron. 

" Perhaps you can help them to their passage, or 
give or get them letters for India." 



LETTER CCCXL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" L« Mire, nenr Venice, June 14, 1817. 

* J write to you from the banks of the Brenta, a 
lew miles from Venice, where I have colonized for 
iix months t» come. Address, as usual, to Venice. 

•' Three months after date, (17th March,)— like 
the unnogotiable bill despondingly received by the 
reluctant tailor, — your despatch has arrived, con- 
taining the extract from Moore's Italy and Mr. Ma- 
turin's bankrupt tragedy.* It is the absurd work 
of a clever man. I think it might have done upon 
the stage if he had made Manuel (by some trickery, 
in a mask or "'•izor), fight his own battle instead of 
employing Molineux as his champion; and, after 
the defeat of Torrismond, have made him spare the 
»on of his eiemy, by some revulsion of feeling, not 
Incompatible with a character of extravagant and 
distempered emotions. But as it is, what with the 
Justiza, and the ridiculous conduct of the whole 
iram. ptra (for theyare all as mad as Manuel, who 



surely must have Had more interest ■with a corrupt 
bench than a distant relation and heir presumptive, 
somewhat suspected of homicide,) 1 do not wondei 
at its failure. As a play, it is impracticable ; as a 
poem, no great things. Who was the ' Greek thai 
grappled with glory naked } ' the Olympic wrest- 
lers ? or Alexaruier the Great, when he ran stark 
naked round the tomb of t'other fellow } or the Spai- 
tan who was fined by the Ephori for fighting with 
out his armor ? or who ? And as to ' flaying off life 
like a garment,' helas ! that's in Tom Thumb — see 
king Arthur's soliloquy : 

' Life'B a mere rag, not wortl. a prince's wearing , 
I'll caBt it off.' 

And the stage-directions — ' Staggers among the 
bodies ; ' the slain are too numerous, as well as tha 
blackamoor knights-penitent being one too marx/: 
and De Zelos is such a shabby Monmouth-street 
villain, without any redeeming quality — Stap my 
vitals ! Maturin seems to be declining into Nat. 
Lee, But let him try again ; he has talent, but not 
much taste, I 'gin to fear, or to hope, that Sothe- 
by after all is to be the -Slschylus of the age, unless 
Mr. Shiel be really worthy his success. The more I 
see of the stage, the less I would wish to have any 
tning to do with it; as a proof of Avhich, I hope 
you have received the third act of Manfred, which 
will at least prove that I wish to steer very clear of 
the possibility of being put into scenery. I sent it 
from Rome. 

"I returned the proof of Tasscf. Bv-the-way 
have you never received a translation of St. Paul, 
which I sent you, not for publication, before I went 
to Rome ? 

" I am at present on the Brenta. Opposite is a 
Spanish marquis, ninety years old ; next his casino 
is a Frenchman's, — besides the natives ; so that, as 
somebody said t»he other day, we are exactly one oi 
Goldoni's comedies, (La Ve'dova Scaltra,) where a 
Spaniard, English, and Frenchman are introduced: 
but we are all very good neighbors, Venetians, &c.. 
&c., &c. 

" I am just getting on horseback for my evening 
ride, and a visit to a physician, who has an agreea 
ble family, of a wife and four unmarried daughters, 
all under eighteen, who are friends of Signora S ♦ ♦, 
and enemies to nobody. Tlere are, and are to be, 
besides, conversaziones and I know not what, at a 
Countess Labbia's and I know not whom. The 
weather is mild ; the thermometer 110 in the sun 
this day, and 80 odd in the shade. 

"Yours, &c.. "N" 



LETTER CCCXLI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

"La MIrn, near Venice, June li, Bl 

" It gives me great pleasure to hear of Moore « 
success, and the more so that I never doubt.^'d that 
it would be complete. Whatever good you can tell 
ipe of him and his poem will he most accei)table : 1 
feel very anxious indeed to receive it. I nope that 
he is as h!ipi>y in his fame and reward as I wish hira 
to be ; for I know no one who deserves both more— 
if any so much. 

"Now to business; •••••* I say unto you, 
verily, it is not so; or, as the foreigner said to th« 
waiter, after asking him to bring n glass of water, to 
which the man answered, ' I vn\\, sir,' — * Yt>u willl 
— G — d d — n, — I say, you mvs/i ! ' And I will sub 
mit this to the decision of any person or persons to 
be appointed by both, on a fair examination of th« 
circumi«tance8 of this compared with tlic preceding 
publications. So, there's for you. There is alwnyi 
some row or other previovaly to all our ])uh)ication8 : 
it should seem that, on approximating, we can nevtf 



662 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



^uite get over the natural antipathy of author and 
bookseikr, and that more particularly the ferine 
nature of the latter must break forth. 

" YoU are out about the third canto :. 1 have nol 
done, nor designed, a line of continuation to that 
poem I was too short a time at Rome for it, and 
have no thought of recommencing * * * 

" I cannot well explain to yoii by letter what I 
conceive to be the origin of Mrs. Leigh's notion 
about ' Tales of My Landlord ; ' but it is some 
points of the characters of Sir. E. Manley and 
Burley, as well as one or two of the jocular por- 
tions, on which it is founded, probably. 

" If you have received Dr. Polidori, as well as a 
p*-rce] of books, and you can be of use to him, be 
sc. I never was much more disgusted with any 
human production than with the eternal nonsense, 
and tracasserics, and etaptiness, and ill humor, and 
vanity of that young pert^on ; but he has some 
tal( nt, and is a man of honor,, and has dispositions 
of amendment, in which he has been aided by a 
little subsequent experience, and may turn out well. 
Therefore use your government interest for him, 
for he is improved and improvable. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXLIL 



TO MB MURRAY. 



-'",- Mira, near Venice, June 18, 1817. 

"Enclosed is a letter to Dr. Holland from Pinde- 
monte. Not knowing the doctor's address, I am 
desired to inquire, and perhaps, being a literary 
man, you Avill know or discover his haunt near some 
populous churchyard. I have written to you a 
scolding letter — I believe, upon a misapprehended 
[passage in your letter — but never mind : it will do 
for next time, and you will surely deserve it. Talk- 
ing of doctors reminds me once more to recommend 
to you one who will not recommend himself, — the 
Doctor Polidori. If you can help him to a pub- 
lisher, do ; or, if you have any sick relation, I 
would advise his advice : all the patients he had in 
Italy are dead — Mr. * *'s son, Mr. Horner, and 
Lord Guildford, whom he embowelled with great 
Bucuesb at Pisa. * * * * * * 

" Remember me to Moore, whom I congratulate. 
How is Rogers ? and what is become of Campbell 
and all t'other fellows of the Druid order ? I got 
Maturin's Bedlam at last, but no other parcel ; 1 
am in fits for the tooth-powder, and the magnesia. 
I want some of Burkitt's Soda powers. Will you 
tell Mr. Kinnaird that I have wi-itten him two let- 
ters on p'-essing business, (about Newstead, &:c.,) to 
which I humbly solicit his attendance. I am just 
returned from a gallop along the banks of the 
Brerta — time sunset. *' Yours, 



LETTER CCCXLIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" La Mira, near Veiice, July 1, 1817. 

" Since my former letter, I have been working up 
•ny impressions into a fourth canto of Childe Har- 
rold, of which I have roughened off -about rather 
Detter than thirty stanzas, and mean to go on ; and 
probably to make this ' Fytte' the concluding one 
of the poem, so that you may propose against the 
RUtumn to draw out the conscription for 1818. You 
must provide moneys, as this new resumption 
bodes you certain disbursements. Somewhere 
about the end of September or October I propose to 
be under way, (i. e, in the press ;) but I have no 
dea yet of the probable length cr calibre f the 



canto, or what it will be good for , but I mcaK to t« 

as mercenary as possible, an example (I do m« an vi 
any individual in particular, and least of all ant 
person or persons of our mutual acquaintance,] 
which I should have followea in my youth, and 1 
might still have been a prosperous gentleman. 

"No tooth-powder, no letters, no recent tiding! 
of you. 

" Mr. Lewis is at Venice, and I am going up to 
stay a week with him there — as it is one of his en- 
thusiasms also to like the city. 

" I stood in Venice on the ' Bridge of Sighs,' Sic., &e. 

" The ' Bridge of Sighs' (i. e. Ponte de'i Sospiri,) 
is that w^hich divides, or rather joins, the palace ol 
the Doge to the prison of the state. It has twc 
passages: the criminal went by the one to judg- 
ment, and returned by the other to death, being 
strangled in a chamber adjoining, where there was 
a mechanical process for the purpose. 

"This is the first stanza of our new canto; and 
now for a line of the second : 

" In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows ttie songless gondolier, 
Her palaces, &c., &c. 

" You know that formerly the gondoliers sung 
always, and Tasso's Gierusalemme was their ballaa, 
Venice is built on seventy-two islands. 

" There ! there's a brick of your new Babel ! aaa 
now, sirrah ! what say you to the sample ? 

" Yours, &c 

" P. S. I shall write again by-and-by." 



LETTER CCCXLIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" La Mira, near Venice, July 8, 1817. 

It yi.;. can convey the enclosed letter to its ad- 
dress, or discover the person to whom it is directed, 
you will confer a favor upon the Venetian creditoi _ 
of a deceased Englishman. This epistle is a dun to 
his executor, for house-rent. The name of the in- 
solvent defunct is, or w-as, Porter Valter, according 
to the account of the plaintiff", which I rather 
suspect ought to be Waiter Porter, according to 
our mode of collocation. If you are acquainted with 
any dead man of the like name a good deal in debt, 
pray dig him up, and tell him that ' a pound oi his 
fair flesh' or the ducats are required, and that if 
you deny them, fie upon your law !' 

'I hear nothing more from you about Moore's 
poem, Rogers, or other literary phenomena ; but to- 
morrow being post-day, will bring perhaps some 
tidings. I write to you with people talking Vene 
tian all about, so that you must not expect this let- 
ter to be all English. 

" The other day, I had a squabble on the highway, 
as follows : I was riding pretty quickly from Dolo 
home about eight in the evening, when I passed a 
party of people in a hired carriage, one of whom, 
poking his head out of the window, began hawi- 
ng to me in an inarticulate but insolent manner. I 
wheeled my horse round, and overtaking, stopped 
the coach, and said, * Signor, have you any com- 
mands for me ?' He replied, impudently as to man- 
ner, ' No.' I then asked him what he meant by 
that unseemly noise, to the discomfiture of the 
passers-by. He replied by some piece of imperti- 
nence, to which I answered by giving him a violent 
slap in the face. I then dismounted, (for this 
passed at the window, I being on horseback still,^ 
and opening the door, desired him to walk out, or I 
would give him another. But the first had settled 
him except as to words, of which he poured forth n 
a profusion in blasphemies, swearing that he wuald 



LETTERS. 



86b 



fo the police and avoach a battery sans provocation, 
said he lied, and was a * *, and if he did not hold 
his tongue, should be dragged out and beaten anew. 
He then held his tongue. I of course told him 
.'my name and residence, and defied him to the 
■'death, if he were a gentleman, or not a gentleman, 
and had the inclination to be genteel in the way of 
combat. He went to the police, but there having 
been bystanders in the road, — particularly a soldier 
who had seen the business, — as well as my servant, 
notwithstanding the oaths of the coachman and 
five insides besides the plaintiff, and a good deal of 
paying on all sides, his complaint was dismissed, 
ne having been the aggressor ; — and I was subse- 
quently informed that, had I not given him a blow, 
he might have been had into durance. 

" So Ret down this, — ' that in Aleppo once' I 'beat 
E Venetian;' but I assure you that he deserved it, 
for I am a quiet man, like Candide, though with 
BOtaewhat of his fortune in being forced to forego 
m^ natural meekness every now and then. 

" Yours, &c. 



LETTER CCCXLV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, July 9, 1817. 

" 1 have got the sketch and extracts from Lalla 
Rookh — which I humbly suspect will knock up * *, 
and show young gentlemen that something more 
than having been across a camel's hump is necessary 
to write a good oriential tale. The plan, as well as 
the extracts I have seen, please me very much in- 
deed, and I feel impatient for the whole. 

" With regard to the critique on ' Manfred,' you 
have been in such a devil of a hurry that you have 
only sent me the half: it breaks off at page 294. 
Send me the rest ; and also page 270, where there 
is ' an account of the supposed origin of this dread- 
ful story,' — in which, by the way, whatever it may 
be, the'conjecturer is out, and knows nothing of 
the matter. I had a better origin than he can de- 
vise or divine, for the soul ot^ him. 
' •' You say nothing of Manfred's luck in the 
world ; and I care not. He is one of the best of 
my misbegotten, say what they will, 

*' I got at last an extract, but iio parcels. They 
will come, I suppose, some time or other. I am 
come up to Venice for a day or two to bathe, and 
am just going to take a swim in the Adriatic ; so, 
good evening — the post waits. " Yours, &c. 

«« P. S. Pray was Manfred's speech to the sun 
Btill retained in act third ? I hope so : it is one of 
the beat in the thing and better than the Colcsoeum. 
I have done Jifiy-six of canto fourth. Childe 
H '<u-uld ; 60 dow i with your ducats." 



LETTER CCCXLVI. 



TO MR. MOOKB, 



something more than to have beenupot the hauccli 
of a dromedary to compose a good oriental story. I 
am glad you have changed the title from ' Persian 
Tale.' 

' I suspect you have written a devilish fine ccm* 
position, and I rejoice in it from my heart; because 
the Douglas and the Percy both together are con 
fident against a world in arms.' I hope you won't 
be affronted at my looking on uS as ' birds of a 
feather ;' though on whatever subject yo a had writ 
ten, I should have been very happy in your success 

'There is a simile of an orange tree's 'fiowerg 
and fruits,' which I should have liked bettor, if 1 
did not believe it to be a reflection on 

* « * * » « 

"Do you remember Thurlow's poem to ^iiia,* 
When Rogers, and that d — d supper of Kancliife's, 
that ought to have been a dinner f 'Ah, Mas^i 
Shallow, we have heard the chimes at midnight ' 
But 

" My boat is on the shore.f ftc. , 

" This should have been written fifteen moons 
igo— the first stanza was. I am just come out from 
an hour's swim in the Adriatic ; and I write to you 
with a black-eyed Venetian girl before me, reading 
Boccaccio. * * * 

" Last week I had a row on the road (I came up 
to Venice from my ca§ino, a few miles on the Pa- 
duan road, this blessed day to bathe) with a fellow 
in a carriage, who was impudent to my horse. I 
gave him a swinging box on the ear, which sent 
him to the police, who dismissed his complaint, and 
said, that if I had not thumped him, they would 
have trounced him for being impertinent. V/it- 
nesses had seen the transaction. He first shouted in 
an unseemly way, to frighten my palfrey. I wheeled 
round, rode up to the window, and asked him what 
he meant. He grinned, and said some foolery 
which produced him an immediate slap in the face 
to his utter discomfiture. Much blaspliomy ensued, 
and some menace, which I stopped by dismounting, 
and opening the carriage-door, and intimating an 
intention of mending the road with his immediate 
remains, if he did not hold his tongue. He held it. 

" The fellow went sneakingly to the police : but a 
soldier, who had seen the matter, and thought me 
right, went and countcr-oathed him; so that he 
had to retire — and cheap too : — I wish I had hit 
him harder. 

" Monk Lewis is here — ' how pleasant !'t He \9 a 
very good fellow, and very much yoms. bo is Siun 
— so is every body — and among the number, 

" Yours ever, 
"B. 

" P. S. What think you of Manfred ? * • 

" If ever you see * * *, ask him what he means 
by telling me, 'Oh, my friend, invent ]K>rtumf' — 



What ' portum ?' Port wine, I suppose — the only 
port he ever sought or found, since I know " 



" La Mini, Veiilcr, July 10, 1817. 

' Murray, the Mokanna of booksellers, has con- 
Urived to send me extracts from l-alla Rookh by the 
ipost. They are taken from some maKazin*;, and 
• eontain u short outline and quotati(^us from tlie first 
two poems. I am very much dcliMhted with what 
IS before me, and very thirsty for the rust. You 
bave caught the colors as if you had been in the 
rainbow, aiul the tone of the East is perfectly \nx 
wrved; so liat * * • and its author must be some 
kbat in <he 3..ck-i(rouud, and leaiu that it requirea 



LETTER CCCXLVIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•• U MIn. noKr Vetikm, July IS, ISIT. 

" T have finished (that is, written— the file oomw 
afterward) ninety and eight stanzas of the fourth 
canto, wliich I mean to be the concluding one. It 
will probably be about the same length us the third, 
being already of the dimensions of the first of 
second cantos. I look upon parts of it as very 
good, that is, if the three fonner are good, but thU 




864 



BYRON'S WORKS 



we shall see ; and at any rate, good or not, it is 
rather a different style from the last — less meta- 
physical — which at any rate, vsdll be a variety. I 
Bent you the shaft of the column as a specimen the 
other day, i. e. the first stanza. So you may be 
thinking of its arrival towards autumn, whose 
winds will not be the only ones to be raised, if so be 
as how that it is ready by that time. 

" I lent Lewis, who is at Venice (in or on the 
Canaiaccio, the Grand Canal), your extracts from 
Lalla Rookh and Manuel, and, out of contradiction, 
it may be, he likes the last, and is not much taken 
with the first, of these performances. Of Manuel 
I think, with the exception of a few capers, it is as 
heavy a nightmare as was ever bestrode by indi- 
gestion, • 

" Of the extracts I can but judge as extracts, 
and I prefer the * Peri' to the ' Silver Veil.' He 
seems not so much at home in his versification of 
the ' Silver Veil,' and a little embarrassed with his 
horrors ; but the conception of the character of the 
impostor is fine, and the plan of great scope for his 
genius, — and I doubt not that, as a whole, it will be 
very Arabesque and beautiful. 

" Your late epistle is not the most abundant in 
inform/ttion, and has not yet been succeeded by any 
other ; so that I know nothing of your own concerns, 
or of any concerns, and as I never hear from any body 
but yourself who does not tell me something as dis- 
agreeable as possible, I should not be sorry to hear 
from you : and as it is not very probable, — if I can, 
by any device or possible an-angement with regard 
to my personal affairs, so arrange it, — that I shall 
return soon, or reside ever in England, all that you 
tell me will be all I shall know or inquire after, as 
to our beloved realm of Grub street, and the black 
brethren and blue, sisterhood of that extensive 
sub tub of Babylon. Have you had no new babe of 
litecature sprung up to replace the dead, the dis- 
tal, t, the tired, and the retired ? no prose, no verse, 
nc nothing f" 



LETTER CCCXLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, July 20, 181T. 

' I write ti give you notice that I have completed 
th e fourth and ultimate canto of Childe Harold. It 
consists of one hundred and twenty-six stanzas, and 
is consequently the longest of the four. It is yet 
to be copied and polished; and the notes are to 
come, of which it will require more than the third 
canto, as it necessarily treats more of works of art 
than of nature. It shall be sent towards autumn ; 
— and now for our barter. What do you bid ? eh ? 
you shall have samples, an' it so please you : but I 
wish to know what I am to expect (as.the saying is) 
in these hard times, when poetry does not let for 
half its value. If you are disposed to do what Mrs. 
Winifred Jenkins calls 'the handsome thing,' I may 
perhaps throw you some odd matters to the lot, — 
translations, or slight originals ; there is no saying 
what may be on the anvil between this and the book- 
ing season. Recollect that it is the last canto, and 
completes the work ; whether as good as the others, 
I cannot judge, in course — least of all as yet, but it 
shall be as little worse as I can help. I may per- 
haps, give some little gossip La the notes as to the 
present state of Italian literati and literature, being 
acquainted with some of their capi — men as well as 
books ; — but this depends upon my humor at the 
time. So, now, pronounce : I say nothing. 

" When you have got the whole four cantos, I 
think you might venture on an edition of the whole 
poem in quarto, with spare copies of the last two for 
•iie purchasers of the old edition of the first two. 



There is a hint for you, -worthy of the row ; and 
now, perpend — ^pronounce. 

' I have not received a word from you of the fate 
of ' Manfred ' or ' Tasso,' which seems to me odd, 
v/hether they have failed or succeeded. 

" As this is a scrawl of business, and I have late 
ly written at length and often on other subjects I 
will only add that I am, &c." 



LETTER CCCXLIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 7, . 817. 

" Your letter of the 18th, and, what will please 
you, as it did me, that parcel sent by the good- 
natured aid and abetment of Mr. Croker, are ar- 
rived. — Messrs. Lewis and Hobhouse are here : the 
former in the same house, the latter a few hundred 
yards distant. 

" You say nothing of Manfred, from which its 
failure may be inferred ; but I think it odd you 
should not say so at once. I know nothing, and 
hear absolutely nothing, of any body or any thing 
in England ; and there are no English papers, so 
that all you say will be news — of any person, or 
thing, or things. I am at present very anxious 
about Newstead, and sony that Kinnaird is leaving 
England at this minute, though I do not tell him 
so, and would rather he should have his pleasure, 
although it may not in this instance tend to my 
profit. 

'If I understand rightly, you have paid into Mor- 
land's 1500/ : as the agreement in the paper is 
two thousand guineas, there will remain therefore 
six hundred poimd^s, and not five hundred, the odd 
hundred being the extra to make up the specie. Six 
hundred and thn-ty pounds will bripg it to the like 
for Manfred and Tasso, making a total of twelve 
hundred and thirty, I believe, for I am not a good 
calculator. I do not vnsh. to press you, but I tell 
you fairly that it will be a convenience to me to have 
it paid as soon as it can be made convenient to 
yourself. 

" The new and last canto is one hundred and thirty 
stanzas in length ; and may be made more or less. 1 
have fixed no piice, even in idea, and have no notion 
ofwhatitmay be good for. There are no metaphisics 
in it ; at least, I think not. Mr. Hobhouse has prom- 
isedme a copy of Tasso's Will, for notes ; .and 1 have 
some curious things to say about Ferrara, and Par- 
isina's story, and perhaps a farthing-candle's worth 
of light upon the present state of Italian literature. 
I skall hardly be ready by October ; but that don't 
matter. I have all to copy and correct, and the 
notes to write. 

" I do not know whether Scott will like it ; but 
I have called him the ' Ariosto of the North ' in my 
text* If he should not, sag so in time. 

" Lewis, Hobhouse, and I went the other day to 
the circumcision of a sucking Shylock. I have seen 
three men's heads and a child's foreskin cut ofl" in 
Italy. The ceremonies are very moving, but to 
long for detail in this v/eather. 

" An Italian translation of ' Glenarvon ' came 
lately to be printed at Venice. The censor fSr. 
Petrotini) refused to sanction the publication till he 
had seen me on the subiect. I told him that I did 
not recognize the slightest relation between that 
book and myself ; but that, whatever opinions might 
be upon that subject, / would never prevent or op- 
pose the publication of any book, in any language, 
on my own private account ; and desired him (against 
his inclination) to permit the poor translator to pub- 
lish his labors. It is going forward in consequence 
You may say this, with my compliments, to the au 
thor. " Yours." 



C'*nto It., ilaiua xl 



LETTERS. 



866 



LETTER CCCL. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Aug, 12, 1817, 

I have been very sorry to hear of the death of 
Madame de Stael, not only because she had been 
?ery kind to me at Copet, but because now I can 
never requite her. In a general point of view she 
will leave a great gap in society and literatui e. 

'• With regard to death. I doubt that we have 
uny right to pity the dead for their own sakes. 
— «* The copies of Manfred and Tasso are arrived, 
thanks to Mr. Croker's cover You have destroyed 
the whole effect and moral of the poem by omitting 
the last line of Manfred s speaking ; and why this 
■^as done, I know not. Why you persist in saying 
nothing of the thing itself, I am equally at a loss 
to conjecture. If it is for fear of telling me some- 
thing disagreeable, you are wrong ; because sooner 
or later I must know it, and I am not so new nor 
BO raw, nor so inexperienced, as not to be able to 
bear, not the mere paltry, petty disappointments of 
authorship, but things more serious, — at least I 
hope so, and that what you may think irritability is 
merely mechanical, and only acts like galvanism on 
a dead body, or the muscular motion which survives 
sensation. 

"If it is that you are out of humor, because I 
wrote to you a sliarp letter, recollect that it was part- 
ly from a misconception of your letter, and partly 
because you did a thing you had no right to do with- 
out consulting me. 

** I have, however, heard good of Manfred from 
two other quarters, and from men who would not be 
scrupulous in saying what they thought, or what 
was said ; and so ' good-morrow to you, good master 
Lieute-iant.' 

"1 wrote to you twice about the fourth canto, which 
you will answer at your pleasure. Mr. Hobhouse 
and I have come^up for a day to the city ; Mr. 
' ' id ' 



Lewis is gone to England ; and I am 



Yours. 



LETTER CCCLL 



TO MBi MURRAY. 



J^/\ 



" La Mira, near Venice, Aug. 21, 1817. 

•* I take you at your word about Mr. Hanson, and, 
will feci obliged if you will ^o to him, and request 
Mr. Davies also to visit hira by my desire, and 
repeat that I trust that neither Mr. Kinnaird's ab- 
sence nor mine will pnvent his taking all proper 
steps to accelerate and promote the sale of New- 
stead and Rochdale, ut) n which the whole of my 
future personal comfort depends. It is impossible 
for me to express how much any delays upon these 
points would inconvenience me ; and I do not know 
a greater obligation that can be conferred upon 
me than the pressing these things upon Hanson, 
»nd making him act according to my wishes. I 
wish vou would spca/c out, at least to me, and tell 
me what you allude to by your cold way of men- 
tioning him. All mysteries at such a distance are 
not merely tormenting but mischievous, and may 
be prejudicial to my interests ; so pray expound, 
that I may consult with Mr. Kinnaird when lie ar- 
rives ; and ronieinber that I prefer the most disa- 
jfresable certainties to hints and inuendoos. The 
devil take every Imdy ; I never can get any person 
to be explicit about any thing or any body, and my 
whole life is passed in conjectures of what j)PO|)lo 
mean : you all talk in the style of Curuline Lamb's 
novels. 

•• It is not Ml*". St. John, but Mr. St. ^ubyn, son 
of Sir John St. Aubyn. PolUlori knows him, and 
Introduced him to me. lie is of Oxford, and has 
got my parcel. The doctor will ferret him out, or 
ought. The parcel contains many letters, some of 
109 



Madame de Stael's, and other people's, besides 

MSS., &c. By , if I find th<? gentleman, and 

he don't find the parcel, I will say something he 
won't like to hear. 

" You want a ' civil and delicate declension* for 
the medical tragedy ? Take it — 

" Dear Doctor, 1 have read your play, 
Which ia a goixl one in ita way ; 
Purges the eyes, and moves the boweU, 
And drenches handkerchie's Hke tuweU • 

With tears, that, in a flux of grirf', 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatier'd nerves and quicken'd pulaea, 
Wliich your catastrophe convulses. 

" I like your moral and machinery : 
Your plot, too, has such ncojw 'ot ■csaev^ ' 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concuctioi: lull of art; 
Your hero raves, your heroine criek 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy woulil !« 
The very thing to hear and see r 
And tor a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occnsion. 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grifcve to speak it — pliiyi 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-dvs, 
1 had a heavy loss by ' Manuel,'- 
Too lucky if it prove not annual,— 
And Solheby, with his ' Orestes,' 
(Which, by-the-by, the author's jest >•,> 
Has lain so very long on hand 
That I despair of all demand. 
I've advtitisea, but see my booki. 
Or only \ritch my shopman's looki i— 
Sti'l Ivan, Ina, and such lumber, 
My back-shop gUit, my shelves enc 

" There's Byron, too, who once dkl b 
Has sent me, foUled in a letter, 
A sort of— it's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama; 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he's lost his wiu at Venice. 



In short, sir, vhat with one and t' otiMT, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the street so tliuitdvl 
My room's so full — we've Gifford here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Prere 
Pronouncing on the nouns and pa rt tdM 
Of some of our forthcoming Article*. 

I The Quarterly— Ah, sir, If you 
Had but the genius to review I— 
A smart critique upon St. Hrlena, 
Or if you only would bm ti'U in a 
Short cnm|i:isa wtmt but to reauiM I 
As 1 was saying, sir, the room — 
The room's »o full of wit* and barda, 
Cnbbes, Camplvlls, Crokers, Freras, nmi W 
And others, neither banis nor vita;— 
My hunibli> tenement admlta 
All persons in the ilres* ol ((vnt.. 
From Mr. Hammond to Dug Dent 

' A party dines with me to day. 
All clever men, who make their way; 
They're at this moment in dlscuMioa 
On poor De Suel's liile diaaulutioo. 
Her hook, (hey say, was in udviince^ 
Pray Heaven, she toll Die truth of FnMi 



" Thua run our time and tongue* awaT«~> 
But, to return, sir, to your pUy 
Sorry, sir, hul I cnnr.ul dral, 
Unleaa 'Iwrrr acted by D'NHS, 
My hanil* so full, my hrml so huay, 
I'm almuat ilea>l, tnd always diay | 
Anil so, with rndlrsa tnilli and huiry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yunn, 

"JOHN MUJ.RAT." 

" P. 8. I've done the inurth and last canto, wdxoB 
anwunts to one hundrp«3 and fhirtv-three ntansM 
I desire vou to name a price ; if you don't, ^ 
will ; so t advise you in .time. " Yours, !ko 

'* There will be a good mimy notes. ' 



666 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCLIl. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Sept. 4, 1817. 

** Youl letter of the 15th has conveyed with its 
contents the impression of a seal, to %vhich the 
'Saracen's Head ' is a seraph, and the 'Bull and 
Mouth ' a delicate device. I knew that calumny 
had sufficiently blackct>ed me of later days, but not 
th& V it had given mc the features as well as com- 
plexion of a negro. Poor Augusta is not less, but 
rather more, shocked than myself, and says ' people 
seem to have lost their recollection strangely,'. when 
they engraved such a ' blackmooor.' Pray don't seal 
(at least to me) ■n-ith such a caricature of the hu- 
rt.an numskull altogether ; and if you don't break 
the seal-cutter's head, at least crack his libel (or 
dkeness, if it should be a likeness) of mine. 

" Mr. Kinnaird is not yet arrived, but expected. 
He has lost by the -nay all the tooth-powder, as a 
letter from Spa informs me. 

" By Mr. Rose I received safely, though tardily, 
magnesia and tooth-powder, and * * * *. Why 
do you send me such trash — worse than trash, the 
Sublime of Mediocrity ? Thanks for Lalla, how- 
ever, which is good, and thanks for the Edinburgh 
and Quarterly, both very amusing and well-written. 
Paris in 181o, 8zc. — good. Modern Greece* — good 
for nothing ; written by some one who has never 
been there, and not being able to manage the Spen- 
ser stanza, has invented a thing of its own, consist- 
ing of two elegaic stanzas, a heroic line, and an 
Alexandrine, twisted on a string Besides, why 
modern? ' You may say modern Greeks, but sure- 
ty Greece itself is rather more ancient than ever it 
was. — Now for business. 

- ^' Yoii offer fifteen hundred guineas for the new can- 
to : I won't take it. I ask two thousand five hundred 
guineas for it, which you will either give or not, as 
you think proper. It concludes the poem, and con- 
feists of one hundred and forty-four stanzas. The 
notes are numerous, and chiefly wi-itten by Mr. 
Hobhouse, whose researches have been indefati- 
gable, and who, I will venture to say, has more 
real knowledge of Rome and its environs than 
any Englishman who has been there since Gib- 
bon. By-the-way, to prevent any mistakes, I think 
it necessary to state the fact that he^ Mr. Hob- 
house, has no interest whatever in the price or profit 
to be derived from the copyright of either poem or 
notes dii-ectly or indirectly ; so you are not to sup- 
pose that it is by, for, or through him, that I require 
more for this canto than the preceding. — No : but if 
Mr. Eustace was to have had two thousand for a 
poem on Education ; if Mr. Moore is to have three 
thousand for Lalla, &c. ; if Mr. Campbell is to have 
three thousand for his prose on poetr}' — I don't 
mean to disparage these gentlemen in their labors — 
but I ask the aforesaid price for mine. You will 
tell me that their productions are considerably 
longer : very ti-ue, and when they shorten them, I 
will lengthen mine, and ask less. You shall sub- 
mit the MS. to Mr. GifTord, and any other two gen- 
tlemen to be namei by you, (Mr. Frere, or Mr. 
Croker, or whomever you please, except such fel- 
lows as your * *8 and * *s,) and if they pronounce 
this canto to be inferior as a whole to the preced- 
ing, I willn^t appeal from their award, but burn 
the manusfcript, and leave things as they are. 

" Yours very truly. 

" P. S In answer to a former letter, I sent you 
a short statement of what I thought the state of 
our present copyright account, viz., six hundred 
j^uyids still (or lately) due on Childe Harold, and 
bIx hundred gtdneas, Manfred and Tasso, making a 
total of twelve hundred and thirty pounds. If we 
agree about the new poem, I shall take the liberty 
.o reserve the choice of the manner in which it 
nould be published, via., a quarto, certes." * ♦ 



By Mn. Heman« 



LETTER CCCLin. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



« La Mill Sent. 12, 181T. 

•' I set out yesterday morning with the intentioc 
of paying my respects, and availing myself of youi 
permission to walk over the premises.* On arriv 
ing at Padua, I found that the march of the Aui 
trian troops had engrossed so many horses, that 
those I could procure were hardly able to crawl; 
and their weakness, together with the prospect ol 
finding none at all at the post-house of Mor°€;:ce, 
and consequently either not arriving tlat day at 
Este, or so late as to be unable to return home tht 
same evening, induced me to turn aside in a scond 
visit to Arqua, instead of proceeding onwards; and 
even thus I hardly got back in time. 

" Next week I shall be obliged to be in Venice to 
meet Lord Kinnaii'd and his brother, who are ex- 
pected in a few days. And this interruption, 
together with that occasioned by the continued 
march of the Austrians for the next fpw days, 
will not allow me to fix any precise period for 
availing myself of your kindness, though 1 should 
wish to take the earliest opportunity. Perhaps, if 
absent, you will have the goodness to permit one of 
your servants to show me the grounds and house, 
or as much of either as may be convenient ; at any 

te, I shall take the first occasion possible to go 
over, and regret very much that I was on yesterday 
prevented. 

" I have the honor to be your obliged, &c " 



LETTER CCCLIV 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Sept. 15, 181 

" I enclose a sheet for correction, if ever you get 
to another edition. You will observe that the 
blunder in printing makes it appear as if the Cha- 
teau was over St. Gingo, instead of being on the 
opposite shore of the Lake, over Clarens. So, sep- 
arate the paiagraphs, otherwise my topography wIL 
seem as inaccurate as your typography on tLis 
occasion. 

" The other day I wrote to convey my proposition 
with regard to the fourth and concluding canto. I 
have gone over and extended it to one hundred and 
fifty stanzas, which is almost as long as the first 
two' were originally, and longer by itself than any 
of the smaller poems except tJie ' Corsair.' Mr. 
Hobhouse has made some very valuable and accii- 
rate notes, of considerable length, and you may be 
sure that I vnW do for the text all that I can to 
finish with decency. I look upon Childe Harold as/^> 
my best; and as I begun, I think of concluding/y 
with it. But I make no resolutions on that headl/ 
as I broke my former intention with regard to the 
' Corsair.' However, I fear that I shall never d,o 
better; and yet, not being thirty years of age, for 
some moons to come, one ought to be progrossivp, 
as far as intellect goes, for many a good year. But 
I have had a devilish deal of tear and wear of mind 
and body in my time, besides having published too 
often and much already. Gt)d grant me some judg- 
ment to do what may be most fitting in that and 
every thing else, for 1 doubt my own exceedingly. 

<* I have read ' Lalla Rookh,' but not with suffi 
cient attention yet, for I ride about, and lounge, 
and ponder, and — two or three other things; so 
that my reading is very desultory, and not so atten- 
tive as it used to be. I am very glad to hear of its 
popularity, for Moore is a very noble fellcw in all 
1 

• A country-hou»e on the Eu^iiean hillf, near Bate, which Mr. Hoppiiet. 
who wai then the English consul-general at Venice had for aome turn 
occupied, and which Lord Byron aftei^anl rented of I m !iut nerer 



LETTERS. 



Re; 



lespccts, and will enjoy it without any of the bad 
feelings which success — good or evil — sometimes 
engenders in the men of rhyme. Of the poem 
Itself, I will tell you my opinion when I have 
mastered it: I say of the poem, for I don't like 
i,ne prose at all, at all : and in the meantime, the 
» Fire-Worshippers ' is the best, and the ' Veiled 
Prophet ' the worst, of the Volume. 

" With regard to poetry in general,* I am con- 
vinced the more I think of it, that he and all of us 
I -Scott, Southey, Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell, 
)l, — are all in the wrong, one as much as another ; 

ithat we are upon a wrong revolutionary poetical 
system, or systems, not worth a damn in itself, and 
from which none bilt Rogers and Crabbe are free ; 
and that the present and next generations will 
finally be of this opinion. I am the more con- 
firmed in this by having lately gone over some of 
]ou>" classics, particularly Pope, whom I tried in this 
/waf: — If took Moore's poems and my own and 
( some others, and went over them side by side with 
*ope's, and I was really astonished (I ought not to 
laye been so) and mortified at the ineffable distance 
in point of sense, learning, effect, and even imagi- 
[ nation, passion, and invention, betAveen the little 
(Queen Anne's man, and us of the lower empire. 
Depend upon it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian 
now among us ; and if I had to begin again, I would 
^mould myself accordingly. Crabbe's the man, but 
he has got a coarse and impracticable subject, 
knd Rogers is retired upon half-pay, and has done 
[enc igh, unless he were to do as he did former'ly." 



LETTER CCCLV. 



TO MR. MURKAY. 



' Sept. 17, 1817. 



* * * * * 

" Mr. Hobhouse purposes being in England in 
November; he/.vill bring the fourth canto with 
him, notes and all : the text contains one hundred 
and fifty stanzas, which is long for that measure. 

"With regard to the ' Ariosto«of the North, '+ 
Burely their themes, chivalry, war, and love, were 
as like as can be ; and as to the compliment, if you 
knew what the Italians think of Ariosto, you would 
not liesitate about that. But as to their ' measures,' 
you forget that Ariosto's is an octave stanza, and 
Scott's any thing but a stanza. If you think Scott 
will dislike it, say so, and I will expunge. I do not 
call him the ' Scotch Ariosto,' which would be sad 
jprociticial eulogy, but the ' Ariosto of the North,' 
jneaning of 'all countries that are not the Sonth. 
****** 

" As I have recently troubled you rather frequent- 
ly, I will conclude, repeating that I am 

*' Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCLVL 

TO MR. ML'RHA.Y. 

" Oct. 12, 1817. 

"Mr Kinnaird and his brotlicr. Lord Kinnaird. 
Dave been here, aiul are now gone again. All vour 
missives cauio, except the tooth-powder, of which 
I rotjuest farther supplies, at all convoniciit ojjpor- 
tunities ; as also of' magnesia and soda-powders, 
Doth great luxuries here, and neither to be had 
good, or indeed hardly at all, of the natives. 



On llilii |iiiruirrii|i||, in llio M.S. iupy iil (liv nUiTO Irhw, I finl Ihi' 
nUuwIiiif iiuio, III ilio liJiiiilwridii); ut' Mr. liilllinl! ■* 'I'lionr li more ({ihmI 
i;, mill fci'l tiK, loiil ]iiiliriiirii( ill tlila |«iv<K>'i ll»>'> '■> i^"y (Hlier I errr 
, oc l/uni llvriiii tvrok'.""A/<»uc#. 
Brc l«l"Ti lor Oil v\v» ui.l Hii.oIiw.hmI. 
■m Uucr ecfxVvL 



" In Coleridge's Life I perceive an attack upon 
the then committee of D. L. Theatre for a.ctinq 
Bertram, and an attack upon Maturin's Bertram 
for being acted. Considering all things, this is not 
very grateful nor graceful on the part of the worlh\ 
autobiographer ; and 1 would answer, if I had 7iot 
obliged him. Putting my own pains to forward the 
views of Coleridge out of the question, I know that 
there was every disposftion, on the part of the sub 
committee, to bring forward any production of his, 
were it feasible. The play he offered, though poeti 
cal, did not appear at all practicable, and Bertram 
did ; — and hence this long tirade, which is the last 
chapter of his vagabond life. 

"As for Bertram, Maturin may defend his oivn 
begotten, if he likes it well enough; I leave th,- 
Irish clergyman and the new orator Henley tc, 
battle it out between them, satisfied to have done 
the best I could for both. I may say this to >/on, 
who know jt. * * * * « 

" Mr. Coleridge may console himself with the fer- 
vor, — the almost religious fervor of his and Words- 
worth's disciples, as he calls it. If he means that 
as any proof of their merits, I will find him as much 
'fervor' in behalf of Richard Brothers and Joanna 
South cote a^ ever gathered over his pages or round 
his fireside. * * * * « 

" My answer to your proposition about the fourth 
canto vou will have received, and I await yours;— 
perlinps we may not agree. I have since written a 
poem* (of eighty-four octave stanzas), humorous, 
in or after the excellent manner of Mr. Whistle- 
craft (whom I take to be Frere), on a Venetian 
anecdote which amused me : — but till I have your 
answer, I can say nothing more about it. 

" Mr. Hobhouse does not return to England in 
November, as he intended, but will winter here ; 
and as he is to convey the poem, or poems, — for 
there may perhaps be more than the two mentioned 
(which, by-the-way, I shall not perhaps include in 
the same publication or agreement) — I shall not be 
able to publish so soon as expected; but I suppos** 
there is no harm in the delay. 

" I hare sifjned, and sent your former copi/rif'lits 
by Mr. Kinnaird, but not the receipt, because the 
money is not yet paid. Mr. Kinnaird has a power 
of attorney to sign for me, and will, when necessary. 

•' Many thanks for the Edinburij;h Review, which 
is very kind about Manfred, and defends its origi- 
nality, which I did not kmvw that any body had 
attacked. I never rend, and do not know that 1 
ever saw the ' Faustus of Marlow,' and had, and 
have, no dramatic works by me in English, except 
the recent things you sent me; but I heard Mr. 
Lewis translate verl)ally some scenes of Goethe's 
Faust (winch were, some good and some bad) last 
summer — which is all I know of the history of tliat 
magical personage ; and a.s to the gerujs of Man 
fred, thev may be found in the Journal which I sent 
to Mrs. ticigh (|)art of which you saw) when I went 
over first tlie Dent de Jainau.'and then the NVengen 
or Wengeberg Alp and Sheideek, and made tl»e giro 
pf the Jiiu'-^frau, Shreckhorn, \'c., Jtc, sliortly be- 
fore 1 left Switzerland. I have the wKole sei-no o( 
Manfred before me as if it was but ycsterdav, and 
could point it out, spot by spot, torrent and all. 

"Of the Prometheus of .Ksehylus I was passion' 
ately fond as a boy (it was one of the Greek pluvti 
we read thrice a yeiir at Marrow); indeed that and 
the ' Medea' were the only ones, except the 'Seven 
before Thebes,' whieh ever much pleased me. As 
to the ' Faustu.s of Marlow,' I never read, novel 
saw, nor heard of it — at least, thought of it, except 
that I tlui\k Mr. (Jilford nuMitioned, in a note of hu 
which you sent me, something about the catastro- 
])he ; but not as having any thing to do with mine, 
which may or may not resemble it, for any thing 1 
know. 

" The Prometheus, if not exactly in my plan, hot 



• >pp»» 



868 



BYEON'S WORKS. 



*lways been so much in my head, that I can easily 
conceive its influencp over all or any thing that I 
have written ; — but I deny Marlow and his progeny, 
and beg that you will do the same. 

"If you can send me the paper in question,* 
which the Edinburgh Review mentions, do. The 
review in the magazine you say was written by Wil- 
son ? it had all the air of being a poet's, and was a 
very good one. The Edinburgh Review I take to 
be Jetfrey's own by its friendliness. I wonder they 
thought it worth while to do so, so soon after the 
former ; but it was evidently with a good motive. 

"I saw Hoppner the other day, whose country- 
house at Este I have taken for two years. If you 
eonne out next summer, let me know in time. Love 
to Gifford. " Yours ever truly. 

" Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantiey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 

THese two lines are omitted in your letter to the 
doctor, after — 

" All olevei men who make their way." 



LETTER OCCLVII. 

TO MR. MUBBAT. 

" Venice, Oct. 23, 1817. 

** I our two letters are before me, and our bargain 
is so far coi eluded. How sorry I am to hear that 
GifFord is unwell ! Pray tell me he is better ; I 
hope it is nothiu^r but cold. As you say his illness 
originates in cold, I trust it will get no farther. 

" Mr. Whistlecraft has no greater admirer than 
myself : I have written a story in eighty-nine stan- 
zas, in imitation of him, called Beppo (the short 
name for Giuseppe, that is, the Joe of the Italian 
Joseph), which I shall throw you into the balance 
of the fourth canto, to help you round to your 
money ; but you perhaps had better publish it 
anonymously : but this we will see to by-and-by. 

"In the notes to canto fourth, Mr. Hobhouse 
has pointed out several errors of Gibbon. You may 
depend upon H.'s research and accuracy. You may 
print it in what shape you please, 

"With regard to a future large edition, you may 
print all, or any thing, except ' English Bards,' to 
the republication of which at no time will I consent. 
I would not reprint them on any consideration. I 
don't think them good for much, even in point of 

E)oetry ; and as to the other things, you are to recol- 
ect that I gave up the publication on account of 
the Holla?ids, and I do not think that any time or 
ijircumstances can neutralize the suppression. Add 
to which, that, after being on terms with almost all 
the bards and critics of the day, it would be savage 
at *ny time, but worst of all now, to revive this 
fociish lampoon. 

*««♦*♦ 

«»♦«»*< 

" The review of Manfred came Tery safely, and 

1 am much pleased with it. It is odd that they 

•tould say (that is, somebody in a magazine whom 

ta.9 Edinburgh controverts), that it was taken from 

Marlow's Faust, which I never read nor saw. An 

, American, who came the other day from Germany, 

tcid Mr. Hobhouse that Manfred was taken from 

, Goethe's Faust. The devil may take both the 

Faustuses, German and English — I have taken 

neither. 

" Will you send to Hanson, and say that he has 
not written since 9th September .' — at least I have 
had no letter since, to my great surprise. ^ 



• A piipcr in Ihe Edinburgh Magazine, in which it wa» suggeated that 
tie genera conci-ptlon of Miiifred, and iriuch Of what ia excellent in the 
oauner of 'ti execution, had been •■• rowed Irom " The TragicaJ Hiatoiy 
' in. KauibUi,'' of Marlow. 



'•Will you desire 'Messrs. Morland to send, out 
whatever additional sums ha -e or may be paia in 
credit immediately, always, to their Venice corre- 
spondents } It is two months ago that they sen 
me out an additional credit for one thoiisand pounds. 
I was very glad of it, but I don't know how th« 
devil it came ; for I can only make out live hundred 
of Hanson's payment, and I had thought the othei 
five hundred came from you ; but it did not, it 
seems, as by yours of the 7th instant, you have otly 
just paid the 1230/. balance. 

"Mr. Kinnaird is on his way home with the as- 
signments. I can fix no time for the arrival ol 
canto fourth, which depends on the journey of Mr. 
Hobhouse home ; and I do not Aiink that this will 
be immediate. 

" Yours, in great haste, and very truly, 

" B. 

** P. S. Morlands have not yet written to my 
bankers, apprising the payment of your balanced : 
pray desire them to do so. 

"Ask them about the previous thousand— ol 
which I know five huYidred came from Hanson's— 
and make out the other five hundred — that is* 
whence it came." 



LETTER CCCLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Nor. 15, 1817. 

" Mr. Kinnaird has probably returned to England 
by this time, and will have conveyed to you any ti- 
dings you may wish to have of us and ours. I have 
come back to Venice for the winter. Mr. Hobhouse 
will probably set oflf in December, but what day or 
week, I know not. He is my opposite neighbor at 
present. 

" I wrote yesterday in some perplexity, and no 
very good humor to Mr. Kinnaird, to inform me 
about Newstead and the Hansons, of which and 
whom I hear nothing since his departure from this 
place, except in a few unintelligible words from an 
unintelligible woman. 

" I am as sorry to hear of Dr. Polidori's accident 
as one can be for a person for whom one has a dis- 
Uke, and something of contempt. When he gets 
well, tell me, and how he gets on in the sick line. 
P»oor fellow ! how came he to fix there ? 

" I fear the doctor's skill at Norwich 
Will hardly salt the doctor's porrid g». 

Methought he was going to the Brazils, to give the 
Portuguese physic (of which they are fond to despe- 
ration), with the Danish consul. 

"Your new canto has expanded to one hundred 
and sixty-seven stanzas. It will be long, you see ; 
and as for the notes by Hobhouse, I suspect they 
will be of the heroic size. You must keep Mr. * * 
in good humor, for he is devilish touchy yet about 
your Review and all which it inherits, including the 
editor, the Admiralty, and its bookseller. I used to 
think that / was a good deal of an author in amouf 
propre and noli me tangere ; but these prose fellows 
are worst, after all, about their little comforts. 

" Do you remember my mentioning, some months 
ago, the Marquis Moncada — a Spaniard of distinc- 
tion and fourscore years, my summer neighbor at La 
Mira ? Well, about six weeks ago, he fell in love 
with a Venetian girl of family, and no fortune or 
character: took her into his mansion; quarrelled 
with all his former friends for giving him advice 
(except me who gave him none), and installed her 
present concubine and future wife and mistress ol 
himself and furniture. At the end of a month, in 
which she demeaned herself as ill as possible, he 
found out a correspondr.uce between her and some 
fcnuer keeper, and after nearly strangling, t irne4 



LETTERS. 



869 



ner out of the house, to the great scaidal of the 
keeping part of the town, and with d prodigious 
eclat, which has occupied all the canals and coffee- 
houses in Venice. He said she wanted to poison 
him ; and she says — God knows what ; but between 
them they have made a great deal of noise. I 
know a little of both the parties : Moncada seemed 
a very sensible old man, a character which he has 
not quite kept up on this occasion ; and the woman 
is rather showy than pretty. For the iionor of re- 
ligion, she was brei in a convent, and for the credit 
of G 9M.t Britain, taught by an Englishwoman. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Dec. 3, 1817. 

** A Venetian lady, learned and somewhat stricken 
in years, having, in her intervals of love and devo- 
tion, taken upon her to translate the letters, and 
write the life of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, — 
to which undertaking there are two obstacles, 
firstly, ignorance of English, and, secondly, a total 
dearth of information on the subject of her pro- 
jected biography, — has applied to me for facts or 
falsities upon this promising project. Lady Mon- 
tague lived the last twenty or more years of her life 
in or near Venice, I believe ; but here they know 
nothing, and remember nothing, for the story of 
to-day is succeeded by the scandal of to-morrow ; 
and the wit, and beauty, and gallantry, which might 
render your countrywoman notorious in her own 
country, must have been here no great distinction 
—because the first is in no request, and the two lat- 
ter are common to all women, or at least the last of 
them. If you can therefore tell me any thing, or 
get any thing told, of Lady Wortley Montague, I 
shall take it as a favor, and will transfer and trans- 
late it to the ' Dama ' in question. And I pray you 
besides to send me, by some quick and safe voy- 
ager, the edition of her letters, and the stupid life, 
by Dr. Dallaway^ published, by her proud and fool- 
ish family. 

" The death of the Princess Charlotte has been 
a shock even here, and must have been an earth- 
quake at home.* The Courier's list of some three 
hundred heirs to the crown (including the house of 
Wirteml)erg, with that * * *, P , of disreputa- 
ble memory, whom I remember seeing at various 
balls during the visit of the Muscovites, ike, in 
1814), must be very consolatory to all true lieges, 
as well as foreigners, except Signor Travis, a rich 
Jew merchant of this city, who complains griev- 
ously of the length of British mourning, which has 
countermanded all the silks which he was on the 

Soint of transmitting, for a year to come. The 
eath of this poor girl is melancholy in every re- 
spect, dying at twenty or so, in childbed — of a hoy, 
too, a pn\sent princess and future queen, and just 
as she began to be happy, and to enjoy herself and 
the hopes which she insjjiiod. ****** 
^'-* I think, as far as 1 can recollect, she is the first 
'^oyal defunct in childbed upon record in o//r history. 
I feel sorry in every resnect — for the loss of a female 
reign, and a woman hitnerto harmless ; and all the 
lost rejoicings, and addresses, and drunkenness, 
and disbursements of John Bull on the occasion. 
*«•«•• 

" The Prince will marry again, after divorcing his 
wife, and Mr. Southey will write an elegy n«)w, and 
xn ode then ; the Qnarterly will have an article 
against the press, a \<l the" Kdinhurgh an article 
'%(ilf iu\A half, al)out reform and light of divorce; 
■ • • the tiritish will give you Dr. Chalmers's 
funeral sermon much commended, with a place in 



I CUMe Uuvld, cuito W. 



the stars for deceased royalty; and the McminB 
Post will have aheady yelled forth its ' sy.lables \A 
dolor.' 

« Wo, wo, Nealliny I— the young Nealliny I 

' It is some time since I have heard from you 
are you in bad humor } I suppose so. I have been 
so myself, and it is your turn now, and by-and-bj 
mine will come round again. '* Yqurs truly, 

B. 
♦' P. S. Countess Albrizzi, come back ixyca Farii 
has brought me a medal of herself, a presen': frca 
Denon to me, and a likeness of Mr. Rogers (belotig" 
ing to her), by Denon also." 



LETTER CCCLX. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"Veoice, Dec. 15,1817, 

'* I should have thanked, you before, for your 
favor a few days ago, had I not been in the inten- 
tion of paying my respects, personally, this eve- 
ning, from which I am deterred by the recollection 
that you will probably be at the Count Goess's this 
evening, which has made me postpone my intrusion. 

" I think your elegy a remarkably good one, not 
only as a composition, but both the politics and 
poetry contain a far greater portion of truth and 
generosity than belongs to the times, or to the pro 
fessors of these opposJ e pursuits, which usuall) 
agree only in one point, as extremes meet. I do not 
know whether you wished me to retain the copy, 
but I shall retain it till you tell me otherwise ; and 
am very much obliged by the perusal. 

" My own sentiments on Venice, &c., such as 
they are, I had already thrown into verse last sum- 
mer, in the fourth canto of Childe Harold, now in 
preparation for the press ; and 1 think much mor< 
highly of theiii for being in coincidence with yours 
" Believe me yours, -^c " 



LETTER CCCLXI. 

TO M'*. MURRAY. 

•• Venice, Jan. •. 
JMy dear Mr. Murmy, 
iTou're ill a dniiiiiM liiirry 

To ael lip ihi* iilUiiiiiti- canto ; 
But (if lliey iloii't roll u«), 
You'll iKe Mr. Hol.lioii»e 

Will liriug i( »i\.k- in hit iwrtmanteau. 

For the Jonriiiil you hint of, 
Ab p-itilv u> print utf, 

No iloiilit yon ito i'it;hl to conujirnii It; 
But III yt't 1 hiivf writ ort' 
Thi> devil u lit of 

Our ' Bcppo I '—when copied, I'll •end k» 

' Then you've • • •'» Tour,— 
No irreBt thing!, to he (tire,— 

Vuu cunid himlly liogiii with ■ kM woA 
For tlie poiiipinis inuoiiliiiu 
^^i« don't iiipuli It.iliHn 

Nor Kreudi, inuM hinro teriUiled by fiM» VOfk. 



Yuii can make any Iom up 
With ' Spt-nee ' iind lii» fru**<P. 

A work which iniml niin-ly infceed ; 
Thru UuiTii Miiry'i KpiMlo-.mn, 
With thf new • Kvlte ' iif ' WliudrcralV,* 

Must iniLkf |KH.|)lc purchiue and rrttd. 

Then you've lirnrml IJortlo*), 
Who girled his iwoi.t on. 

To wTve wiUi a Miiacuvlta maale', 
And help him (•> (xiiuli 
A nation in owiith, 

Tbey ihuughi iharUiff ihMt DMudi %. Jl 



87, 



BYKONS WORKb 



*' Pot the px>T man, 'poor ind thrtwt,' * 
fViili whom you'd coiicluJe 

A compact williout more delay, 
Perhaps some such pen is 
StUl extant in Venice; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay." 



LETTER CCCLXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

'•Veaice.Jan.lS, 1813. 

** 1 send you the storyf in three other separate 
covers. It won't do for your Journal, being full of 
political allusions. Print alone, without name; 
alter nothing ; get a scholar to see that the Italian 
vhrascs are correctly published (your printing, by- 
the-way, always makes me ill with its eternal blun- 
ders, which are incessant), and God speed you. 
Hobhouse left Venice.a fortnight ago, saving two 
days. I have heard nothing of or from him. 

" Yours, &c. 

"He has the whole of the MSS. ; so put up 
prayers in your back shop, or in the printer's 
' chapel.' '* 



LETTER CCCLXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Jan. 27, 1818. 

•' My father — that is, my Armenian father, Padre 
Pasquali — in the name of all the others of our con- 
vent, sends you the enclosed, greeting: 

"Inasmuch as it has pleased the translators of 
the long-lost and lately-found portions of the text 
of Eusebius to put forth the enclosed prospectus, 
of which I send six copies, you are hereby implored 
to obtain subscribers in the two universities, and 
among the learned, and the unlearned, who would 
unlearn their ignorance. This they (the convent) 
request, / request, and do you request. 

' ' I seiit you Beppo some wreeks agone. You 
must publish it alone ; it has politics and ferocity, 
and won't do for your isthmus of a Journal. 

" Mr. Hobhouse, if the Alps have not broken his 
Iieck, is, or ought to be, swimming with my com- 
mentaries and his own coat of mail in his teeth and 
right hand, in a cork jacket, between Calais and 
Dover. 

" It is the height of the Carnival, and I am in the 
extreme and agonies of a new intrigue with I don't 
exactly know whom or what, except that she is in- 
satiate of love, and won't take money, and has light 
hair and blue eyes, which are not common here, and 
that I met her at the masque, and that when her 
mask is oft', I am as wise as ever. I shall make 
what I can of the remainder of my youth." 



LETTER CCCLXIV 

It MR. MOORE. 

" Venice, Feb. 2, 1818. 

'• Youi letter of Dec. 8, arrived but this day, by^ 
bome delay, common, but inexplicable. Your do- 
mestic calamity is very grievous, and I feel with you 
IS much as I dare feel at all. Throughout life, 
VQur loss must be my loss, and your gain my gain ; 



" Vide your letter.' 



and, though my heart may ebb, there will always be 
a drop for you among the dregs.* 

"I know how to feel with you, because (selfish 
ness being always the substratum of our damnabiC 
clay) I am quite wrapt up in my own children. B*. 
sides my little legitimate, I have made unto mysell 
an iflegitimate since (to say nothing of one before), -f 
and I look forward to one of ihese as the pillar ol 
my old age, supposing that I ever reach — which I 
hope I never shall — that desolating period. I hav« 
a great love for my little Ada, though perhaps she 
may torture me, like * * * # • 

* * * * 

" Your offered address wi.. be as acceptable as 
you can wish. I don't much c&re what the wretches 
of the world think of me — all thafs past. But 1 
care a good deal what you think of me, and so, say 
what you like. You Jcnoio that I am not sullen ; 
and, as to being savage, such things depend on cix 
cumstances. However, as to being in good humor 
in your society, there is no great merit in that, be- 
cause it would be an effort, or an insanity, to be 
otherwise. 

" I don't know what Murray may have been say- 
ing or quoting. I called Crabbe and Sam the fathers 
of present poesy ; and said, that I thought — except 
them — all of ' us youth ' were on a -nTong tack. But 
I never said that we did not sail well. Our fame 
will be hurt by admiration and imitation. When I 
say our, I mean all (lakers included), except the 
postscript of the Augustans. The next generation 
(from the quantity and facility of imitation) will 
tumble and break their necks off our Pegasus, who 
runs away with us ; but we keep the saddle, because 
we broke the rascal, and can ride. But though easy 
to mount, he is the deeil to guide; and the next 
fellows must go back to the riding-school and the 
man. ge, and learn to ride the ' great hors'e.' 

" Talking of horses, by-the-way, I have trans^ 
ported my own, four in number, to the Lido, (beach, 
in English.) a strip of some ten miles along the 
Adriatic, a mile or two from tte city ; so that I not 
only get a row in my gondola, but a spanking gal- 
lop of some miles daily along a firm and solitary 
beach, from the fortress to Malamocco, the which 
contributes considerably to my health and spirits. 

" I have hardly had 'a wink of sleep this week 
past. We are in the agonies of the Carnival's last 
days, and I must be up all night again, as well aa 
to-morrow. I have had some curious masking ad- 
ventures this Carnival,, but, as they are not yet over, 
I shall not say on. I will work the mine of my 
youth to the last veins of the ore, and then — good 
night. I have lived, and am content. 

"Hobhouse went away before the Carnival began, 
so that he had little or no fun. Besides, it requires 
some time to be thorough-going with the Venetians ; 
but of all this anon, in some other letter. * * 
* * * * * * 

" I must dress for the evening. There is an opera, 
ridotta, and I know not what, besides balls ; and so, 
ever and ever yours, " B 

"P. S. I send this without revision, so excuse 
errors. I delight in the fortune and lame of Lalla, 
and again congratulate you on youi well-meiit«*l 
success." 



LETTER CCO1.XV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Veu-.ce, Feb. 20, 1818. 

" I have to thank Mr. Croker for the arrival, and 
you for the contents, of the parcel which came las*, 
week, much "quicker than any before, o^^•ing to Mr. 
Croker's kind attention and the official exterior ol 



• To Mr. Moore, p. 572. 

♦ See Poems. 



LETTERS. 



871 



Wie bags ; and all safe except much friction among 
magnesia, of which only two bottles came entire ; 
but it is all very well, and I am exceedingly obliged 
•to you. 

" The books I have read, or rather am reading. 
Pray, who may be the Sexagenarian, whose gossip 
's very amusing ? Many of his sk 3tches I recognize, 
particularly Gifford, Mackintosh. Drummond, Du- 
tens, H. Walpole, Mrs. Inchbald, Obie, &c., with 
the Scotts, Loughborough, and most of the divines 
and lawyers, besides a few shorter hints of authors, 
and a tew lines about a certain ' noble author,' char- 
acterized as malignant and sceptical, according to 
the good old story, ' as it was in the beginning, is 
now, but 7iot always shall be : ' do you know such a 
person. Master Murray ? eh ? — And pra;f, of the 
booksellers, which be yoM? the dry, the dirty, the 
honest, the opulent, the finical, tht splendid, or the 
coxcomb bookseller ? Stan my vitals, but the au- 
thor grows scurrilous in his grand climacteric. 
^- " I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, 
; in the hall of our college, and in private panties, but 
' not frequently ; and I never can recollect him except 
. as drunk or brutal, and generally both : I mean in 
; an evening, for in the hall, he dined at the Dean's 
\ table, and I at the Vicemaster's, so that I was not 
I near him ; and he then and there appeared sober in 
his demeanor, nor did I ever liear of excess or out- 
rage on his part in public, — commons, college, or 
chapel ; but I have seen him in a private party of 
undergraduates, many of them freshmen and 
utrangers, take up a poker to one of them, and 
heard him use language as blackguard as his action. 
I have seen Sheridan drunk, too, with all the 
world; but his intoxication was that of Bacchus, and 
Porson's that of Silenus. Of all the disgusting 
brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was 
the most bestial, as far as the few times that I saw 
him went, which were only at William Bankes's 
• (the Nubian discoverer's) roonis. I saw him once 
' (to away in a rage, because nobody knew the name 
' of the ' Cobbler of Messina,' insulting their igno- 
rance with the most vulgar terms of reprobation. 
He was tolerated in this state among the young 
men for his talents, as the Turks think a madman 
inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite or 
rather vomit pages of all languages, and could hic- 
cup Greek like a Helot ; and certainly Sparta never 
shocked her children with a grosser exhibition than 
this man's intoxication. 

I perceive, in the book you sent me, a long ac- 
nount of him, which is very savage. I cannot 
judge, as I never saw him sober, except in hall or 
combination-room ; and then I was never near 
enough to hear, and hardly to see him. Of his 
drunken deportment, I can be sure, because I 
-flaw it. 

" With the Reviews, I have been much enter- 
tained. It requires to be as far from England as I 
am 1o relish a periodical paper properly : it is like 
Boda-water in an Italian summer. But what cruel 
work you make with Lady Morgan ! You should 
rJcoUect that she is a woman; though, to be sure, 
tc.ij are now and then very provoking ; still as au- 
th:): esses they can do no great harm ; and I think 
It is a j)ity so much good invective should have 
been laid out upon her, when there is such a fine 
field of us. Jacobin gentlemen, for you to work 
upon. It is, perhaps, as bitter a critiiiue as ever 
was written, and enough to make sad work for 
Dr. Morgan, l)oth as husband and apothecary ; — 
unless she should say, as PopC did of some attack 
upon him, ' That it is as good for her as a dose of 
kartshurn.* 

" I heard from Moore lately, and was sorry to be 
made aware of his domestic loss. Thus it is — 
•medio de fonte lei)oruin ' — in the acme of his fame 
and his happiness comes a drawback as usual. 
♦ ' *^ « « • • ♦ 

*'M''. lloppuar, whom I saw this morning, has 



been made the father of a very fine boy * — Mothel 
and child doing very well indeed. By this tim4 
Hobhouse should be with you, and also certain pack 
ets, letters, &c., of mine, sent since his departure 
I am not at all well in health within this last eight 
days. My remembrances to Gifford and all friends. 
"Yours, &c., 

"B. 

" P. S. In the course of a month or two,' Hanson 
will have probably to send off a clerk with convey- 
ances to sign, (Newstead being sold in November 
last for ninety-four thousand five hundred pouuds,)^ 
in which case I supplicate supplies of ar'.:cles as 
usual, for which, desire Mr. Kinnaird to settle from 
funds in their bank, and deduct from my accoimt 
with him. 

" P. S. To-morrow night I am going to see 
Otello,' an opera from our 'Othello,' and oi e of 
Rossini's best, it is said. It will be curious to see 
in Venice the Venetian story itself represented, 
besides to discover what they will make of Shak- 
speare in music. 



LETTER CCCLXVI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



" Venice, Feb. 28, 1818. 

My Dear Sir, 

" Our friend, il Conte M., threw me into a cold 
sweat last night, by telling me of a menaced ver- 
sion of ^Manfred (in Venetian I hope, to complete 
the thing), by some Italian, who had sent it to you 
for correction, which is the reason why I take the 
liberty of troubling you on the subject. If yod 
have any means of communication with the man, 
would you permit me to convey to him the offer oi 
any price he may obtain, or think to obtain, for hi» 
project, provided he will throw his translation uito 
the fire, and promise not to undertake any other ol 
that or any otlier of my things : I will send him 
his money immediately on this condition. 

" As I did not write to the Italians, nor for the 
Italians, nor of the Italians, (except in a poem net 
yet published, where I have said all the good I know 
or do not know of them and none of tlie harm,) 1 
confess I wish that they would let me alone, and not 
drag me into their arena as one of the gladiators, iu 
a silly contest which I neither understand nor have 
ever interfered with, having kept clear of all their 
literary parties, both here and at M^an, and else- 
where. — I came into Italy to fool the climate and 
1)6 quiet if possible. Mossi's translation I would 
have prevented if I had known it, or could have 
done so ; and I trust that I shall yet be in time to stop 
this new gentleman, of whom I heard yesterday for 
the first time. He will only hurt himself, and do 
no good to his party, for in party the wlu)le thing 
originates. Our modes of thinking and writing are so 
unutterably dilforent, tliat I can conceive no greater 
absurdity than attempting to make any approach 
l)etwt>cn the Knglisli and Italian poetry of tlu pres- 
ent day. I like the people very miu-h, and theii 
literature very much, but I am not the least anibi- 
tious of being the siibjcct of their discussions li*. era 
ry and personal, (which appear to be pretty much 



• Oil iliP liiitli ol Uib cliiM, who wni chrUlJ-iud Join 
Loni Dyrnii wn>(p (li(> four I'dllowinir liii<-«, wlilcli iin< in 
n-iiinrkiilil'' t!,.'\ii (hut Umv wrrr Utoiiicht wurttiy (>< \v\u- 
inlu iiu Ira* (hiiii trn <l:lV<TPnt IniiKiiig*'*; ii>iiirly, < 
(uIm) iu tho V<<iii<tliiii ilUlxct,) GoTiiiiin, Krciich, S)iiiiii 
Ariiieuiaii, ami Siuiinrilnn : — 

" III* fiiOit>r'» ai'nan, hi* mollirr'* gmM 

III him, I hiii>(>, will ulwiiv* A( m> ; 

Wllh (itill Iu l>rrp liiiii li> (r<HHl c^t**.) 

Ttw hmlUi kiul n|ip<*iilg ul Uino." 

1hi» oriflnKi llnM, wllh Uir> illlTpreiil »rr«loii« •Ikjtt 

III K uiiall volume. Iu liio Seiuiuur ul Padiw.— Mo« * 



872 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the same thing, as is the case in most countries ;) 
and if you can aid me in impeding this publication, 
you will add to much kindness already received from 
fou by yours. " Ever andstruly, 

" Bykon. 
"P S. How is the son, and mamma? Well, I 
daie sav." 



LETTER CCCLXVII. 

TO MR. ROGERS. 

"Venice, March 3, 1818. 

" I have not, as you say, ' taKen to wife the Adri- 
atic* I heard of Moore's loss from himself in a 
:et ter which was delayed upon the road three months. 
1. was sincerely sorry for it, but in such cases what are 
words ? 

** The villa you speak of is one at Este, which 
Mr. Hoppner (consul-general here), has transferred 
to me. I have taken it for two years as a place of 
Villeggiatura. The situation is very beautiful in- 
, deed, among the Euganean hills, and the house very 
fair. The vines are luxuriant to a great degree, 
and all the fruits of the earth abundant. It is close 
to the old castle of the Estes, or Guelphs, and with- 
in a few miles of Arqua, which I have visited twice, 
and hope to visit often. 

" Last summer (except an excursion to Rome), I 
passed upon the Brenta. In Venice I winter, 
transporting my horses to the Lido, bordering the 
Adriatic, (where the fort is,) so that I get a gallop 
of some miles daily along the strip of beach which 
teaches to Malamocco, when in health ; but within 
these few weeks I have been unwell. At present I 
im getting better. The Carnival was short but a 
' ^ood one. I don't go out much, except during the 
time of masks ; but there are one or two conversa- 
zioni, where I go regularly, just to keep up the sys- 
tem, as I had letters to their givers ; and they are 
particular on such points ; and now and then, though 
very rarely, to the Governor's. 
_*' It is a very good place for women. I like the 
, dialect and their manner very much. There is a 
i naivete about them which is very winning, and the 
! romance of the place is a mighty adjurict ; the bel 
I mnyue is -not, however, now among "the dame or 
! higher orders ; but all under ifazzioli, or kerchiefs, 
(a white kind of veil which the lower orders, wear 
upon their heads;) — the vesta zendale, or old na- 
tional female ^stume, is no more. The city, how- 
ever, is decaying daily, and does not gain in popu- 
lation. However, I prefer it to any other in Italy ; 
and here have I pitched my staff, and here do I 

fiurpose to reside for the remainder of my life, un- 
ess events, connected with business not to be trans- 
acted out of England compel me to return for that 
purpose ; otherwise I have few regrets, and no de- 
sires to visit it again for its own sake. I shall 
probably be obliged to do so, to sign papers for my 
affairs and a proxy for the Whigs, and to see Mr. 
Waite, for I can't find a good dentist here, and eve- 
ry two or three years one ought to consult one. — 
About seeing my children, 1 must take my chance. 
One I shall have sent here ; and I shall be very 
happy to see the legitimate one when God pleases, 
which he perhaps will some day or other. As for 
my mathematical wife, I am as well without her. 

" Your account of your visit to Fonthill is very 
Btrik'ng: could you beg of him for me a copy in 
MS. of the remaining Tales f* I think I deserve 
»lrem, as a strenuous and public admirer of the first 
one. I will return it when read, and make no ill 
UEe of the copy, if granted. Murray would send 
me out any thing safely. If ever I return to Eng- 
land, I should like very much to see the author, with 
his permission. In the mean time, you could not 



A eoniinuaiion ot Vatbek, by Mr. Beckford, 



oblige ftie more than by obtaining me the perusal 1 
request, in French or EngHsh, — all's one for that 
though I prefer Italian to either. I have a Frenek 
copy of Vathek, which I bought at Lausanne. 1 
can read French with great pleasure and facility,, 
though I neither speak nor write it. Now Italiaa 
I caw speak with some fluency, and write sufficient- 
ly for my purposes, but I don't like their modem 
prose at all ; it is very heavy, and so diflferent from 
Machiavelli. 

" They say Francis is Junius ; — I think it looks 
like it. I remembe." meeting him at Earl Gray's at 
dinner. Has not he lately married a young woman ; 
and was not he Madame Talleyrand's cavaliere ser- 
vente in India years ago ? 

" I read my death in the papers, which was not 
true. I see they are marrying the remaining singi^ 
ness of the royal family. They have brought out 
Fazio with great and deserved success at Coa ent 
Garden ; that's a good sign. I tried, during tHe 
directory,, to have it done at Driiry Lane, but was 
overruled. If you think of coming into this coun- 
try, you will let me know perhaps beforehand. I 
suppose Moore won't move. Rose is here. I saw 
him the other night at Madame Albrizzi's ; he talka 
of returning in May. My love to the Hollands. 

" Ever, &c. 

"P. S. They have been crucifying Othello into 
an opera, (Otello, by Rossini ;) the music good, but 
lugubrious ; but as for the words, all the real scenes 
with lago cut out, and the greatest nonsense in 
stead ; the handkerchief tmned into a billet-douz, 
and the first singer would not black his face, fol 
some exquisite reasons assigned in the preface. Sing 
ing, dresses, and music, very good." 



LETTER CCCLXVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Venice, March 16, isto, 

" My Dear Tom, 

" Since my last, which I hope that you have re 
ceived, I have had a letter from our friend Samuel.* 
He talks of Italy this summer — won't you come 
with him ? I don't knov/ whether you would like 
our Italian way of life or not. 

* * * * * « 

****** 

" They are an odd people. The other day I wa« • 
telling a girl, ' you must not come to-morrow, be 
cause Marguerita is coming at such a time,' — (they I 
are both about five feet ten inches high, with great i 
black eyes and fine figures — fit to breed gladiators 1 
from — and I had some difficulty to prevent a battle [ 
upon a rencontre once before) — * unless you promise \ 
to be friends, and ' — the answer was an interruption 
by a declaration of war against the other, which she 
said would be a 'Guerra di Candia.' Is it not odd, 
that the lower order of Venetians should still allude 
proverbially t6 that famous contest, so glorious and 
so fatal to the Republic ,^ 

" They have singular expressions, like all the 
Italians. For example, ' Viscere ' — as we would 
say, 'my love,' or 'my heart,' as an expression of 
tenderness. Also, ' I would go for you in the midst 
of a hundred knives.' — ^ Mazza beii,' excessive at 
tachment, — literall)^ ' I wish you well even to kill 
ing.' They then say, (instead of our way, ' dc yoM 
think I would do you so much harm?') 'do ycu 
think I would assassinate you in suf'h a manner ? ' 
— ' Tempo ptrfide,'' bad weather ; ' Strade perfide* 
bad roads — with a thousand other allusions and 
metaphors, taken from the state of society and 
habits in the middle ages. 

" I am not so sure about mazza, whcthjr it don' I 



Rogen. 



LETTERS. 



873 



mean massa,i. e. a great deal, a mass, instead of 
the interpretation I have given it. But of the other 
phrases 1 am sure. 

'* Three o' th' clock — I must * to bed, to bed, to 
bed,' as mother Siddons (that tragical friend of the 
mathematical wife) says, * » ♦ * ♦ 
******* 

" Have you ever seen — I forget what or whom — 
uo matter. They tell me Lady Melbourne is very 
unwell. I shall be so sorry. She was my greatest 
friend, of the feminine gender : — when I say 'friend,' 
I mean not mistress, for that's the antipodes. Tell 
me all ubout you and every body — how Sam is — ^how 
you like your neighbors, the Marquis and Mar- 
chesa, &c., &c. " Ever, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXIX. 

TO MU. MURRAY. ' 

" Venice, March 25, 1818. 

1 have your letter, with the account of ' Beppo,' 
for which I sent you four new stanzas a fortnight 
»go, in case you print or reprint. 

* * * * « « 

*' Croker's is a good guess ; but the style is not 

English — it is Italian ; — Berni is the original of all. 
Whistlecraft was my immediate modal; Rose's 
' Animali ' I never saw till a few days ago, — they are 
excellent. Biit (as I said above), Berni is the father 
of that kind of writing, which I think suits our 
language, too, very well ; — we shall see by the ex- 
periment. If it does, I shall send you a volume in 
a year or two, for I know the Italian way'of life well, 
and in time may know it yet better ; and as for the 
verse and the passions, I have them still in tolera- 
ble vigor. 

" If you think that it will do you and the work, 
cr works, any good, you may put my name to it ; 
but first consult the knoxolnq ones. It will, at any 
rate, show them that I can write cheerfully, and 
repel the charge of monotony and mannerism. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•'Venice, April 11, 1818. 

Will you send rtie by letter, packet^ or parcel, 
naif a dozcij of the colored prints from Holmes's 
miniature, (the latter done shortly before I left your 
country, and the prints about a year ago;) I shall 
be obliged to you, as some people' here have ask«d 
me for the like. It is a picture of my upright self, 
done for Scrope B. Davies, Esq. 

****** 

" Why have you not sent me an answer, and lists 
of subscribers to the translation of the Armenian 
Euschius? of wliich I sent you i)rinted copies of the 
nrospoctiis (in I'lPTU^h) two moons ago. Have you 
nad 'the letter? — I shall send you another: — you 
oiaf»t r.ot neglect my Anuenians. Tootli-powder, 
ttxa/TMia, tincture of myrrh, tooth-brushes, diachy- 
lon plaster, Peruvian bark, are my personal de- 
tnaiit 

" Strnhnn, Tonion, l.liitut of thr dmoi, 
Pulron Khd piibllnher ul' rhymea, 
For Uie* llie txird tiji Pitidu* cliinbi, 
My Murray. 
" To then, wlU> hope iinil iirrur ilumb, 
Thu unftiMljfftI M8. uuthum coim- ; 
Thou prinioHl ull — iiml •i<llH»t auni^— 
My Miirmy. 

•• Upon thy Uvblr'n I nlin ■» grrtm 
The liiit ni-w (In .rU'riy it »«n i 
But wliTB ■ Iby iK'W Mi4(»ihie, 
M • MumiT ' 

no 



' Alon; tby iprucest book-sheWei «h1n« 
The works ihou deemeut most divine— 
The ' Art of Cookery,' and mij-.«, 
My Murray 

' Tour* Travels, Eways, too, 1 wwt, 
And Sermons to thy mill bring griit; 
And tbea tbcu hast the ■ Navy List,' 
My Mun^y. 

' And Heaven forbid 1 should conclude 
Without the ' Board of Longitude,' 
Although this narrow paper would, 
My Murray I " 



LETTER CCCLXXI. 



TO MB. MURRAY. 

"Venice, April 12, l»i8. 

"This letter will be delivered by Signor Gioe 
Bata. Missiaglia, proprietor of the Apollo library 
and the principal publisher and bookseller now la 
Venice. He sets out for London with a view ta 
business and correspondence with the English book- 
sellers : and it is in the hope that it may be for youi 
mutual advantage that I furnish him with this let- 
ter of introduction to von. If vou can be yf use to 
him, either by recommendation to others, or by any 
personal attention on your own part, you will oblige 
him, and gratify me. You may also perhaps both 
be able to derive advantage, or establish some mode 
of literary communication, pleasing to the public, 
and oeneficial to one another. 

" At any rate, be civil to him for my sake, as well 
as for the honor and glory of publishers and authors 
now and to come for evermore. 

" With him I also consign a great number of MS. 
letters, written in English, French, and Italian, by 
various English established in Italy during the last 
centurv : — the names of the writers. Lord Hervey, 
Lady M. W. Montague, (hers are but few — some 
billets-doux in French to Algarotti, and one letter 
in English, Italian, and all sorts of jargon, to the 
same,) Gray the poet, (one letter,) Mason, (two or 
three,) Garrick, Lord Chatham, David Hume, and 
many of less note, — all addressed to Count Alga- 
rotti. Out of these, I think, with discretion, an 
amusing miscellaneous volume of letters might be 
extracted, provided some good editor were disposed 
to undertake the selection, and preface, and a few 
notes, (Src. 

" The proprietor of these is a friend of mine. Dr. 
Af/lk'tti, — a groat name in Italy, — and if you are 
disposed to publish, it will be for /lis benefit, and it 
is to and for him that you will name a price, if you 
tiike upon you the woik. 1 would edit it myself, 
but am too far off, and too lazy to undertake it ; but 
I wish that it could be done. The letters of Ltnd 
Hervev, in Mr. Rose's opinion and mine, are good ; 
and the short French love-letters certaiuhj are Lady 
M. W. Montague's — the French not good, but the 
sentiments beautiful. Gray's letter good ; and 
Mason's tolerable. The whole correspondence must 
W well weeded; but this being done, u small and 
pretty popular volume might be made of it. There 
are many ministers' letters — tJray the ambassador 
at Najiles, Horace Mann, and others of the same 
kind of animal. 

•' I thoiurht of a preface, defending Lord Ilervey 
against Popt-'s attack, but Pope — quoad Pope, the 
p,), t— against nil the world, in the unjustitiable at- 
teinptH bcLCun by Warton, and carried on at this day 
by ine new school of critics and 8cril)blers, who tliiiik 
thcmselveH poets because they do not write like ro|>o 
1 liave no patience with such curst'd humbtjg and 
bud taste ; your whole generation are not worth a 
canto of the Rape of the Lock, or the Essay na 
Man, or the Dunciad, or 'any thing that is hifl. 
Hut it is throe in the matin, and 1 must go to bed. 
•* Vouis lunay, ^ • " 



§74 



BYRON'S WORKS 



LETTER CCCLXXII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, April 17, 1818 

*' A few days ago, I wrote to you a letter request- 
ing yc u to desire Hanson to desire liis messenger to 
come on from Geneva to Venice, because 1 won't go 
from Venice to Geneva ; and if this is not done, the 
messenger may be damned, with him wlio mis-sent 
him. Pray reiterate my request. 

" With the proofs returned, I sent two additional 
stanzas for canto fourth : did they arrive ? 

" Your monthly reviewer has made a mistake : 
Cavaliere alone is well enough ; ' Cavalier serv'inte' 
has always the e mute in conversation, and omitted 
in -WTiting ; so that it is not for the sake of metre ; 
and pray let Griffiths know this, with my compli- 
ments. I humbly conjecture that I kuovv as much 
of Italian society and language as any of his peo- 
ple; but to make assurance doubly sure, I asked, a.t 
the Countess Benzona's, last night, the question of 
more than one person in the office; and of these 
* cavaliers serventz ' (in the plural", recollect,) I found 
tha± they all accorded in pronouncing for ' cavalier 
eervente ' in the singular number. I wish Mr. * * * * 
(or whoever Griffith's scribbler may be) would not 
talk of what he don't understand. Such fellows are 
not fit to be intrusted with Italian, even in a quota- 
tion. ******** 

" Did you receive two additional stanzas, to be 
inserted towards the close of canto fourth ? Re- 
spond, that (if not) they may be sent. 

" Tell Mr. * * and Mr. Hanson, that they may as 
well expect Geneva to come to me, as that I should 
go to Geneva. The messenger may go or return, 
as he pleases ; I won't stir : and I look upon it as ti 
piece of singular absurdity in those Avho know me, 
imagining that I should — not ro say malice, in at- 
tempting unnecessary torture. If, on the occasion 
my intei-ests should suffer, it is their neglect that is 

to blame ; and they may all be d d together. 

****** 

" It is ten o'clock, and time to dress. 

" Yours, &c.' 



** You may tell them this ; and add, that nothin| 
but force or necessity shall stir me one step towards 
the places to which they would wring me. 

****** 

" If your literary matters prosper, let me kno-v? 
If ' Beppo ' pleases, you shall have more in a yeai 
or two in the same mood. And so, ' Good morrow 
to you, good Master Lieutenant. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXIV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



' Palazzo Mocen 
" Venice, 



go, Ca.nEl Grande, 
June 1 , 1818. 



LETTER CCCLXXIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"April 23, 1818. 

** The time is past in which I could feel for the 
dead, — or I should feel for the death of Lady Mel- 
bourne, the best, and kindest, and ablest female I 
ever knew, old or young. But ' I have supped full 
of horrors ; ' and events of this kind have only a 
kind of numbness worse than pain, like a violent 
blow on the elbow or the head. There is one link 
less betwpen England and myself. 

*' Now to business. I presented you with Beppo, 
as part of the contract for canto fourth, — consider- 
ing the price you are to pay for the same, and in- 
tending to tke you Out in case of public caprice or 
my o\yn poetical failure. If you choose to suppress 
.t entirely, at Mr. * * * *'s suggestion, you may do 
as you please. But recollect it is not to be pub- 
lished in a garbled or mutilated state. I reserve to 
my friends and myself the right of correcting the 
press : — if the publication continue, it is to continue 
in its present form. 

****** 

«♦ As Mr. * * says that he did nor write this let- 
ter, &c., I am ready to believe him; but for the 
firmness of my former persuasion, I refer to Mr. 
• * * *, who can inform you how sincerely I erred 
on this point. He has also the note — or, at least, 
ftad it, for I gave it to him with my verbal com- 
ments thereupon. As to ' Beppo,' I will not alter 
or suppress a syllable for any man's pleasure but my 
own. 



'Your letter is almost the only news, as yet, o{ 
canto fourth, and it has by no means settled its fate, 
— at least, does not tell me how the ' poeshie ' hag 
been received by the public. But I suspect, no 
great things,— firstly, from Murray's ' horrid still- 
ness ; ' secondly: from what you say about the stan- 
as running into each other,* which I take 7iot to be 
yours, but a notion you have binned with among the 
Blues. The fact is, that the terza rima of the Ital- 
ians, which always runs on and in, may have led n:.*- 
into experiments, and ca,relessness into conceit — ci 
conceit into carelessness — in either of which events 
failure will be probable, and my fair woman, 'su- 
perne,' end in a fish ; so that Childe Harold will b« 
like the mermaid, my family crest, with the fourth 
canto for a tail thereunto. 1 won't quarrel with the 
public, however, for the ' Bulgars ' are generally 
right; and if I miss now, I may hit another time: 
— -and so ' the gods give us joy.' 

"You like Beppo; that's right. * * * « I 
have not had the Fudges yet, but live in hopes. I 
need not say that your successes are mine. By-the- 
way, Lydia White is here, and has just borrowed 
my copy of ' Lalla Rookh.' 

****** 



" Hunt's letter is probably the exact piece of vul-\ 
gar coxcombry you might expect from his situa|;ion. 
He is a good man, with some poetical elements in / 
his chaos; but spoiled by the Christ-Church Hos-* 
pital and a Sunday newspaper, — to say nothing ol 
the Surry jail, which conceited him into a martyr. 
But he is a good man. When I saw ' Rimini ' in 
MSS., I told him that I deemed it good poetry at 
bottom, disfigured only by a strange style. His 
answer was, that his style was a system, or lyjon 
system, or some such cant ; and, when a man talks 
of system, his case is hopeless : so I said no more 
to him, and very little to any one else. •^ 

'* He believes his trash of vulgar phrases tortured j 
into compound barbarisms to be did English ; and , 
we may say of it as Aimwell says of Captain jib- 
bet's regiment, when the captain calls it an ' old 
corps,' — 'the oldest in Europe, if I may judge by 
your uniform.' He sent out his * Foliage ' by Percy 
Shelley, and, of all the ineffable centaurs that were 
ever begotten by self-love upon a night-mare, I 
think this monstrous sagittary the most prodigious. 
He (Leigh H.) is an honest charlatan, who has per- 
suaded himself into a belief of his own impostures, 
and talks Punch in pure simplicity of heart, taking 
himself (as poor Fitzgerald said of himseU in the 
Morning Post) for Vates in both senses, or non 
senses, of the word. Did you look at the transla- 
tions of his own which he prefers to Pope and C.y-w- 
per, and says so ? — Did you read his sk^^Jible- 
skamble about * * being at the head of his own 
profession in the eyes of those who follow jd it ? I 
thought that poetry was an art, or an at'',ribute, and 
not a profession ;— but be it one, lo that *****«« 



• Mr. Moore had »aid, in his letter to him, that {hi» practice of canyioj 
one stanza into another, was " somtthiug like UllLag m liones another atag 
witbout baitine." 



LETTERS. 



875 



»t the Lead of yowr professic n in your eyes? I'll 
be cursed if he is of mine, or ever shall be. He is 
the only one oi us (but of us he is not) whose coro- 
nation I would oppose. Let them take Scott, 
Campbell, Crabbe, or you or me, or any of the liv- 
intj, and throne him; — but not this rew Jacob 
Behmen, this * * * * ' * * * 
whose pride might have kept him true, even had 
his principles turned as perverted as his soi-disant 
poetry. 

" But Leigh Hunt is a good man, and a good 
father — see his odes to all the Masters Hunt ; a 
good husband — see his sonnet to Mrs. Hunt ; — a 
good friend — see his epistles to different people : — 
and R great coxcomb, and a very vulgar person in 
every thing about him. But that's not his fault, 
but of circumstances. 

****** 
*.***** 

" I do not know any good model for a life of 
Sheridan but that of Sava(/e. llecoUect, however, 
that the life of such a man may be made far more 
amusing than if he had been a Wilberforce ; — and 
this without offending the living or insulting the 
dead. The Whigs abuse him ; however, he never 
left them, and such blunderers deserve neither 
credit nor compassion. As for his creditors, — re- 
member, Sheridan nex:er had a shilling, and was 
thrown, with great powers and passions, into the 
thick of the world, and placed upon the pinnacle 
of success, with no other external means to support 
him in his elevation. Did Fox * * * pay his debts ? 
— or did fc^heridan take a subscription ? Was the 
tmke of Norfolk's drtmkenness more excusable 
than his ? Were his intrigues more notorious than 
those of all his contemporaries ? and is his memory 
to be blasttil, and theirs respected? Don't let 
yourself be led away by clamor, but compare him 
V('i.th the coalitioner Fox, and the pensioner Burke, 
as a man of principle, and Avith ten hundred tl\ou- 
sand in personal views, and with none in talent, 
for he beat them all 07it and otif. Without means, 
without coimexion, iVithoxit character (which might 
be false at first, and made him mad afterward from 
desperation), he beat them all, in all he ever at- 
tempted. But alas, poor human nature ! Good 
night — or, rather, morning. It is four, and the 
dawn gleams over the Grand Canal, and unshadows 
the Kialto. I must to bed ; up all night — 1)ut, as 
George Philpot says, 'it's life, though, damme, it's 
life ! ' •' Ever yours, 

"B." 

'' Excuse errors — no time for revision. The post 
goes out at noon, and I shan't be up then. 1 will 
write again soon about your plan for a publication." 



LETTER CCCLXXV. 

,po « * * * *. 

"Since you desire the story of Margarita Cogni, 
yon shall be told jt, though it may be- lengthy. 

*' Her face is the fine Venetian cast of the old 
time; her figure, though jjcrhaps too tall, is not 
less fine — and taken altogether in the national 
dress. 

In the summer of 1817, ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ * and mvsclf 
were sauntering on horseback along the Brcnta one 
evening, when, among a group of peasants, wo re- 
mark(>d two girls as the prettiest wo had seen for 
Bome time. About this pi-iiod 4lifre had hern great 
distress in the country, and I had ii little relieved 
Bomc of the people. Generosity makes a great 
figure at very little cost in Venetian livres, and 
niino had iu-ol)ably been exifffgerated as an English- 
man's. Whether they remarked us looking at them 
Bi no, I know not ; but one of them called out to 
me in ^ anetian, * Why do not yoti, who relievo 



others, think of us also ? ' I turnti round and 
answered her — * Cara, tu sei troppo bella e giovan* 
per aver' bisogna del' soccorso mio.' She answered, 
If you saw my hut and my food, you would not 
say so.' All this passed half jestingly, and I sail 
no more of her for some days. 

' A few evenings after, we met %vith these two 
girls again, and they addressed us more seriously 
assuring us of the truth of their statement. Iney 
were cousins ; Margarita married, the other single. 
As I doubted still of the circumstances, I took the 
business in a different light, and made an apf oint- 
ment with them for the next evening. 

****** 

* * In shovt, in a few evenings we arranged 
our affairs, and for a long space of time she w;is the 
only one who preserved over me an asccniency 
whi<;h Avas often disputed, and never impaired. 

' The reasons for tliis were, firstly, her person ;— 
very dark, tall, the Venetian face, very fine black 
eyes. She was two-and-twenty years old, * "* 

* * *. She was besides a. thorough Vene*\ 
tian in her dialect, in her thoughts, in her counte- 
nance, in every thing, with all their naYvet and 
pantaloon humor. Besides, she could neither read 
nor write, and could not plague me with letters, 
— except twice that she paid sixpence to a publio 
scribe, under the piazza, to make a letter for her, 
upon some occasion when I was ill and could not 
see her. In other resjjects, she was somewhat 
fierce and ' prepotente,' that is overbearing, and 
used to walk in whenever it suited her, with no 
very great regard to time, place, nor persons ; and 
if she found any Avomen in her way, she knockeo 
them down. 

"When I first knew her, I was in •relazione' 
(liaison) with la Signora * *, who was silly enough 
one evening at Dolo, accompained by some of her 
female friends, -to threaten her; for the gosSipa 
of the Villeggiutura had already found out, by the 
neighing of my horse one evening, that 1 used to 
' ride late in the night ' to meet the Fornarina 
Margarita threw back her veil Hazziolo), and replied 
in very explicit Venetian : • You are not his wife. 
I am Hot his wife: you are his Donna, and / am 
his Donna : your husband is a Imco, and mine ii 
another. For the rest, Avhat rii/ht have you to 
reproach me ? If he prefers me to you, is it my 
fault ? If you wish to secure him, tie him to your 
petticoat-staring. But do not think to spoak to me 
without a replv, because you hap])en to be richer 
than I am.* Having delivered this i)retty j)iece oi 
eloquence (which I translate as it was .translated 
to mc by a bystander), she went on her way, leavingj 
a numerous audience, with Madame * * to pondei 
at her leisure on the dialogue between them. 

" When I came to Venice for the winter she fol- 
lowed ; and as she found herself out to be a favor- 
ite, she came to me pretty often. But she had 
inordinate self-love, and was not tolerant of other 
women. At the * Cavalehina,' the masked ball on 
the last night of the Carnival, where all the world 
goes, she siiatched otl' the mask of Madame Cou- 
tarini, a lady noble by birth, and decent in eor.iuct, 
for no «)ther reason but because she hupi)t-ncd to 
be leaning on my arm. You nuiy sunijose whkt a 
cursed noise this made ; but this is only one of tfr 
pranks. 

•* At last she quarrelled with her husband, and 
one evening ran away to n\y house. 1 tc."..i her thii 
would not do ; she said she would lie in vhe street, 
but not go back to him; that he beat her, (tho 
gentle tigress!) «i)ent her money, luul scandalously 
neglected her. As it was midnight. I let her stiiy. 
land next day there was no moving her at all. Her 
ihtisband came roaring and crying, and entreating 
I her to come l)aek — tiot she! He then applit-d to 
I the police, and they anplied to me: 1 told them 
land her husband t(> taXf lu'r ; I did not want her; 
i>he had come, and 1 could not fling her ou« of thfl 
I window ; but they might conduct her throi^h that 



876 



BYRON'S "WORKS. 



W the door if they chos i it. She went before the 
eommissary, but was obliged to return with that 
•becco ettico,' as she called the poor man, who had 
a phthisic. In a few days she ran away again. 
Aftei a previous piece of work, she fixed herself in 
my house, really and truly without ray consent; 
but, owing to my indolence, and not being able to 
keep ray countenance — for if I began in a rage, she 
always finished by making me laugh with some 
Venetian pantaloonery or another; and the gipsy 
knew this well enough, as well as her other powers 
of persuasion, and exerted them with the usual tact 
and success of all she-things ; — high and low, they 
are ail alike for that. 

" Madame Benzoni also took her under her pro- 
tection, and then her head turned. She was always 
in extremes, either crying or laughing, and so fierce 
when angered, that she was the terror of men, wo- 
men, and children — for she had the strength of an 
Amazon, with the temper of Medea. She was a 
fiite animal, but quite untameable. / was the only 
person that could at all keep her in any order, and 
when she saw me really angry (which they tell me 
is a savage sight), she subsided. But she had a 
thousand fooleries. In her fazziolo, the dress of 
the lower orders, she looked beautiful ; but, alas ! 
she longed for a hat and feathers ; and all I could 
Bay or do (and I said much) could not preyent this 
travestie. I put the first into the fire ; but I got 
tired of burning thera before she did of buying 
therh, so that she made herself a figure — for they 
did not at all become her. 

"Then she would have her gowns with a tail— 
like a lady, forsooth ; nothing would serve her but 
'I'abita colla coua,' or cua (that is the Venetian for 
♦la cola,' the tail or train), and as her cursed pro- 
nunciation of the word made me laugh, there was 
an end of all controversy, and she. dragged this 
diabolical tail after her every, where. • 
**'In the mean time, she beat the women and 
stopped my letters. I found her one day ponder- 
ing over one. She used to try to find out by their 
shape whether they were feminine or no ; and she 
used to lament her ignorance, and actually studied 
her alphabet, on purpose (as she declared) to open 
all letters addressed to me, and read their contents. 

" I must not omit to do justice to her housekeep- 
ing qualities. After she came into my house as 
donna di governo,' the expenses were reduced to 
less than half, and every body did their duty better 
— the apartments were kept in order, and every 
tning, and every body else, except herself. 

"That she had a sufficient regard for me in her 
wild way, I had many reasons to believe. I will 
mention one. In the autumn, one day going to the 
Lido with my gondoliers, we were overtaken by a 
heavy squ;ill, and the gondola put in peril — hats 
blown away, boat filling, oar lost, tumbling sea, 
thunder, rain in torrents, night coming, and wind 
unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle, 
I found her on the open steps of the Mocenigo 
palace, on the Grand Canal, with her great black 
eyes flashing through her tears, and the long dark 
hair, which was streaming, drenched with rain, 
over her brows and breast. She was perfectly ex- 
posed to the storm ; and the wind blowing her hair 
and dress about her thin tall figure, and' the light- 
ning flashing around her, and the waves rolling at 
her feet, made her look like Medea alighting from 
her chariot, or the sibyl of the tempest that was 
rolling around her, the only living thing within 
hail at that moment except ourselves. On seeing 
me safe, she did not wait to greet rae, as might 
have been expected, but calling out to me — ' Ah ! 
can' della Madonna, xe esto il tempo por andar' al' 
Lido ? ' (All ! dog of the Virgin, is this a time to 
go to Lido?) ran into the house, and solaced her- 
lelf with scolding the boatmen for not foreseeing 
the * temporalc.' I am told by the servants that 
ihe had only been prevented from coming in a boat 
. o look after me. by the refusal of all the gondoliers 



of the canal to put out into the harbor in su( h |.^ 
moment; and that then she sat down on the stepi ' 
in all the thickest of the squall, and would neithei 
be removed nor comforted. Her joy at seeing me 
again was moderately mixed with ferocity, and gave 
me the «Ipa of a tigress over her recovered cubs. 

" But ii'ar rfeign drew near a close. She became 
quite ungovernable some months after, and a coe- 
currence of complaints, some true, and many false 
— ' a favorite has no friends ' — determined raq to 
part with her. I told her quietly that she must 
return home, (she had acquired a sufficient pro- 
vision for herself and mother, &c., in my service,) 
and she refused to quit the house. I was firm, and 
she went threatening' knives and revenge. I told' 
her t?^"»t I had seen knives drawn before her time, 
and that if she chose. to begin, there was a knife 
and fork also, at her service on the table, and that 
intimidation would not do. The next day, while I 
was at dinner, she walked in, (having broken open 
a glass door that lead from the hall below to the 
staircase, by way of prologue,) and advancing 
straight up to the table, snatched the knife from 
my hand, cutting me slightly in the thumb in the 
operation. Whether she meant to use this against 
herself or me, I know not — probably against neither 
— but Fletcher seized her by the arms, and disarmed 
her. I then called my boatmen, and desire^ them 
to get the gondola ready, and conduct ber to her 
own house again, seeing carefully that she did her- 
self no mischief by the way. She seemed quite 
quiet, and walked down stairs. ] resumed my 
dinner. 

" We heard a great noise, and went out, and raet 
them on the staircase, carrying her up stairs. She 
had thrown herself into the canal. That she in 
tended to destroy herself, I do not believe : but 
when we consider the fear women and men who 
can't sAvim have of deep or even of shallow water, 
(and the Venetians in particular, t\ ough they live 
on the waves,) and that it was also night, and dark, 
and very cold, it shows that she had a devilish spirit 
of some sort within her. They had got her out 
without much difficulty or damage, excepting the 
salt water she had swallowed, and the wetting she 
had undergone. 

'* I foresaw her intention to refix herself, and sent 
for a surgeon, inquiring how many hours it would 
require to restore her from her agitation ; and he 
named the time. I ther said, 'I give you that 
time, and more if you require it ; but at the expira- 
tion of this prescribed period, if she does not leave 
the house, / will.' 

^i All my people were consternated. They had 
always been frightened at her, and were now para- 
lyzed : they wanted me to apply to the police, to 
guard myself, &c., &c., like a pack of snivelling 
servile boobies, as they were. I did nothing of the 
kind, thinking that I might as well end that way aa 
another ; besides, I had been used to savage womea, 
and knew their ways. 

" I had her sent home quietly after her recovery, 
and never saw her since, except twice at the opera, 
at a distance among the audience. She made many 
attempts to return, but no more violent ones.— -Aad 
this is the story of Margarita Cogni, as far as it 
relates to me. 

" I forgot to mention that she was very devout 
and would cross herself if she heard the prayer 
time strike. ***** 
****** 

" She was quick in reply; as, for instance — One 
day when she had made rne very an^ry with beat- 
ing somebody or ol^er, I called her a cow, (a covOy, ', 
in Italian, is a sad aifront.) I called her * Vecca.' 
She turned round, curtsied, and answered, * Vecca , 
tua, 'celenza,' (i. e. eccellenza.) ' Your cow, please ' 
your Excellency.' In short, she was, as I said be« 
fore, a very fine animal, of considerable beauty and 
energy, with, many good and several amusing quali- 
fies, but wild as a witch and fierce as a demon. She 



LETTERS 



87: 



ased to boast publicly of her asct ndancy over me, 
'contrasting it with that of otler women, and as- 
signing for it sundry reasons, * * *. True it was, 
that they all tried to get her away, and no one 
succeeded till her own absurdity helped thera. 

"i omitted to tell you her answer, when I re- 
proached her for snatching Madame Contarini's 
mask at the Cavalchina. I represented to her that 
nhe was a lady of high birth, * una Dama,' &c. 
She answered, ' Se ella e dama mi (io) son Vene- 
tian: ' — *if she is a lady, I am a Venetisn,' This 
woxild have been fine a hundred years ago the pride 
of the nation rising up against the pride cf aristoc- 
racy :• but, alas ! Venice, and her people, and her 
nobles, are alike returning fast to the ocean ; and 
where there is no independence, there can be no 
real self-respect. I believe that I mistook or mis- 
stated one of her phrases in my letter ; it should 
have been — ' Can' della Madonna, cosa vus' tu r 
esto non e tempo per andar' a Lido ? ' 



LETTER CCCLXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



* « Venice, June 18, 1818. 

"Business, and the utter and inexplicable' silence 
of all my correspondents, renders me impatient and 
troublesome. I wrote to Mr. Hanson for a balance 
which is (or ought to be) in his hands ; — no answer. 
1 expected the messenger with the Newstead papers 
two months ago, and instead of him, I received a 
requisition to proceed to Geneva, which (from * *, 
•who knows my wishes and opinions about approach- 
ing England) could only be irony or insult. 

*' I must, therefore, trouble you to pay into my 
bankers immediately whatever sum or sums you 
can make it convenient to do on our agreement ; 
otherwise, I shall be put to the severeat and most 
immediate inconvenience ; and this at a time when, 
ny every rational prospect and calculation, I ought 
to be in the receipt of" considerable sums. Pray do 
not neglect this ; you have no idea to what incon- 
venience you will otherwise put me. * * had some 
, absurd notion about the disposal of this money in 
,' annuity, (or God knows what,) which I merely lis- 
I tencd to when he was here to avoid squabbles and 
sermons ; but I have occasion for the principal, and 
had never any serious idea of approbating it other- 
wise than to answer my personal expenses. Hob- 
house's wish is, if possible, to force me back to 
England : he will not succeed ; and if he did, I 
would not stay. I hate the country, and like this ; 
and all foolish opposition, of course, merely adds 
to the feeling. Your silence makes me doubt the 
success of canto fourth. If it has failed, I will 
make such deduction as you think proper and fair 
from the original agreement ; but I could wish 
whatever is to be paid '^?r3 remitted to me, without 
delay, through the uaua. Ciiannol, by course of post. 

" when I tell you that I have not heard a word 
from England since very early in May, I have made 
the eulogium of my friends, or the persons who call 
tlemselvcs so, since I have written so often and in 
the greatest anxiety. Thank God, the longer I am 
absent, the less cause I see for regretting the 
country br its living cor tents. 

•' I am yours, &c. 

"P.S r«llMr. *♦• that * • 

♦ ♦*•♦♦ 

*nd that I never will forgive him, (or any body,) the 
fctrocity of their late silence at a time when 1 wished 
particularly to hear, for every reason, from my 
friends." 



CMkle Han I, ewtlo U., lUnM 



•(Hnka Uk« • iMWMd lulo 



LETTER CCCLXXv^II. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



"Venice, July 10, 1818. 

' I have received your letter and the credit from 
Morlands, &c., for whom I have also drawn upon 
you at sixty days' sight for the remainder, accord- 
ing to your proposition. 

' I am still waiting in Venice, in expectancy o( 
the arrival of Hanson's clerk. What can detain 
him, I do not know: but I trust that Mr. Hobhous* 
and Mr. Kinnaird, when the political fit is abated, 
will take the trouW.e to inquire and expedite him, 
as I have nearly a hundred thousand jjoimds de- 
pending upon the completion of the sale and the 
signature of the papers. j 

"The draft on you is drawn up by Siri and Wiil- 
halm. I hope that the form is correct. I pignpd it 
two or three days ago, desiring them to forwaiJ it 
to Messrs. Morland and Ransom. 

" Your projected editions for November had bet- 
ter be postponed, as I have some things in project, 
or preparation, that may be of use to you, though 
not very important in themselves. I have completed 
an ode on Venice,* and have two stories, one seri- 
ous and one ludicrous, (a la Beppo,) not yet 
finished, and in no hurry to be so. 

" You talk of the letter to Hobhouse being much 
admired, and speak of prose. f I think of writing 
(for your full edition) some memoirs of my life, to 
prefix to them, upon the same model (though fat 
enough, I fear, from reaching it), of Gitford, Hume, 
&c. ; and this without any intention of making dia 
closures, or remarks upon living people, which 
would be unpleasant to them: but I think it might 
be done, and well done. However, this is to be 
considered. I have materials in plenty, but the 
greater part of them could not be used by »<e, nor 
for these hundred years to come. However, there 
is enough without these, and merely as a literary 
man, to make a preface for such an edition as you 
meditate. But this is by-the-way : 1 have not 
made up my mind. 

"I enclose you a note on the subject of * Pan- 
sini,'X which Hobhouse can dress for you. It is an 
extract of particulars from a history ot Ferrara. 

'* I trust you have been attentive to Missiaglia, 
for the English have the character of ni-glccting 
the Italians at present, which I hope you will re- 
deem. " Yours in haste, 



LETTER CCCLXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, J iilv 17, 1818. 

• 

" I Suppose that Aglietti will take whatever yon 
offer, bat till his return from Vienna 1 can make 
him no proposal; nor, indeed, have you authorixed 
me to do so. The thtee French notes an by Lady 
Mary; also another half-Finglish-French-Ita.ian. 
They are very pretty and passionate; it is a yitj 
that a piece of one of them is !ctt. Alga- 
rotti secma to have treated her ill ; but she was 
much his senior, and all won>en are used ill— or say 
80, whether they are or not. 

• ••••• 

" I shall be glad of your books and powders. I 
am still in waiting for' Hanson's cUrk, but luckily 
not at Geneva. All my good friends wrote to me 
to hasten there to u\cvt him, but not one had the 
good souse, or the good nature, to write ufterwaH 
to tell me that it would be time and a jimrnt' 



• Im pafr 839. The two ituris. •«»• M«ippt» «no I>» Jww 
t Dedloaidoii to (lM> lourtb eanio of ChUito Hunlii 
X ■■• PuWita, dU*. 



878 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



thrown awa^, as he could not set off for some 
m -"iths after the period appointed. If I had taken 
thfc journey on the general suggesticn, I never 
would have spoken again to one of you as long as I 
^existed. I have written to request Mr. Kinnaird, 
when the foam of his politics is wiped away, to ex- 
tract a positive answer from that * * * *, and not 
to keep me in a state of suspense upon the subject. 
I hope that Kinnaird, who has my power of attor- 
ney, keeps a look-out upon the gentleman, which is 
the more necessary, as I have a great dislike to the 
idea of coming over, to look after him myself. 

" I have several things begun, verse and prose, 
bit none in much forwardness. I have written 
p- me six or seven sheets of a life, which I mean to 
stutinue, and send you when finished. It may per- 
Lf.ps serve for your projected editions. If you 
would tell me exactly (for I know nothing and have 
no coirespondents, except on business) the state of 
the reception of our late publications, and the feel- 
ing upon them, without consulting any delicacies, (I 
am too seasoned to require them,) I should know 
^0)7 and in what manner to proceed. 1 should not 
like to give them too much, which may probably 
have been the case already; but, as I tell you, I 
know nothing. 

" I once wrote from the fulness of my mind and 
the love of fame, (not as an end, but as a means, to 
obtain that influence over men's minds which is 
power in itself and in its consequences,) and now 
from habit and from avarice ; so that the effect may 
probably be as different as the inspiration. I havo 
the same facility, and indeed necessity, of composi- 
tion, to avoid idleness, (though idleness in a hot 
country is a pleasure, ) but a much greater indiffer- 
ence to what is to become of it, after it has served 
my immediate purpose. However, I should on no 

a-count like to , but I won't go on, like the 

archbishop of Granada, as I am very sure that you 
dread the fate of Gil Bias, and with good reason. 

" Yours, &c." 

" P. S. I have written some very savage letters to 
Mr. Hobhouse, Kinnaird, to you, and to Hanson, be- 
cause the silence of so long a time made me tear 
off my remaining rags of patience. I have seen one 
or two late English publications which are no great 
things, except Rob Roy. I shall be glad of Whis- 
tlecraft." 



sible for me to keep clear:—-! ha^e not iho pa 
tience. 

" Enclosed is a list of books which Dr. Agliott' 
would be glad to receive by way of price for his 3IS 
letters, if you are disposed to purchase at the :,itj 
of fifty pounds sterling. These he will be gla^ to 
have as part, and the rest / will give him in money 
and you may carry it to the account of books, &c. 
which is in balance againt me, deducting it accord 
ingly. So that the letters are yours, if you like 
them, at any rate ; and he and I are going to 
hunt for more Lady-Montague letters, which ha 
thinks of finding. I write in haste. Thanks *or 
the article, and believe me, " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCLXXX. 



TO CAPT. BASIL HALL. 



LETTER CCCLXXIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, Aug. 31, 1818. 

" Dear Sir, 

" Dr. Aglietti is the best physician, not only jn 
Venice, biit in Italy ; his residence is on the Grand 
Canal, and easily found ; I forget the number, but 
am probably the only person in Venice who don't 
know it. There is no comparison between him and 
any of the other medical people her^ I regret very 
much to hear of your indisposition, and shall do 
myself the honor of waiting upon you the moment 
I am up. I wTite this in bed, and have only just 
received the letter and note. I beg you to believe 
that nothing but the extreme lateness of my hours 
could have prevented me from replying immediately, 
or coming in person. I have not been called a 
minute. I have the honor to be; very truly, 

" Your most obedient servant, 
" Byrov " 



LETTER CCCLXXXL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Venice, AiTg. 26, 1818. 

■•'* You may go on with your edition, without cal- 
culating on the memoir, which I shall not publish 
at present. It is nearly finished, but will be too 
long ; and there are so many things, whi^, out of 
regard to the living, caiinot be mentioned, that I 
have written with too much detail of that which in- 
terested me least ; so that my autobiographical 
sssay w( i\ld resemble the tragedy of Hamlet at the 
country theatre, recited ' with the part of Hamlet 
left out by particular desire.' I shall keep it among 
my papt rs ; it will be a kind of guide-post in case 
vf death, and prevent some of the lies which would 
therwise be told, and destroy some which have 
oeen to.d already. 

" The tales also are in an unfinished state, and I 
can fix no time for their completion ; they are also 
%U3t in the best manner. You must not, therefore, 
-.alculate upon any thing in time for this edition. 
The memoir is already above forty sheets of very 
large, long paper, and will be about fifty or sixty'; 
out I wish to go on leisurely ; and when finished, 
although it might do a good deal for you at the 
cime, I am not sure that it would serve any good 
purpose in the end either, as it is full of many pas- 
lioxxA <uid f rejudices, uf wkich it has been impos- 



" Venice, Sept. 19, 1818. 

" An English newspaper here would be a prodigy, 
and an opposition one a monster ; and, except some 
extracts from extracts in the vile, garbled Paris 
gazettes, nothing of the kind reaches the Veueto- 
Lombard public, who are perhaps thp most op- 
pressed in Europe. My correspondences wdth 
England are mostly on business, and chiefly with 
my solicitor, Mr. Hanson, who has no very exalted 
notion, or extensive conception, of an author's 
attriijutes ; for he once took up an Edinburgh Re- 
view, and, looking at it a minute, said to me, ' So I 
see you have got into the magazine,' which is the 
only sentence I ever heard him utter upon literai-y 
matters, or the men thereof. 

" My first news of your Irish apotheo.sis has, con- 
^quently, been from yourself. But, as it vnW not 
be forgotten in a hurry, either by your friends or 
yoiir enemies, I hope to have it more in detail from 
some of the former, and, in the mean time, I wish 
you joy with all my heart. Such a moment must 
have been a good deal better than Westminster 
Abbey, — besides being an assurance of that one day 
(many years hence, I trust) into the bargain. 

" I am sorry to perceive, however, by the close o\ 
your letter, that even you have not escaped tbo 
'surgit amari,' &c., and that your damned deputy 
has been gathering such ' dew from the still vexi 
Bermoothes' — or rather vexatious. Pray, give me 
some items of the attair, as you say it is a serious 
one ; and, if it grow? more so, you should make a 
trip over here for a few months, to see how things 
turn out. I siippose you are a violent admirer o! 
England by your staying no long in it. For my onq 



LETTERS. 



879 



part, 1 have passed between the age of one-and- 
twenty and thirty, half the intervenient years out 
of it without regretting any thing, except that I 
pver returned to it at all, and the gloomy prospect 
hefore me of business and parentage obliging me, 
one day, to return again, — at least, for the transac- 
tion of affairs, the signing of papers, and inspect- 
ing of children. 

" I have here my natural daughter, by name Al- 
legra, — a pretty little girl enough, and reckoned like 
papa. Her mamma is English, — but it is a long 
Btory, — and — there's an end. She is about twenty 
moiiths old. * * * * * 

" I have finished the first csanto, (a long one, of 
about one hundred and eighty octaves,) of a poem in 
the style and manner of * Beppo' encouraged by the 
good success of the same. It is called ' Don Juan,' 
and is meant t« be a little quietly facetious upon 
every thing. But I doubt whether it is not — at 
least, as far as it has yet gone — ^too free for these 
very modest days. However, I shall try the experi- 
ment, anonymously and if it don't tal«e, it will be 
discontinued. It is dedicated to Southey in good, 
simple, savage verse, upon the * * * *'s politics,* 
and the way he got them. But the bore of copying 
it out is intolerable ; and if I had an amanuensis he 
would be of no use, as my writing is so diihcult to 
decipher. 

*' My poem's Epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in '.welve books, eacli bool< containing 
Willi love and w.ir, a l^avy gale at sen — 

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning — 
New chiir.icters, &c., Sic. 

The above are two stanzas, which I send you as a 

Drick of my Babel, and by which you can judge of 

tht: texture of the structure. 

^ " In writing the life of Sheridan, never mind the 

/angry lies of the humbug Whigs. Recollect that he 

/ vnas an Irishmiin and a clever fellow, and that toe 

I have had some very pleasant days with him. Don't 

\ forget that he was at school at Harrow, where, in my 

^ time, we usgd to show his name — R. B. Sheridan, 

1765 — as an honor to the walls. Remember * 

« * * * *** 

Depend upon it that there were worse folks going, 
of that gang, than ever Sheridan was. 

" What did Parr mean by ' haughtiness and cold- 
ness ? I listened to him with admiring ignorance, 
and respectful silence. What more could a talker 
for fame have ?— they don't like- to be answered. It 
v;as at Payne Knight's I met him, where he gave me 
more Greek than" I could carry away. But I cer- 
tctinly meant to (and did) treat him with the most 
respectful deferLMice. 

I wish you a good night with a Venetian bene- 
diction, ' Benedetto te, e la terra che ti fara ! ' — 
May vou be ble.sijcd, and the earfh which you will 
n/ca '—is it not pretty > You would think it still 
^rettier if you had beard it, as I did two hours ago, 
from the lips of a Venetian girl, with large black 
eyes, a face like Faustina's, and the figm-e of a 
Juno— tall and energetic as a Pythoness, with 
eyps flushing, and her dark hair streaming in the 
luo.^nlight — one of those women who may be made 
anything. I am sure if I put a poniard into the 
hand of this one, slie would plunge it where 1 told 
her,-- -and into mc,U' I otiended her. I like this kind 
of animal, and am sure that 1 should have preferred 
Medea to any woman that ever breathed. You may, 
perhaps, wonder that I don't in that case • 
•^ * * « * ♦ • 

I could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any 
thing, but the delil>erate desolation piled upon me, 
ATheti I stood iilone up«)n my hearth, with my house- 
hold gods sliivcred around me.* * ♦ ♦ 
Do you suppose I have forgotten or forgiven it ? It 
tia» comparatively swallowed up in me every other 
fetling, and I am" only a spcctutor upon earth, till 



la tenfoll oppcrtunity offers. It may ccme yet 
There are others more to be blame n than * * 
* *, and it is on these that my eyes are fixed un 
ceasingly." 



/ 



LETTER CCCLXXXn 



TO ME. MHRRAY 



" Venice, Sept 24, 1818. ' 

"In the one hundred and thirty-second sta^iza cf 
canto fourth, the stanza runs in the manusciipt 

" And thou, who never yet of liumau wron» 
Left the unbalanced stale, great Neinesi* I 

and not ' lost, which is nonsense, as what losing a 
scale means, I know not; hnt leavinf/ an unbalance J 
scale, or a scale unbalanced, is intelligible.* Con-tct 
this, I pray, — not for the public, or the poetry, but I 
do not choose to have blunders made in addressing 
any of the deities so seriously ts this is addressed. 

'* Yours, &c. • 
" P. S. In the translation from the Spanish, alter 

" In increasing squadrons flew, 

to— 

•' To a mighty sq-.iadron grew, 

"What does 'thy waters wasted them' in the 
canto ?) That is not me.f Consult the MS. ahoays. 

" I have written the first canto (one hundred and 
eighty octave stanzas) of a poem % i" tlie style of 
Beppo, and have Mazeppa to finish besides. 

" In referring to the mistake in stanza one hun- 
dred and thirty-two, I take the opportunity to desire 
that in future, in all parts of my writings referring 
to religion, you will be more careful, and not forget, 
that it is possible that in addressing the Deity a .- 
blunder may become a blasphemy ; and I do not''^ 
choose to suffer such infamous perversions of mv 
words or of my intentions. 

♦' I saw the canto by accitient." 



LETTER CCCLXXXm. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

«• Venice, Jan. 20, 1818. 

« '« ' « « « « 

"The opinions which I have asked of Mr. Hot 
house and others were with regard to the poetical 
merit, and not as to what they may think due to the 
caiU of the day, which still reads the Bath Guide, 
Little's Poems, Prior, and Chnucer, to say nothing 
of Fielding and Smollett. If publi.shed, publish en- 
tire, with the abovc-mcntioni!d exceptijus ; oi vou 
nuiy publish anonymously, or not at all. In the lat- 
ter ^vent, print tilty on my account, for privute dis- 
tribution. " Ytmrs, cVr. 

" I have written to Messrs. Kinnaird and ilob« 
house, to desire that they will not erase more than ] 
have stated. 

" The second canto of Don Juan is finished B 
two hundred and six stanzas." 



Tha tin I uitl»n u. Suuihr' f wm mpptowed. 



LETTER CCCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Vnnle*, '«n. 1W IMS. 

" You will do me the favor to piint privitelv <foi 
private distribution) fifty copl'^^' o*" 'Don Juan. 



* Ciim>ct>>il In K\\\t ihIiUiiii. 

t Thli pi»»«.iKr rpiiinint iinrofrrcni. 



880 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The list of the men to whom I wish it to be presented, 
I will send hereafter. The other two poems had best 
be added to the collective edition : I do not approve 
of their being published separately. Print Don Juan 
entire^ omitting, of course, the iines on Castlereagh 
as I am not on the spot to meet him. I have a sec 
ond canto ready, which will be sent by-and-by. By 
this post, I have written to Mr. Hobhouse, addressed 
to your care. " Yours, &c 

** P. S. I have acquiesced in the request and re- 
pr.esentation ; and having done so, it is idle to detail 
my arguments in favor of my own self-love and 
Poeshie ; but I protest. If the poem has poetry, it 
would stand ; if not, fall ; the rest is ' leather and 
prunella,' and has never yet affected any human pro 
auction ' pro or con.' Dulness is the only annihilate-^ 
in such cases. As to the cant of the day, I despise 
it, as I have ever done all its other finical fashions, 
which become you as paint became the ancient Bri- 
tons. If you admit this prudery, you must omit 
half Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspeare, Beaumont, 
Fletcher, Massinger, Ford, all the Charles Second 
writers ; * in short, something of most who have 
written before Pope and are worth reading, and much 
of Pope himself. Read him — most of you don't — 
but do — and I will forgive you ; though the inevita- 
ble consequence would be that you would burn all 
I have ever written, and all your other wretched 
Claudians of the day (except Scott and Crabbe),- 
into the bargain. I wrong Claudian, who was d^poet, 
by naming him with such fellows ; but he was the 
'ultimus Romanorum,' the tail of the comet, and 
these persons are the tail of an old gown cut into a 
waistcoat for lackey ; but being both tails, I have 
compared one with the other, though very unlike, 
like all similes. f I write in a passion and a sirocco, 
and 1 was up till six this morning at the Carniyai ; 
b»it I protest, as I did in my former letter." 



" "Within this last fortnight I have oeen rathet 
indisposed with a rebellion of stomach, which would 
retain nothing, (liver, I suppose,) and an inability, 
or fantasy, not to be able to eat of any thing with 
relish but a kind of Adriatic fish called ' scampi, 
which happens to be the most indigestible of marina 
viands. However, within these last two days, I am 
better, and very truly yours." 



LETTER CCCL'XXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

Venice, Feb. 1, 1819 

" After one of the concluding stanzas of the first 
cantr of ' Don Juan,' wliich ends with (I forget the 
number) — 

"To have, 

when the original ii dust, 
A oook, a d— d bad picture, and woise bust,} 

insert the following stanza : — 

" What are the hopes of man, &c. 

"I have written to you several letters, some with 
additions, and some upon the subject of the poem 
itself, which my cursed puritanical committee have 
protested against publishing. But we will circum- 
vent them on that point. I have not yet begun to 
copy out the second canto, which is finished, from 
natural laziness, and the discouragement of the 
milk and water they have thrown upon the first. I 
say all this to them as to you, that is, for you to .say 
to them, for I will have nothing underhand. If they 
had told me the poetry was bad, I would have 
acquiesced; but they say the contrary, and then 
talk to me about morality — the first time I ever 
heard the word from any body who was not a rascal 
that used it for a purpose. I maintain that it is the 
most moral of poems ; but if people won't discover 
the moral, that is their fault not mine. I have al- 
ready written to beg that in any case you will print 
fifty for private distribution. I will send you the 
list of persons to whom it is to be sent afterward. 



• See Don Juan, canto W., stana x»f'l. 
t See Letters to JSowlei and Blackwood. 
} la the printed venioD " a wietcMd pictura.' 



LETTER CCCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, April 8, 1819. 

"The second canto of Don Juan was sent, on , 
Saturday last, by post, in four packets, two of four, ' 
and two of three sheets each, containing in all two / 
hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. / 
But I will permit no curtailments, except those/ 
mentioned about Castlereagh and * * * «| 

* * 'You shan't make canticles of my cantos. 
The poem will please, j| it is lively ; if it is stupidJ 
it will fail : but I will have none of your damnem . 
cutting and slashing. If you please you may publis^ 
anonymously : it will, perhaps, be better ; but I yfi% \ 
battle my way against them all, like a porcupine. 

So you and Mr. Foscolo, &c., want me to under- 
take what you' call a ' great work ? ' an Epic Poem, 
I suppose, or some such pyfamid. I'll try no such 
thing ; I hate tasks. And then ' seven or eight 
years ! ' God send us all well this day three months, 
let alone years. If one's years can't be better 
employed than in sweating poesy, a man had 
better be a ditcher. And works, too U - « Childe 
Harold nothing ? You have so many * divine ' poems, 
is it nothing to have written a human one f without 
any of your worn-out machinery Why, m^^n, I could 
have spun the thoughts of the four canto* of that 
poem into twenty, had I wanted to book-™%.te, and 
its passion into as many modem tragedies- Since 
you want length, you shall have enough fl«4 Juan, 
for I'll make fifty cantos.* 

''And Foscolo, too! Why does Ae not doaome< 
thing more than the Letters of Otis, and a tragedy, 
and pamphlets ? He has good fifteen years more at / 
his command than I have : what has he done all that / 
time ? — proved his genius, doubtless, but not jDixed "^i 
its fame, nor done his utmost. j 

" Besides, I mean to wi'ite my best work ia hal- -^' 
ian, and it will take me nine years more thoroughly 
to master the language ; and then if my fancy exit»iv«, 
and I exist too, I will try what I can do really. As 
to the estimation of the English which you talk. *v/, 
let them calculate what it is worth, before tH^y^ 
insult me with their insolent condescension. 

" I have not written for their pleasure. If they are 
pleased, it is that they chose to be so ; I have nevei 
flattered their opinions, nor their pride ; nor will I 
Neither will I make * Ladies' books ' ' al dilettar le 
femine e la plebe.'f I have ^mtten from the fulness 
of my mind, from passion, from impulse, from many 
motives, but not for their ' sweet voices.' 

"I know the precise worth of popular applause; 
for few scribblers have had more of it ; and if I chose 
to swerve into their paths, I could retain it, or re- 
sume it. But I neither love ye, n.ir fear ye ; and 
though I buy with ye, and sell with ye, I will neither 
eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. They 
made me, without my search, a species of populat 
idol ; they, vidthout reason or judgment) beyond the 
caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the imaare 
from its pedestal : it was not broken with the fall, 
and they would, it seems, again replace it, — but they 
shall not. 

" You ask about my health : about the beglnnijig 
o€ the year I was in a state of great exhaustion^ 



• See Don Juan, canto xij., i 
\ Childe Harold, canto iii., u 



slT. 

.6X0 



LKTTKKS 



831 



Attenried by such debility of stomach that nothing 
reraainfid upon it ; and I was obliged to reform my 
*way of life,' which was conducting me from the 
♦yellow leaf to the ground, with all deliberate 
speed. I am better in health and morals, and very 
much yours, &c'. 

" P. S. I have read Hodgson's * Friends.' * * 
--.* * He is right in defending Pope against the 
bastard pelicans of the poetical venter day, who add 
insult to their parricide by sucking the blood of the 
parent of English real poetry — poetry without fault 
:— -and then spurning tl^e bosom which fed them." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVII. 



TO THE EDITOR OF GALIGNANl'S MES8ENGEK. 



Sir, 



Venice, idpri) 27, 1819. 



" In various numbers of your journal, I have seen 
mentioned a work entitled *the Vampire,' with the 
addition of my name as that of the author. I am 
hot the author, and never heard of the work in 
question until now. In a more recent paper I per- 
ceive a formal annunciation of * the Vampire,' with 
the addition of an account of my ' residence on the 
Island of Mitylene,' an island which I have occa- 
sionally sailed by in the course of travelling some 
vears ago through the Levant — and where I should 
have no objection to reside, but where I have never 
yet resided. Neither of these performances are mine, 
and I presume that it is neither unjust nor ungracious 
♦•o request that you will favor me by contradicting 
the idvertisement to which I allude. If the book 
Is clever, it would be base to deprive the real writer, 
whoever he may be, of his honors ; and if stupid, I 
desire the responsibility of nobody's dulness but my 
own. You will excuse the trouble I give you ; the 
unputation is of no great importance, and as long 
as it was confined to surmises and reports, I 
should have received it, as I received many others, 
in silence. But the formality of a public adver- 
tisement of a book I never wrote, and a residence 
where I never resided, is a little too much ; particu- 
.arly as I have no notion of the contents of the one, 
nor the incidents of the other. I have besides, 
a personal dislike to 'Vampires,' and the little 
acquaintance I have with them would by no means 
induce me to divulge their secrets. You did me 
much less injury by your paragraphs abou*, ' my de- 
votion * and ' abandonment of society for tne sake of 
religion,' which appeared in your Messenger during 
last Lent, all of which are not founded on fact, but 
you see I do not contradict them, because they are 
merely personal, whereas the others in some degree 
concern the reader. You will oblige me by comply 
ing with my request of contradiction — I assure you 
that I know nothing of the work or works in qiiestion, 
and have the honor to be (as the correspondents to 
Magazines say) ' your constant reader,* and very 
" Obt. humble servt., 

" Byuon." 



LETTER CCCLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

•• Venloe, May IS, 1SI9. 

• •«••• 

*' I have got your extract, and the ' Vampirn.'* I 
need not say it is not mine. There is a rule to go 
Ky: you are my publisher, (till we quarrel,) and 
what is not publibned by you ia not >vritten by me. 



" Next week I set out for Romagna — at least m 
all probability. You had better go on with the 
publications, without waiting to hear farther, for 1 
have other things in my head. ' Mazeppa ' and the 
' Ode ' separate ? — what think you ? Juun anony- 
mous, without the dedication; for I won't be shabby, 
and attack Southey under cloud of night. 

"Yours &c." 



In another letter on the subject of the Vairpir* 
are the following particulars. 

LETTER CCCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"The story of Shelley's agitation, is trsie.* \ 
can't tell what seized him, for he don't want courage. 
He was once with me in a gale of wind, in a small 
boat, right under the rocks between Meillerie and 
St. Gingo. We were five in the boat — a servant, 
two boatmen, and ourselves. The sail was mis- 
managed, and the boat was filling fast. He can't 
swdm. I stripped off my coat, made him strip ofl 
his, and take hold of an oar, telling him that 1 
thought (being myself an expert swmmer) I could 
save him, if he would not struggle when I took 
hold of him — unless we got smashed against the 
rocks, which were high and sharp, with an awk 
ward surf on them at that minute. We wore then 
about a hundred yards from the shore, and the boat 
in peril. He answered me, with the greatest cool- 
ness, 'that he had no notion of being saved, and 
that I would have enough to do to save myself, and 
begged not to trouble me.' Luckily, the boat 
righted, and, bailing, we got rovmd a point into St. 
Gingo, where the inhabitants came down and em- 
braced the boatmen on their escape, the wind hav- 
ing been high enough to tear up some huge treci 
from the Alps above us, as we saw next day. 

" And yet the same Shelley, who was as cool as 
it was possible to be in such circumstances, (ol 
which I am no judge myself, as the chance of swim- 
ming naturally gives self-possession when near 
shore,) certainly had the fit of fantasy which Poli- 
dori describes, though not exactly as he describ^:s it. 

" The story of the agreement to write the ghost- 
books is true ; but the ladies are iwt sisters. • • 

Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote Franken 
stein, which you have reviewed, thinking it Shel 
ley's. Methinks it is a wonderful book for a girl kA 
nineteen, not nineteen, indeed, at that time. I en 
close you the beginning of mine.t by which you will 
see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn's publication. 
If you choose to publish it, you may, stattup why. 
and with such explanatory proem As you please. I 
never went on with it, as you will perceive by the 
date. I began it in an old account-book of Miss 
Milbankc's, which I kept, because it contained the 
word ' Household,' written by her twice on the in- 
side blank page of the covers, being the <>:ily two 
scraps I have in the world in her writing, exct-nt her 
name to the deed of separation. Her letters 1 sent 
back, except those of the quarrelling correspond 
ence, and those, being documents, are placed in he 



• Thb rtory, m firen In tha PreUor to Iha " Vampire," m 
" It ftp|)r»i» thill one •»rnlii(f l*nl B., Mr. P. B. Shtllry, two b.li.-*. ^n4 
tho fiitlproBn X-Uir nlludctl to, aftiT h«»iiij prniwnl ■ (}<<nn«n work rxlle* 
Phnnl«iiim|rorii>, trjiin rrlniliij f\vM Unrv*. whrii hU lonUhlp hartnf 
rKlb>«l the tw-ifdiiilng of Chrtetnhrl, Uvn iin|«iiiil»h«tl, thn wh»ile tu.«k m 
MfunK • hol<J of Mr. Sholl-T'i inln.l, ihM h<- KMl.lrnljr ■urt<^l up. «n.l ma 
out of the room. The phr»lcl»ii ami \mj\\ Brron fnlUiwrnl, »nd iU«v*«>i«4 
him loKnlnK nipiliMl a nianUp-pl«««, wtlh coM iliop* <>f |»Ti|4r«t)i<n iriakUng 
down hli fnCK. Aflrr hH»lnn yiron him •omovliinc to irlrrth him, iipM 
Inqiilrinjf into i\\f oatiK uf hi* alarm, Ok-v fnund timt hl» wiUI tniaflnattaa 
hnviiiK iilanrr<l lo hlin Uv Umm\ uf one ol th<- la.llra wUh «<r«^ (which VM 
rr,x.rtr.l of a la<ly In thr nrlfhUirhoo.1 w»*Prr h» H»«U h» vma etii%^ • 
(•■vr Ihf room In onl»r tn it<«r,i» ilv< impmifan." 



52 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



hands of a third parson, with copies of several of 
my own ; so that I have no kind of memorial what- 
ever of her, but these two words, — and her actions. 
[ nave torn the leaves containing the part of the 
tale out of the book, and enclose them with this 
sheet. * » ***** 

" What do you mean First, you seem hurt by 
my letter, and then, in your next, you talk of its 
' power,' and so forth. ' This is a d — d blind story. 
Jack ; but never mind, go on.' You may be sure I 
said nothing on purpose to plague you, but if you 
will put me ' in a frenzy, I will never call you Jack 
again.' I remember nothing of the epistle at 
present. 

** V/hat do you mean by Folidori's Diary? Why, 
I defy him to say any thing about me, but he is 
welcome. I have nothing to reproach me with on 
ais score, and I am much mistaken if that is not 
his otcn opinion. But why publish the name of the 
t>^o girls ? and in such a manner ? — what a blun- 
dering piece of exciilpation '. He asked Pictet, &c., 
to dinner, and of course was left to entertain them. 
I went into society solely t6 present him, (as I told 
him,) that he might return into good company if he 
chose ; it was the best thing for his youth and cir- 
cumstances : for myself, I had done with society, 
and, having presented him, withdrew to my own 
* way of life.' It is true that I returned without 
entering Lady Dalrymple Hamilton's, because I saw' 
it full. It is true that Mrs. Hervey (she writes 
novels) fainted at my entrance into Copet, and then 
came back again. On her fainting, the Duchesse de 
Broglie exclaimed, 'This is too much at sixty-five 
ears of age'!' I never gave the 'English' an 
pportunity of avoiding me, but I trust that if ever 
I do, they will seize it. With regard to Mazeppa 
and the Ode, you may join or separate them, as you 
please, from the two cantos. 

" Don't suppose I want to put you out of humor. 
I have a great respect for your good and gentle- 
manly qualities, and return your personal friendship 
towards me ; and although I think you a little 
spoiled by 'villainous company,' — mts, persons of 
humor about town, authors, and fashionables, to- 
gether with your ' I am just going to call at Carlton 
House, are you walking that way ? ' — I say, not- 
withstanding ' pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the 
musical glasses,' you deserve and possess the es- 
teem of those whose esteem is worth having, and of 
none more (however useless it may be) than yours 
very truly, &c. 

" P. S. Make my respects to Mr, Gifford. I am 
perfectly aware that ' Don Juan ' must set us all by 
the ears, but that is my concern, and my beginning. 
There ^vill be the ' Edinburgh ' and all. too, against 
it, so that, like ' Rob Roy,' I shaU have my hands 
ftiU." 



LETTER CCCXC. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, M&y 25, 1819, 

• I have received no proofs by the last post, and 
■aall probably have quitted Venice before the arrival 
of the next. There wanted a few stanzas to the 
termination of canto first in the last proof: the next 
will, I presume, contain them, and the whole or a 
portion of canto second ; but it will be idle to wait 
for fsiTther answers from me, as I haye directed that 
my letters wait for my return, (perhaps in a month, 
and probably so ;) therefore do not wait for farther 
aavice from me. You may as well talk to the wind, 
and better — for it will at least convey your accents 
a little farther than they would otherwise have 
gone ; whereas / shall neither echo nor acquiesce in 
your 'exiuisite reasons.' Yoi may omit the note 



of reference to Hobhouse's travels, in canto second 
and you will put as motto to the whole — 

' Difficile est preprie communia dicere.' — Horact, 

" A few days ago I sent you all I know of Poll- 
dori's Yampire. He may do, say or write what he 
pleases, but I wish he would not attribute to me hia 
own compositions. If he has any thing of mine in 
hiB possession, the manuscript will put it beyond 
controversy ; but I ecarcely think that any one'who 
knows m.e would believe, the thing in the Magazine 
to be mine, even if they saw it in my own hiei o* 
glyphics. 

•' I write to you in the agonies of a szrovco, wliJcfe 
annihilates me ; and I have been fool enougVi to 
do four things since dinner, which are as weU emit- 
ted in very ho*- weather: firstly, * * * *; seconiij, 
to play at billiards from ten to twelve, under th» 
influence of lighted lamps, that doubled the heat . 
thirdly, to go afterward into a red-hct conversazione 
of the Countess Beuzoni's ; and fourthly, to begin 
this letter at three in the morning : but being begun 
it must be finished. 

" Ever very truly and affectionately yours, 

"B. 

*• P. S, I petition for tooth-brushes, powder, mag- 
nesia. Macassar oil, (or Russia,) the sashes, and Sir 
NI. Wraxall's Memoirs of his Own Times. I want, 
besides, a bull-dog, a terrier, and two Newfoundland 
dogs ; and I want (is it Buck s ?) a life of Richajd 
Third, advertised by Longman, lonfff long, long ago \ 
I asked for it at least three years since. See Long 
man's advertisement." 



LETTER CCCXCI. 

TO MR, HOPPNER. 

'* A journey in an Italian June is a conscription 
and if I was not the most constant of men, I should 
now be swimming from the Lido, instead of smok- 
ing in the dust of Padua. Should there be letters 
from England, let them wait my return. And do 
look at my house and (not lands, but) waters, and 
scold; — and deal out the moneys to Edgecombe* 
with an air of reluctance and a shake of the head— 
and put queer questions to him — and turn up yonr 
nose when he answers. 

" Make my respects to the Consuless — and to thi 
Chevalier — and to Scotin — and to all the counts ami 
countesses of our acquaintance. 
" And believe me ever 

"Your disconsolate and affectionate, &c." 



LETTER CCCXCIl. 



TO MB. HOPPNBR, 



\MOgnti, Jane '6. Utff 

"I am at length Jvu* a to Bologna, where I Kts 
settled like a sausage, and shall be broiled like- one, 
if this weather continues. Will you thank Men- 
galdo on my part for the Ferrara acquaintance, 
which was a very agreeable one. I staved two days 
at Ferrara, and was much pleased mth the Count 
Mosti, and the little the shortness of the time per- 
mitted me to see of his family. I went to his con- 
versazione, which is very far superior to any thing 
of the kind at Venice — the women almost all young 
— several pretty — and the men courteous and cleanly. 
The lady of the manjj.on, who is young, lately mar- 



* A clerk of the English Cousiiatt -vhom he »l lliia umr -n p'oy \\ » 
control XI accounts. 



LETTERS. 



883 



*ed, and with 'ohild, appeared very pretty by candle- 
light, (I- did not see her by day,) pleasing in her 
manners, and very lady-like, or thorough- bred, as 
we call it in England, — a kind of thing which re- 
minds one of a racer, an antelope, or an Italian 
greyhound. She seems very fond of her husband, 
who is amiable and accomplished ; he has been in 
England two or three times, and is young. The 
sister, a Countess somebody — I forget what — (they 
are both Matfei by birth, and Veronese of course) — 
is a lady of more display ; she sings and#plays di- 
vinely ; but I thought she was a d — d long time 
about it. Her likeness to Madame Flahant (Miss 
Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary. 

*' I had but a bird's-eye view of these people, and 
shall not probably see them again ; but I am very 
duch obliged to Mengaldo for letting rue see them 
Rt all. /AVhenever I meet with any thing agreeable 
m this "world, it surpiises me so muCh, and pleases 
me so much, (when my passions are not interested 
one way or the other,) that I go on wondering fo 
week to come. ■ I feel, too, in great admiration of 
the Cardinal Legate's red stockings. 

"I found, too, such a pretty epitaph in the Car- 
tosa cemetery, or rather two : one was — 



the other, 



Martial 1-uigi 
liiiplora piice 



Lucretia Picini 
Implora eterna quiete. 



LETTER CCCXCIII. 



TO MR. muheay. 



That was all : but it appears to me that these two 
and three words comprise and compress all that can 
be said on the subject, — and then, in Itahan, they 
are absolute music. They contain doubt, hope, and 
humility ; nothing can be more pathetic than the 
' implora ' and the modesty of the request ; — they 
have had enough of life — they want nothing but 
rest — they implore it, and * eterna quiete.' It is like 
a Greek inscription in some good old heathen ' city 
of the dead.' Pray, if I am shovelled into the Lido 
churchyard in your time, let me have the ' implora 
pace, and nothing else, for my epitaph. I never 
met with any, ancient or modern, that pleased me a 
tenth part so much. 

" In about a day or two after you receive this let- 
ter, I will thank you to desire Edgecombe to pre- 
pare for my return. I shall go back to Venice before 
I village on the Brenta. I shall stay but a few days 
in Bologna. I am just going out to see sights, but 
shall not present my introductory letters for a day 
or two, till I have run over again tlie place and pic- 
tures ; nor perhaps at all, if I find that I have 
books and sights enough to do without the inhabit- 
ants. After that, I shall return to Venice, wl\ero 
you may expect me about the eleventh, or perhaps 
sooner. Pray make my thanks acceptable to Men- 
galdo ; my respects to the Consuless, and to Mr. 
Scott. 

" I hope my daughter is well, 

i' Ever yours, and truly. 

" P. S I went over the Ariosto MS., &c., &c., 
again at Ferrara, with the castle, and cell, and 
house, &c., &c. 

'•• One of the Ferrarese asked me if I knew * Lord 
'Byron,' an acquaintance of his now at Naples. I 
told him * Nc .' ' -Jfhirh was Inu; botli ways; for I 
knew not an impostor, and, in the other, no one- 
knows liiinsolf. He stared when told that I was 
' the real Simon Pure.' Another asked nu^ if I Inid 
not trafu'ated ' Tasso.' You see what/a//J<' is ! how 
ficcurate ! how hoimdless ! I don't know how otlu-rs 
feel, l)ut I am always, the lighter and the hotter 
looked on when I have got rid of mine; it sits on 
me like armor on the Lord Mayor's champion ; and 
I got rid of all the husk of literature, and the attend- 
art babble, by answering, that 1 hiid not translated 
TanHO, but a namsesukr had ; and by the blessnin of 
Heaven, I looked no little like a poet, that every 
Dody believed uie " 



'« Bologna, June , 1819. 

" Tell Mr. Hobhouse that I wrote to him a fe^ 
days ago from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle ia 
him or you to wait for any farther answers or returns 
of proofs from Venice, as I have directed that no 
English letters be sent after me. The publication 
can be proceeded in without, and I am already eiik 
of your remarks, to which I think not the least at- 
tention ought to be paid, 

" Tell Mr. Hobhouse, that since I wTote to lim, 
I had availed myself of my Ferrara ktters, .in4 
found the society' much younger and better thei« 
than at Venice. I am very nmch pleased with the 
little the shortness of my stay permitted me to see 
of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and his family 
and friends in general. 

" I have been picture-gazing this morning at the 
famous Domenichino and Guido, both of which are 
superlative. I afterward went to the beautiful cem-' 
etery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, be- 
sides the superb burial-ground, an original of a 
custode, who reminded one of the grave-digger in 
Hamlet. He has a collection of capuchins' skulls, 
labeled on the forehead, and taking down one o. 
thein, said, ' This was Brother Desiderio Berro, 
who died at forty — one of my best friends. I begged 
his head of his brethren after his decease, and they 
gave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. 
Here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. 
He was the merriest, cleverest fellow I evei knew. 
Wherever he went he brought joy ; and whenever 
any one was melancholy, the sight of him was 
enough to make him cucerful again. He walked so 
actively, you might have taken him for a dancer — 
he joked — lie laughed — oh ! he was such a Frate as 
I never saw before, nor ever shall again ! ' 

" He told me that he had himself planted all the 
cypresses in the cemetery ; that he had the greatest 
attachment to them and to his dead people ; that 
since 18C1 they had buried fifty-three thox.sand per 
sons. In showing some older monuments, there 
was that of a Roman girl of twenty, with a bust by 
Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, dead two 
centuries ago : he said, that on opening her grave 



they had found her hair complete, and ' as yellow 
as gold.' Some of the epitaphs a Ferrara pleased 
me more than the more splendi*. monuments at 
Bologna ; for instance — 

* Martini l<ui({l 

Implore paca ; ' 

• Lucretia PicJni 

liiipiara rlcmn qiilcla. 

Can anythins: be more ftill of pathos ? Those few 
words sav all that can be said or sough' ; the dead 
had had "enough of life; all they wanted was rest, 
and this thev implore! There is all tlic holpless- 
r.ess, and Immble hope, and deathlike prayer, that 
can arise from the grave — ' implora pace.' I ho^it 
whoever may survive me, and shall see me put id 
the f(U»>igiuM-s' burying-ground at the Lido, within 
the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, 
and no more, put over me. 1 trust they won't think 
of ' j)i(kling, and bringing me home to Clod oi 
Blunderbuss Hall.' I am sure my bones would not 
rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the 
earth of that ecmntry. I believe the thought would 
drive me mad on my death-bed, could 1 stipposethal 
any of my friends would be base enouijh to eonvev 
my carcass ba<'k to your soil. — 1 would not even feed 
your worms, if I eotild help it. 

"St), us Shakspeare savs of Mowbrav, the ban 
ished Duke of Norft)lk, who died at V enice, (aw 
Richard 2d,) that he, after flghling 



' Aipiiiiat Nack Hurfuna, Tutka, *n<1 
Anil U>t'J vltii wo lu ul war, ivUraC 



S84 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To Italy, and there, at Veviee, gare 
His body to that pleasant country's earth, 
\And hig pure soul unto his captain, Christ, 
Under whose colors he had fsught so long. 

" Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your 
late, and Mr. llobhoiise's, sheets of Juan. Don't 
wait for farther answers from me, but address yours 
to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my own 
movements ; I may return there in a few days, or 
not for some time. All this depends on circum- 
Btance-i, I left Mr. Hoppner very well. My daugh- 
ter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty ; her 
hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her 
temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner says, are like 
mine, as well as her features : she will make, in that 
case, a manageable young lady. 

" I have never heard any thing of Ada, the little 
Electra of my Mycenee. * * * *. But 
there will come a day of reckoning, even if I should 
not live to see it. I have at least seen Romilly* 
shivered, who was one of my assassins. "When that 
man was doing his worst to uproot my whole family, 
tree, branch, and blossoms — when, after taking my 
retainer, he went over to them — when, he was 
bringing desolation on my hearth, and destruction 
on my household godsf — did he think that, in less 
than three years, a natural event — a severe, domes- 
tic, but an expected and comn^on calamity — would 
lay his carcass in a cross road, or stamp his name in 
a Verdict of Lunacy ! Did he (who in his sexa- 
genary * * *) reflect or consider what my feel- 
ings must have been, when wife, and child, and 
sister, and name, and fame, and country, were to be 
my sacrifice on his legal altar — and this at a moment 
when my health was declining, my fortune embar- 
rassed, and my mind had been shaken by many kinds 
of disappointment — while I was yet young, and 
might have reformed what might be wrong in my 
conduct, and retrieved what was perplexing in my 
affairs ! But he is in his grave, and * * * *. 
What a long letter I have scribbled ! 

" Yours, &c. 

'• P. S. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers 
on the tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves. 
and entire roses, scattered over the graves at Fer- 
rara. It has the most pleasing effect you can im- 
agine." 



LETTER CCCXCIV. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" RaTenna, June 20, 1819. 

♦ ««««« 

'* 1 wrote to you from Padua, and from Bologna, 
and since from Ravenna. I find my situation very 
agreeable, but want my horses very much, there be- 
ing good riding in the environs. I can fix no time 
for m; return to Venice— it may be soon or late — or 
not at all — it all depends on the Donna.J whom I 
foimd very seriously in bed with a cough and spit- 
ting blooa, &c., all of which has subsided. * 

♦ ♦♦♦♦* 

I found all the people here firmly persuaded that 
tte would never recover ; — they were mistaken, how- 
•Ter. 

•' My letters were useful as far as I employed 
them, and I like b-)th the place and people, though 
I don't trouble the latter more than I can help. — 
She manages very well — * * * 

♦ *♦♦*« 

but if I come away with a stiletto in my gizzard 
•ome fine afternoon, I shall not be astonished. I 
ean't make hitn out at all — he visits me frequently, 
tnd takes me out (like Whittington, the Lord May- 



* Sir Samuel Romilly. He committed wiicide. 
t Bee Letter ecclzzTiU. 
« ThtCouBlMiGakdolL 



or) in a coach and six horses. iThe fact appears tC 
be, that he is completely governed by her— for tha 
matter, so am I. The people here don't know what 
to make of us, as he had the charactei of jealousy 
with all his wives — this is the third. He is tha 
richest of the Ravennese, by their own accour t, but 
is not popular among them. 

* * * * * tt 

****** 
Now do, pray, send off Augustine, and carriage and 
cattle, to Bologna, without fail or delay, or I shall 
loose my temaining shred of senses. Don't forget 
this. My coming, going, and every thing depend 
upon HER entirely, just as Mrs. Hoppner (to whom 
I remit ray reverences) said in the true spirit of fe. 
male prophecy. 

" You are but a shabby fellow not to have writ- 
ten before. " And I am truly yours, «&c." 



LETTER CCCXCV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, June 29, 1819. 

* The letters have been forwarded from Venice, 
but I trust that you will not have waited for farther 
alterations — I will make none. You ask me to 
spare Romilly — ask the worms. His dust can suffer 
nothing from the truth being spoken — and if it 
could, how did he behave to mef You may talk to 
the wind, which will carry the sound — and to the 
caves, which will echo you — but not to me, on the 
subject of a * * * who wronged me — whether 
dead or alive. 

"I have no time to return you the proofs — pub- 
lish without them. I am glad you think the poesy 
good; and as to 'thinking of the effect,' think you 
of the sale, and leave me to pluck the porcupines 
who may point their quills at you. 

' I have been here (at Ravenna) these four weeks, 
having left Venice a month ago ; — I came to see my 
'Amica,' the Countess Guiccioli, who has been, and 
still continues, very unwell. * * * 

****** 
She is only twenty years old, but not of a strong con- 
stitution. * • * ♦ * * 
She has a perpetual cough, and an intermittent 
fever, but bears up most gallantly in every sense of 
the word. Her husband (this is his third wife) is 
the richest noble of Ravenna, and almost of Ro- 
magna ; he is also not the youngest, being upwards 
of threescore, but in good preservation. All this 
will appear strange to you, who do not understand 
the meridian morality, nor our way of life in such 
respects, and I cannot at present expound the dif 
ference ; — but you would find it much the same in 
these parts. At Faenza there is Lord * * ♦ ♦ with 
an opera girl ; and at the mn in the same town is a 
Neapolitan Prince, who serves the wife of the Gon- 
faloniere of that city. I am on duty here — so you 
see ' Cosi fan tutti e tut^e.' 

" I have my horses here, saddle as well as car- 
riage, and ride or drive every day in the forest th« 
Pineta, the scene of Boccaccio's novel, and Dry- 
den's fable of Honoria, &c., &c. ; and I see my 
Dama every day ******; but I feel seriously 
uneasy about her health, which seems very preca- 
rious. In losing her, I should lose a being who has 
run great risks on my account, and whom I have 
every reason to love — but I must not think this pos- 
sible. I do not know what I skotdd do if she (ued, 
but I ought to blow my brains out — and I hope that 
I should. Her husband is a very polite personage, 
but I wish he would not carry me out in his coack 
and six like Whittington and his cat. 

' You ask me if I mean to continue Don JuaH. 
&c. How should I know i What enroaragem«at 



LETTERS. 



B85 



do you give me, all of you, with ycAi nonsensical 
prudeiT ? — ^publish me two cantos, and then you will 
Bee. 1 desired Mr. Kinnaird to speak to you on a 
little matter of business ; either he has not spoken, 
or you have not answered. You are a pretty pair, 
but I will be even with you both. I perceive that 
Mr. Hobhouse has been challenged by Major Cart- 
wright. — Is the Major ' so cunning of fence ? ' — 
Kh; did not they fight ? — they ought. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCXCVL 

TO MR. HOPPNEB. 

'• Ravenna. July 2, 1819. 

•• Thanks! for your letter and for Madame's. I 
Trill answer it directly. Will you recollect whether 
I did not consign to you one or two receipts of 
Madame Mocenigo's for house-rent — (I am not sure 
of this, but think I did — if not, they will be in my 
drawers) — and will you desire Mr. Dorville* to have 
the goodness to see if Edgecombe has receipts to all 
payments hitherto made by him on my account, and 
that there are no debts at Venice ? On your answer, 
I shall send order of farther remittance to carry on 
my household expenses, as my present return to 
Venice is very problematical ; and it may happen 
—but I can say nothing positive — every thing with 
me being indecisive and undecided, except the dis- 
gust which Venice excites when fairly compared 
with any other city in this part of Italy. When I 
Bay Venice, I mean the Venetimis — the city itself is 
Buperb as its history — but the people are what 
I never thought them till they taught me to think 

60. 

*' The best way will be to leave Allegra with An- 
tonio's spouse till I can decide something about her 
and myself — but I thought you would have had an 

answer from Mrs. V r.f — You have had bore 

enough with me and mine already. 

" Lgreatly fear that the Guiccioli is going into a 
consumption, to which her constitution tends. Thus 
it is with every thing and every body for whom I 
feel any thing like a real attachment ; — ' War, death, 
or discord, doth lay seige to them.' I never even 
could keep alive a dog that I liked or that liked me. 
Her symptoms are obstinate cough of the lungs, 
and occasional fever, &c., S:c:, and there are latent 
causes of an eruption in the skin, which she fool- 
ishly repelled into the system two years ago; but I 
have made them send her case to Aglietti ; and 
have begged him to come — if only for a day or two 
—to consult upon her state. * 

♦ * * * * 

If it would not bore Mr. Dorville, I wish he would 
keep an eye on Edgecombe and on my other raga 
muffins. I might have more to say, but I am ab 
Borbod about La Gui. and her illness. I cannot tell 
yau the effect it has upon me. 

" The hor.ses came, Sic, &c., and I have been gal- 
loping through tlie pine forest daily. 

'• B(>licve me, &c. 
♦' P. S. My benediction on Mrs. H()])pner, a 
pleasant journey among the Bernese tyrants, and 
safe return. You ought to bring back a platonic 
Bernese tor my reformation. If any thing hap])ens 
to my present Arnica, 1 have done with the passion 
for ever — it is my last love. As to libertinism, 1 
; have sickened myself of that, as was natural in the 
] way I went on, and I have at least derived that ad- 
vantage from vice, to love in the better si-nse of the 
word. This will be my last adventure! — 1 ran hop 
nc more to inspire attachment, and I 
again to feel it." 



attachment, and I trust never 



• The »iee-6or«iil of Mr. Hoppnci. 

t An Kng-IUli luily, whu (rupuMd Uklitf «tMr|« or Aliagn. 

t See hii Use* ^inn S7M. 



LETTER CCCXCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Au^rt 1, ISU. 

" [Address your answer to Venice, however.] 
* Don't be alarmed. You will see me defend ray 
self gayly — that is, if I happen to be in spirits 
and by spirt^s, I don't mean your meaning of th« 
word, but the spirit of a bull-dog when pinched, oi 
a bull when pinned ; it is then that they make te&l 
sport: and as my sensations under an attack an 
probably a happy compound of the united energict 
of these amiable animals, you may perhaps see what 
Marrall calls • rare sport,' and some good tossing 
and goring, in the course of the controversy. But 
I must be in the right cue first, and I doubt I am 
almost too far off to be in a sufficient fury for the 
purpose. And then I have eff'eminated and ener- 
vated myself with love and the summer in these 
last two months. 

" I wrote to Mr. Hobhouse the other day, and 
foretold that Juan would either fall entirely or suc- 
ceed completely ; there will be no medium. Ap- 
pearances are not favorable ; but as you write the 
day after publication, it can hardly be decided what 
opinion will predominate. You seem in a fright, 
and doubtless with cause. Come what may, I nevel 
will flatter the million's canting in any shape., ('u- 
cumstances may or may not have placed me ai 
times in a situation to lead the .public opinion, but 
the public opinion never le: ■ nor even shall lead 
me. I will not set onade^iaued throne; so praj 
put Messrs. * * or * *, or Tom Moore, or * * * upon 
it ; they will all of them be transported with theil 
coronation. 

* * * * •>■ * 

'•P. S. The Countess Guiccioli is w h bettei 
than she was. I sent you, before leavi..^ Venice, 
the real original sketch which gave* rise to tl'« 
' Vampire,' &c. Did you get it ? " 



LETTER CCCXCVIII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, AuguM 9, 1819. 
• •«*«• 

" Talking of blunders reminds me of Ii "land- 
Ireland of Moore. What is this I see in Gaiignani 
about ' Bermuda — agent — deputy — aupeal — attach- 
ment,' &c. ? What is the matter ? Is it any thing 
in which his friends can be of use to him ? Pray 
inform me. 

" Of Don Juan I hear nothing farthei from you; 
* * *, but the papers don't seem so fierce as the 
letter you sent me seemed to anticipate, bv theii 
extracts at least in Galignani's Messenger. 1 nevej 
saw such a set of fellows as you are ! And thtu 
the pains taken to exculpate the modest publisher- 
he remonstrated, forsooth ! I will write a prcfact 
that shall exculpate you and • * •, &c., completely 
on that i)oint; but, at the same time, I will cut you 
up like gourds. You have uo more soul than the 
Count (ie Caylus (who assured his friends, on Lil 
death-bed, that he had none, and that he must 
know better than they whether he had one or no). 
and no more blood than a water-melon ! And I se* 
there hath been asterisks, and what Perry used to 
call * domned cutting uud slashing '—but, uover 
mind. 

•♦ I write in haste. To-morrow I set otf for Bo- 
logna. 1 write to von with thunder, lightning, Xc- 
and all the winds of heaven whistling through my 
hair, and the racket of preparation to boot. * Mj 
mii ress dear, who bath fed my ho»ut upon smilM 



sse 



BYKON'S WORKS. 



«.nd wine ' for the last two months, set off with her 
husband fnv Bologna this morning, and it seems 
that I follow him at three to-morrow morning. I 
cannot tell how our romance vnll end, but it hath 
gone on hitherto most erotically. Such perils and 
escapes ! Juan's are as child's play in comparison. 
The fools think that all my poeshie is always allu- 
sive to my own adventures : I have had at one time 
or another better and more* extraordinary and peri- 
lous and pleasant than these, every day of the week, 
if I might tell them ; but that must never be. 
" I hope Mrs. M. has accouched. 

"Yours ever." 



LETTER CCCXCIX. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Bologna, Augosf. 12, 1819. 

** I do not know how far I may be able to reply to 
your letter, for I am not very well to-day. Last 
night I went to the representation of Alfieri's 
Mirra, the last two acts of which threw me into 
convulsions. I do not mean by that word a lady's 
hysterics, but the agony of reluctant tears, and the 
choking shudder, which I do not often undergo for 
fiction. This is but the second time for any thing 
under reality : the first was on seeing Kean's Sir Giles 
Overreach. The worst was, that the 'Dama,' in 
whose box I was, went off in the same way, I really 
believe more from fright than any other sympathy — 
at least with the players : but she had been ill and 
I have been ill, and we are all languid and pathetic 
this morning, with great expenditure of sal volatile. 
But, to return to your letter of the 23d of July. 

" You are right, Giffbrd is right, Crabbe is right, 
Hobhouse is right — you are alf right, and I a<n all 
wrong ; biit do, pray, let me have that pleasure. 
Cut me up root and branch ; quarter me in the 
Quarterly ; send round my ' disjecti membra poetse,' 
like those of the Levite's concubine ; make me if 
you will a spectacle to men and angels ; but don't 
^■sk me to alter, for I won't : — lam obstinate and 
tazy — and there's the truth. 

•* But, nevertheless, I will answer your friend 
, Perry, who objects to the quick succession of fun 
/ and gravity, as if in that case the gravity did not 
(in intention, at least) heighten the "fun. His met- 
aphor is, that ' we ?ire never scorched and drenched 
at the same time.' Blessings on his experience ! 
Ask him these questions 'bout ' scorching and 
drenching.' Did he never play at cricket, or walk 
a mile in hot weather ? Did he never spill a dish 
of tea over himself in handing the cup to his charm- 
er, to the great shame of his nankeen breeches? 
Did he never swim in the sea at noonday with the 
Bun in his eyes and on his head, which all the foam, 
of ocean could not cool ? Did he never draw his 
foot out of too hot water, d— ning his eyes and his 
valet's ?***** 
Was he ever in a Turkish bath— that marble para- 
dise of sherbet and * * ? Was he ever in a cauldron 
of boiling oil, like St. John ? or in the sulphureotis 
waves of h— 1 r (where he ought to be for his ' scorch- 1 
itg and drenching at the same time,') Did he I 
never tumble into a river or lake, fishing, and siti 
In his wet clothes in the boat, or on the bank after- j 
ward, ' scorched and drenched,' like a true sports- ' 
man ? * Oh for breath to utter ! ' — but make him 
my compliments ; he is a clever fellow for all that— , 
a very clever fellow. 

•' You ask me for the plan of Donny Johnny: I 
lave no plan ; I had no plan ; but I had or have 
aiaterials; though if, like Tony Lumpkin, 'I am! 
10 be snubbed so when I am in spirits,' the poem 
vvill be nought, and the poet turn serious again. If 
it don't take, I will leave it off where it is, with all 



Don Juaii. canto xir., atanta d. 



due respect to the public ; but if continued, it mtift^ 
be in my own way. You might as well made Haiu 
let (or Diggory) * act mad ' in a strait waistcoat ai 
trammel raj^ buffoonery, if I am to be a buffoon; 
their gestures and my thoughts would only be pitia • 
bly absurd and ludicrously constrained. Why, maUj 
the soul of such writing is its license ; at least th« 
liberty of that license, if one likes — not that ona 
should abuse it. It is like trial by jury and peerage 
and the habeas corpus — a very fine thing, but chiefly 
in the reversion ; because no one wishes to be tried ' ■ 
for the mere pleasure of proving his possession ol - 
the privilege. 

" But a truce with these reflections. You are too 
earnest and eager about a work never intended to 
be serious. Do you suppose that I could have any ' 
intention but to giggle and make giggle ? — a play- 
ful satire, -with as little poetry as could be helped, • 
was what I meant. And as to the indecency, do 
pray, read in Boswell what Johnson, the sullen | 
moralist, says of Prior and Paulo FiirP'^nte. 

" Will you get a favor done for me ? Fo2<. can, by 
your government friends, Croker, Canring, or my 
old schoolfellow Peel, and I can't. Here it is. 
Will you ask them to appoint (without salary or 
•emolument) a noble Italian (whom I will name 
afterward) consul or irice-consul for Ravenna ? He 
is a man of very large property — noble too ; but 
he wishes to have a British protection in case of 
changes. Ravenna is near the sea. He wants wo 
emolument whatever That his ofiice might be use- 
ful, I knoAv ; as I lately sent off from Ravenna to 
Trieste a poor devil of an English sailor, who had 
remained there sick, sorry, and penny less (having! 
been set ashore in 1814), from the want of any\ , 
accredited agent able or willing to help him home- \ i 
wards. Will you get this done ? If you do, I will V 
then send his name and condition, subject of course 
to rejection, if not approved when known. 

"I know that in the Levant you make consuls 
and vice-consuls, perpetually, of foreigners. This 
man is a patrician, and has twelve thousand a year 
His motive is a British protection in ease of new 
invasions. Don't you think Croker would do it for 
us ? To be sure, my interest is rare ! ! but perhaps 
a brother wit in the tory linemight do a good turn 
at the request of so harmless and long absent a 
whig, particularly as there is no salary or burthen 
of any sort to be annexed to the office. 

' I can assure you, I should look upon it as a 
great obligation ; but, alas ! that very circumstance 
may, very probably, operate to the contrary — in- 
deed, it ought ; but I have, at least, been an honest 
and an open enemy. Among your many splendid 
government connxions, could not you, think you, 
get our Bibulus made a consul ? or make me one, 
that I may make him my vice; You may be as- 
sured that, in case of accidents in Italy, he would 
be no feeble adjunct — as you would think, if you 
knew his patrimony. 

' What is all this about Tom Moore ? but why do 
I ask ? since the state of my own affairs would not 
permit me to be of use to him, though they are- 
greatly improved since 1816, and may, with some \ 
more luck and a little prudence, become quite clear, I 
It seems his claimants are American merchants ^^ 
There goes Nemesis ! Moore abused America. It 
is always thus in the long run : — Time, the avenger. 
You have seen every trampler down, in turn, from 
Bonaparte to the simplest individuals You saw 
how some were avenged even upon m> insignifi- 
cance, and how in turn * * * paid for his atrocity., j 
It is an odd world; but the watch has its main- ] 
spring, after all. ( 

" So the prince has been repealing Lord Edward 
Fitzgerald's forfeiture ? Eceo un sonetto ! 

" To be tlie fatlier of the fatherlua, &c.* 

" There, you dogs ! there's a sonnet for you. yon 

• See Poems, puge Sn 



LiETTEES. 



887 



iron't have such as that in a hurry from Mr. Fitz- 
gerald. You may publish it with my i^me, an' ye 
wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good; it 
was a Merj noble piece of principality. Would vou 
like an epigram — a translation ? 

" If lor stiver, or (o- yold, 

Tou could melt (ea thousand piinplet 

Into hall a dozen dimples, 
Then your lace we mig-ht behold, 

Looking- doubtless much more snugly, 

Yet ev'n then 'twould be d d ugly. 

*' This was written on some Frenchwoman, by 
ftuhierr??. I believe. " Yours. * 



LETTER CCCC. 

VO MR. MURRAY. 

" Eslogna, August 23, 1819. 

" 1 send you a letter to Roberts, signed ' Wortley 
Clutterbuck,'* which you may publish in what form 
you please, in answer to his article. I have had 
many proofs of men's absurdity, but he beats all 
in folly. ,^hy, the wolf in sheep's clothing has 
tumbled into the very trap !' We'll strip him. The 
letter is written n great haste, and amid a thou- 
sand vexations. Yonr letter only came yesterday, 
BO that there is no time to polish : the post goes 
put to-morrow. The date is 'Little Pidlington.' 
Let *• * * * correct the press : he knows and can 
read the handwriting. Continue to keep the anon- 
/-'i/mous about ' Juan ; ' it helps us to fight against 
overwhelming numbers. I have a thousand dis- 
V tractions at ^present; so excuse haste, and wonder 
■' I can act or write at all. Answer by post, as usual. 
A/ " Yours." 

" P. S. If I had had time, and been quieter and 
nearer, I would ha> e cut him to hash ; but as it is, 
you can judge for yourselves. 



LETTER CCCCL 



TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLA. 

f Written in the last page of her copy of Madame De 
Stael's " Corinna."] 

*' My dearest Teresa, — I have read this book in 
your garden ; — my love, you were absent, or else I 
could not have read it. It is a favorite book of 
yours, and the writer was a friend of mine. You 
will not understand these English Avords, and others 
will not imderstand them, — which is the reason I 
have not scrawled them in Italian. But yon will 
recognise the handwriting of him who passionately 
loved you, and you will divine that, over a book 
which was yours, he could only think of love. In 
that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in 
yours — Amor moi — is comprised my existence here 
and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I fear that I 
shall txist hereafter, — to tohat purpose you will 
decide ; my destiny rests with you, and you are a 
woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a 
conven*. I wish that you had stayed tliere, with 
a.l my heart, — or, at least, that I had never met 
you in your married state. 

*' But all tliis is too late. I love you, and you 
lo7e me, — at least, you say .so, and act ua if you did 
wo, which last is a great consolation in all events. 
But / more than love you, and cannot cease to love 
you. 

'• Think yf me, sometimes, whrn the Alps and the 
ocean divide us, — but they neve, will, unless you 
iPwA it. " Byuon."'' 

<«Bol9fna, Auf(utt2S, 1819. 



LETTER CCCCII. 



" Bologna, August 24, 1819. 

*<I wrote to you by last post enclosing a buffotn 
ing letter for publication, addressed to the buttb % 
Roberts, who has thought proper to tie a cani?tel 
to his own tail. If was viTitten off-hand, and in tM 
midst of circumstances not very favorable to fac«~ 
tiousness, so that there may, perhaps, be more bit- 
terness than enough for that sort of small acid 
punch : — you will tell me. 

" Keep the anonymous, in any case : it helps whfct 
fun there may be. But if the matter grows srrioui 
about Don Juan, and you feel yourself in a scrapt,- 
or me either, own that I am the author. I will nevei 
shrink ; and if you do, I can always answer you in 
the question of Guatimozin tb his minister — each 
bring on his own coals.* 

"I wish that I had been in better spirits; but 1 
am out of sorts, out of nerves, and now and then (I 
begin to fear) out of my senses. All this Italy has 
done for me, and not England. I defy all you, and 
your climate to boot, to make jne mad. But if ever 
i do really become a bedlamite, and wear a strait 
waistcoat, let me be brought back among you ; 
your people will then be proper company. 

*' I assure you what I here say and feel has noth- 
ing to do with England, either in a literary or per- 
sonal point of view. All my present pleasures or 
plagues are as Italian as the opera. And after all, 
they are but trifles ; for all this arises from n. j 
' Dama's ' being in the country for thro>> days, (at 
Capo-fiume.) But as I could never live but Wi otij 
human being at a time, (and, I assure you, that on* 
has never been myself, as you may know by the con 
sequences, for the selfish are successful in life,) 1 
feel alone and unhappy. 

" I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and 
I ride daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple 
canopy of grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk 
with the gardener of his tools, which seem greater 
than Adam's, and with his wife, and with his son's 
wife, who is the youngest of the party, and, I think,', 
talks best of the three. Then I revisited the Cara- 
po Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, has two— ; 
but one the prettiest daughter imaginable ; and ] \ 
amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and • 
innocent face of fifteen, with tlie skulls with which 
he has peopled several cells, and particularly with 
that of one skull dated 1766, which was once covered 
(the tradition goes) by the most lovely features o.* 
Bologna — noble and rich. When I look at these, 
and at this girl — when I think of what they uurCt 
and what she must be — why, then, mv dear yiurray, 
I won't shock you by saying w4iat 1 think. It is 
little matter what becomes of us * hoarded men,' but 
I don't like the notion of a beautiful woman's last- 
ing less than a beautiful tree — than her own pic- 
ture—her own shadow, which won't chaiijje so to 
the sun as her face to the mirror. I must kuve off 
for my head aches consumedly. I have never been 
quite well since the night of the representation oi 
Alfieri's Mirra, a fortnight ago. 

" Yours evor." 



LETTER CCCCIII. 



TO MR. MUUUAY. 



" I have been in .n rage these two da i», and xvo 
still bilious therefrom. You shall hear. A cnp 
tain of dragoons, • *, Hanoverian by birth, in tht 
Pa])al troops at present, whom I liad ohligrd by i 
loan, when nohouy would lend him a paul, reeom 
meiidtHl a horse to m«, on sale by a Lieutenant • • 
an ortieer who unites the sale of cattle to the put 



4in 1 now rtixainf oa « bad of roMi / "— 4tM t 



'•H8 



UYKON'S WORKS. 



chase of men. 1 bought it. The next day, on 
whoeing the horse, we discovered the thrush, — the 
animal being warranted sound. I sent to reclaim 
the contract and the money. The iieXitenant de- 
sired to speak with me in person. I consented. He 
came. It was his own particular request. He be- 
gan a story. I asked him if he would return the 
money. He said no — but he would exchange. He 
asked an exorbitant price for his other horses. I 
told him that he was a thief. He said he was an 
officer and a man of honor, and pulled out a Par- 
mesan passport signed by General Count Neifperg. 
I answered, that as he was an officer, I would treat 
him as such : and that as to his being a gentleman, 
ht. might prove it by returning the money ; as for 
his Parmesan passport, I should have valued it 
more if it had been a Parmesan cheese. He ans- 
wered in high terms, and said that if it were in the 
morning (it was about eight o'clock in the evening) 
he would have satisfaction. I then lost my temper : 
* As for THAT,' I replied, 'you shall have it directly, 
— it will be mutual satisfaction, I can assure you. 
You are a thief, and, as you say, an officer : my 
pistols are in the next room, loaded ; take one of 
the candles, examine, and make your choice of 
R'eapons.' He replied that pistols were English 
weapons ; he always fought with the stoord. I told 
him that I was able to accommodate him, having 
three regimental swords in a drawer near us ; and 
he might take the longest, and put himself on 
guard. 

*' All this passed in presence of a third person. 
He then said No, but to-morrow morning he would 
give me the meeting at any time or place. I ans- 
wered that it was not usual to appoint meetings in 
the presence of witnesses, and that we had best 
speak man to man, and appoint time and instru- 
ments. But as the man present was leaving the 
room, the Lieutenant * *, before he could shut the 
door after him, ran out, roaring ' help and murder ' 
most lustily, and fell into a sort of hysteric in the 
arms of about fifty people, who all saw that I had i 
no weapon of any sort or kind about me, and fol- 
lowed him, asking him what the devil was the mat- 
ter with him. Nothing would do: he ran awayi 
without his hat, and went to bed, ill of the fright. 
He then tried his complaint at the police, which 
dismissed it as frivolous. He is, I believe, gone 
away, or going. 

" The horse was warranted, but, I believe, so 
worded that the villain will not be obliged to re- 
fund, according to law. He endeavored to raise up 
an indictment of assault and battery, but as it was 
in a public inn, in a frequented street, there were 
too many witnesses to the contrary ; and, as a mili- 
tary man, he has not cut a martial figure, even in 
the opinion of the priests. He ran off in such a 
hurry that he left his hat, and never missed it till 
he got to his hostel or inn. The facts are as I tell 
you, I can assure you. He began by ' coming Cap- 
tain Grand over me,' or I should never have thought 
of trying his ' cunning in fence.' But what could 
I do ? He talked of 'honor, and satisfaction! and 
his commission ; ' he produced a nailitary passport ; 
.here are severe punishments for regular duels on 
the continent, and trifling ones for rencontres, so 
that it is best to fight it out directly ; he had rob- 
bed, and then wanted to insult me ;" — what could I 
dc ? My patience was gone, and the weapons at 
hind, fair ar.d equal. Besides, it was just after 
dinner, when my digestion was bad, and I don't 
like to be disturbed. His friend * * is at Forli ; we 
shall meet on my way back to Ravenna. The Hano- 
verian seems the greater rogue of the two ; and if 
my valor does not ooze away like Acres's — ' Odds 
dints and triggers ! ' if it should be a rainy morn- 
tMg, and my stomach in disorder, there may "be some- 
ming for the obituary. 

' Now, pray, ' Sir Lucius, do not you look upon 
Dae as a very ill-used u;entleman ? ' I send my lieu- 
ifnart to match Mr Hobhouse's Major Cartwright : 



and so * good morrow to you, good master lieuten 
ant.' Witk regard to other things, I will write 
soon, but I have been quarrelling and fooling till 1 
can scribble no more." 



LETTER CCCCIV 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

"Oct. 22, 1818. 

" I am glad to hear of your return, but I do nvii 
know how to congratulate you— unless you think 
differently of Venice from what I think now, and 
you thought always. I am, besides, about to renew 
your troubles by requesting you to be judge between 
Mr. Edgecombe and myself in a small matter oi 
imputed peculation and irregular accounts on the 
part of that phoenix of secretaries. As I knew that 
you had not parted friends, at the same time that I 
refused for my own part any judgment but yours, I 
offered him his choice of any person, the least 
scoundrel native to be found in Venice, as his own 
umpire ; but he expressed himself so convinced ol 
you- impartiality, that he declined any but you. 
This is in his favor. Tke paper within will explain 
to you the default in his accounts. You will heai 
his explanation, and decide, if it so please you. I 
shall not appeal from the decision. 

"As he complained that his salary was insuffi- 
cient, I determined to have his accounts examined, 
and the enclosed was the result. It is all in black 
and white with documents, and I have despatched 
Fletcher to explain (or rather to perplex) the matter. 

" I have had much civility and kindness from Mr. 
Dorville during your journey, and I thank him 
accordins:ly. 

" Your letter reached me at your departure,* and 
displeased me very much : — ^not that it might not 
be true in its statement and kind in its intention, 
but you have lived long enough to know how use- 
less 'all such representations ever are and must be 
in cases where the passions are concerned. To rea- 
son with men in such a situation is like reasoning 
with a drunkard in his cups — ^the only answer you 
will get from him is that he is sober, and you are 
drunk. 

" Upon that subject we will fif you like) le silent. 
You might only say what would distress me with- 
out answering any purpose whatever ; and I have 
too many obligations to you to answer you in the 
same style. So that you should recollect th&t you 
have also that advantage over me. I hope to see 
you soon. 

" I suppose you know that they said at Voaice, 
that I was arrested at Bologna as a carbonaro — ^ 
story about as true as their usual conversal ioij. 
Moore has been here — I lodged him in my housii at 
Venice, and went to see him daily ; but I could noX 
at that time quit La Mira entirely. Y'ou and I wf^re 
not very far from meeting in Switzerland. With 
my best respects to Mrs. Hoppner, believe me ever 
and truly, &c. 

" P. S. Allegra is here in good nealth and spirita 
—I shall keep her with me till I go to Ei-gland; 4 
which will perhaps be in the spring. It has jus* 
occurred to me that you may not perhaps like to 
undertake the office of judge' between Mr. Edge- 
combe and your humble servant. Of course, as 
Mr. Liston (the comedian, not the ambassadoj-), 
says, ^it is all hoptional;' but I have no other i(» 



• Mr. Hoppner, before his departure from Venice for SwiUerlanil, hatf 
written a letter to Lorfl Byron, entreating him " to leave Ravenna, while 
yet he had a whole akin, and urging liini not to risk the safety of a pereou ha 
appeared so »incerely aiuiched to — as well as his own — for the pratificatio* u. 
A momentary passion, which could only be a source of regrct to bo^ 
parties." In the same letter Mr. Hoppner informed him - f some reporU h« 
had heard lately %: Venice, which, though possibly, he said, unfcnnded. )ia4 
ir.ach increased his anxiety reapecting the consequence of the conneuoa 
fornaed by ium.—M«or*, 



LETTERS. 



889 



BOUf cc. 1 do not vdsh to find him a rascal, if it can] third canto is in advance abott one hundred stan- 
be avoided, and would rather think him guilty of Izas ; but the failure of the first two has weakened 
carelessness than cheating. The case is this— can my estro, and it will neither be so good as the forraei 



I, or not, give him a character for honesty ? It is 
Dot my intention to continue him in my service." 



LETTER CCCCV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

•< October 25, 1819. 

• y-JU need net have made any excuses about the 
i**ter; I never said but that you might, could, 
should, or would have reason. 1 merely described 
my own state of inaptitude to listen to it at that 
tirae, and in those circumstances. Besides, you did 
not speak from your own authority — but from what 
you said you had heard. Now my blood boils to 
hear an Italian speaking ill of another Italian, be- 
cause, though they lie in particular, they speak 
truth in general by speaking ill at all — and although 
they know that they are trying and wishing to lie, 
they do not succeed, merely because they can say 
nothing so bad of each other, that it may not, ani 
must not be true from the atrocity of their long- 
debased national character. 

"With regard to Edgecombe, you will perceive 
a most irregular, extravagant account, without 
proper documents to support it. He demanded an 
mcrease of salary, which made me suspect him ; he 
supported an outrageous extravagance of expendi- 
ture, and did not like the dismission of the cook ; 
he never complained of him — as in duty bound — at 
the time of his robberies. I can only say, that the 
house expense is now under one-Aa{/'of whatit then 
was, as he himself admits. He charged for a comb 
eighteen francs, — the real price was eir/ht. He 
charged a passage from Fusina for a person named 
lamlfiUi, who paid it herself, as she will prove, if 
ntcessary. He fancies, or asserts himself, the vic- 
tim of a domestic complot against him ; — accounts 
are accounts — prices are prices : — let him make out 
a fair detail. / am not prejudiced against him — 
on tlie contrary, I supported him against the com- 
plaints of his wife, and of his former master, ^t <» 
time when I could have crushed him like an ea: 
wig, and if he is a scoundrel, he is^ the greatest of 
scoundrels, an ungrateful one 



two, nor completed, unless I get a little moj-e riscat- 
dato in its behalf.* T understand the outcry waa 
beyond every thing. — Pretty cant for people whfl 
read Tom Jones, and Roderick Random, and the 
Bath Guide, and Ariosto, and Dryden, and Pope — 
to say nothing of Little's Poems. Of course I re 
fer to the morality of these works, and not to any 
pretension of mine to compete with them in an^ 
thing but decency. I hope yours is the Paris edi 
tion, and that you did not pav the London price. 
I have seen neither, except in the newspapers. 

" Pray make my respects to Mrs. H., and *ake 
care of your little boy. All my household have the 
fever and ague, except Fletcher, AUegra, and mysen, 
(as we used to say in Nottinghamshire,) ana the 
horses, and Mutz, and Moretto? In the beginning 
of November, perhaps sooner, I expect to have the 
pleasure of seeing you. To-day I got drenched by 
a thunder-storm, and my horse and groom to3, and 
his horse all bemired up to the middle in a cross- 
road. It was summer, at noon, and at five we were 
bewintered ; but the lightning was sent, perhaps, to 
let us know that the summer was not yet over. Il 
is queer weather for the 27th of October. 

«' yours, &o " 



LETTER CCCCVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



bably, that he thought I was leaving Venice, and 
determined to make the most of it. At present he 
keeps bringing in account after account, though he 
hud always money in hand — as I believe you know 
my system was never to allow longer than a week's 
bills to run. Pray read him this letter — I desire 
nothing to be concealed against whicn he may de- 
fend himself. 

" Pray how is your little boy ? and how are you 
—I shall be up m Venice very soon, and we will bo 



•'Venice, Oeto>>er 29, 1819 

"Yours of the 15th came yesterday. I am sorry 
that you do not mention a large letter addressed to 
your care for Lady Byron, from me, at Bologna, two 
months ago. Pray tell me was this letter received 
and forwarded ? 

"You say nothing of the vice-cansulate for the 
Ravenna patrician, from which is to be inferred that 
the thing will not be done. 

" I had written about a hundred stanzas of a 
third canto to Don Juan, but the reception of the 
first two is no encouragement to you nor me to pro 
cecd. 

"I had also ^vritten about six hundred lines of a 
The truthYsTpro-lpoem, the Vision (or Prophecy) of Danto, the sub- 



bilious together 
ixiheiits. 



I hate the place and al 
" Yours, 



that it 



LETTER CCCCVI. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



' October •», 1819. 



•• I have to thank you for your letter, and your 
eompliment to Don Juan. I said nothing to you 
ab'>ut it, und('rstanding that it is a sore suhject with 
.he moral reader, iind has been the cause of a great 
row; but I am glad you like it. I will say nothing 
about the shipwreck, except that I hope yoti think 
It is as nautical and technical as verse could admit 
In the octave measure. 

"Tlie poem hnn not sold uiell, so Murray says — 
«but tlie best judges, &c., say, <Src.,' so says that 
worthy man, I have never seen it in print. The 
112 



ject a view of Italy in the ages down to the j)rescnt 
—supposing Dante to speak in his own i)erson, pre- 
vious to his death and embracing all topics in the 
way of prophecy, like Lycophrou's Cassandra ; but 
this and the other are both at a stand-still for the 
present. 

" I gave Moore, who is pone to Rome, mv life in 
MS. in swenty-eight folio sheets, brought down to 
1816. But this I put into his hands ft)r his care, as 
he has someothor MSS. of mine— a journal kept in 
1814, X'c. Neither are for pulilication during my 
life, but when I am cold, you may do what you 
please. In the mean time, if you li'ke to read them 
you may, and show them to any body you like— I 
care not. 

"The life is »j/»wom«r/a and not conUssuhXS. I 
have left out all mv lows, (except in a general way.) 
and many other of the most important things, (be- 
cause 1 liuist not comnromise other people,) so tnal 
it is like the iilav of Hamlet — 'The part of Hamlet 
oinitttd by particular desire.* But you will find 
many opinions, and some fun, with u detailed uo 
count of my marriage and its consequences, as tru« 
as a party concerned can make such account, for I 
suppose we are all prejudiced. 

" I have never read over this life since it wu* 
written, so that I know not exactly what it may ro- 

J)rat or contain. Moore and I passed some meTT| 
lays together. • ♦ * •* 



BYRON'S WORKS 



** I probably must return for business, or in my 
way to America. Pray, did you get a letter for Hob' 
house, who will have told you the contents ? I un- 
derstand that the Venezulean commissioners had 
orders tfe treat with emigrants ; now I want to go 
there. I should not make a bad South American 

Eilanter, and I should take my natural daughter, Al- 
egra, with me, and settle. I wi-ote, at length, to 
Hobhouse, to get information from Perry, who, I 
suppose, is the best topographer and trumpeter of 
the new republicans. Pray write. 

" Yours, ever. 
" P. S. Moore and I did nothing but laugh. He 
will tell you of 'my whereabouts,' and all my pro- 
ceedings at this present ; they are as usual. You 
should not let those fellows publish false ' Don 
Juaus ;' but do not put rtxy name, because I mean 
to cut Roberts up like a gourd in the preface, if I 
continue the poem." 



LETTER CCCCVIII. 

TO MB. HOPPNER. 

" October 29, 1819. 

" The Ferrara story is of a piece with all the rest 
of the Venetian manufacture,* — you may judge : I 
only changed horses there since I wrote to you, after 
my visit in June last. 'Convent,' and ' carry off ,' 
quotha! and 'girl.' I should like to know who 
has been carried off, except poor dear me. I have 
been more ravished myself than any body since the 
Trojan war ; but as to the arrest, and its causes, one 
is as true as the other, and I can account 'for the 
Invention of neither. I suppose it is some confu- 
sion of the tale of the Fornaretta and of Me. 
Guiccioli, and half a dozen more ; but it is useless 
to unravel the web, when one has only to brush it 
away. I shall settle with Master E., who looks 
very blue at your in-decision, and swears that he is 
the best arithmetician in Europe ; and so I think 
also, for he makes out two and two to be five. 

" You may see me next week. I have a horse or 
two more, (five in all,) and I shall repossess myself 
of Lido and I will rise earlier, and we will go and 
shake our livers over the beach, as heretofore, if 
vou like — and we will make the Adriatic roar again 
with our hatred of that now empty oyster-shell, 
without its pearl, the city of Venice. 

" Murray sent me a letter yesterday : the impos- 
tors have published two new third cantos of Doti 
Juan : — the devil take the impudence of some black- 
guard bookseller or other therefor ! Perhaps I did 
not make myself understood ; he told me the sale 
had been great, twelve hundred out of fifteen hun- 
dred quarto, I believe, (which is nothing, af4er, sell- 
uig thirteen thousand of the Corsair in one day;) 
but that the ' best judges,' &c., had said it was 
•very fine, and clever, and particulary good English, 
and poetry, and all those consolatory things, which 
are not, however, worth a single copy to a book- 
ailler ; and as to the author, of course I am in a 
d — ned passion at the bad taste of the times, and 
Bwear there is nothing like posterity, who, of course, 
must know more of the matter than their grand- 
fathers. There has been an eleventh command- 
ment to the women not to read it, and what is still 
more extraordinary, they seem not to have broken 
it. But that can be of little import to them, poor 
things, for the reading or non-reading a book will 
flever ****** 

" Count G. comes to Venice next week, and I am 
requested to consign his wife to him, which shall be 
done. * ♦ * * "What you 

gay of the long evenings at the Mira, or VenicQ,^e- 
minds me of what Curran said to Moore : — f So I 
^ear you^ave married a pretty woman, and a very 

^ k)«e Letter ccee. I 



good creature, too, — an excellent rreature Pray- 
um ! — how do you pass your evenings f''^ It is a dcvL 
of a question that, and perhaps as easy to answeij 
with a wife as with a mistress. 

" If you go to Milan, pray leave at least a Vice 
Consul — the only vice chat will ever be wanting ai 
Venice. D'Orville is a good fellow. But you shall 
go to England in the spring with me, and plant 
Mrs. Hoppner at Berne with her relations for a fei* 
months. I wish you had been here (at Venice, 1 
mean, not the Mira) when Moore was here— we wei* 
very merry and tipsy. He hated Venice by-the-way 
and swore it '7<xs a sad place. 

" So Maifeiue Albrizzi's death is in danger — poor 
woman ! * * * * * « 

Moore told me that at Geneva they had made a 
df-.vil of a story of the Fornaretta : — ' Young lady 
seduced ! — subsequent abandonment ! — leap into the 
Grand Canal,' — and her being in the 'hospital ot 
/o^^5 in consequence !' I should like to know who 
was nearest being made ^fou,' and be d d to 
them ! Don't you think me in the interesting 
character of a very ill-used gentleman ? I hope 
your little boy is well. Allegrna is flourishing like 
a pomegranate blossom. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCIX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Venice, November, 8, 1818. 

" Mr. Hoppner has lent me a copy of ' Pon Juan,' 

Paris edition, which he tells me is read in Switzer- 
land by clergymen and ladies, with considerable ap- 
probation. In the second canto, you must a^^^ertne 
forty-ninth stanza to 

" 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went dowm 

Over the waste of waters, like a veil 
Which if withilrawn would but disclose the fiowu 

Of one wliose hate is mask'd but to assail ; 
Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 

And grimly darkled o'er their faces jKile 
And the dim desolate deep; twelve days had Fear 
Been their fauiiiliar, and now Deatli was here.* 

" I hav^ been ill these eight days vdth. a tertifviv 
fever, caught in the country on horseback in a 
thunder-storm. Yesterday I had the fourth attack : 
the two last were very smart, the first day as well as 
the last being preceded by vomiting. It is the 
fever of the place and the season. I feel weakened, 
but not unwell, in the intervals, except headache 
and lassitude. 

" Count Guiccioli has arrived in Venice, and hag 
presented his spouse (who had preceded him two 
months for her health and the prescriptions of Dr. 
Aglietti) with a paper of conditions, regulations of 
hours, and conduct, and morals, &c., &c., &c., 
which he insist on her accepting, and she persists in 
refusing. I am expressly, it should seem, excluded 
by this treaty, as an indispensable preliminary ; so 
that they are in high dissension, and what the re- 
sult may be, I know not, particularly as they are 
consulting friends. 

"To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed mc 
poring over ' Don Juan,' she stumbled by mere 
chance on the one hundred and thirty-seventh 
stanza of the first canto, and asked me what it 
meant. I told her, ' Nothing, — but " your hus- 
band is coming." ' As I said this in Italian with 
some emphasis, she started up in a fright, and said, 
' Oh, my God, is he coming «" thinking it was her 
own, who either was or ought to have been at the 
theatre. You may suppose we laughed when she 
found out the mistake. You will be amused, as I 
was ; it happened not three hours ago. 

" I wrote to you last week, but have added nO' 

* Corrected in thia olitkwu 



LETTERS. 



591, 



;aing ta the third canto since my fever, nor to 'The 
Prophecy of Dante.' Of the former there are 
about a hundred octaves done ; of the latter about 
five hundred lines — perhaps more. Moore saw the 
thii'd Juan, as far as it then. went. I do not know 
if my fever will let me go on with either, and the 
tertian lasts, they say, a good while. I had it in 
Malta on my way home, and the malaria fever in 
Greece the year before that. The Venetian is not 
very fierce, but I was delirious one of the nights 
with it, for an hour or two, and, on my senses 
coming back, found Fletcher soblnng on one side of 
the bed, and La ConteSsa Guiccioii weeping on the 
other ; so that I had no want of attendance. I have 
not yet taken any physician, because, though I 
think they may relieve in chronic disorders, such as 
gout and the like, &c., &c., &c., (though they can't 
cure them) — just as surgeons are necessary to set 
bones and tend wounds — yet I think fevers quite 
out of their reach, and remediable only by diet and 
nature. 

'' I don't like the taste of bark, but I suppose 
that I must take it soon. 

" Tell Rose that somebody at Milan (an Aus- 
trian, Mr. Hoppner says) is answering his book. 
"William Bankes is in quarantine at Trieste. I have 
not latelj heard from you. Excuse this paper : it is 
long paper shortened for the occasion. What folly 
is this of Carlisle's trial ? why let him have the 
honors of a martyr ? it will only advertise the books 
in question "Yours, &c. 

" P. S. As I tell you that the Guiccioii business 
'i8 on the eve of exploding in one way or the other, 
I will just add, that without attempting to influ- 
ence the decision of the Contessa, a good deal de- 
pends upon it. If she and her husband make it up, 
you will perhaps see me in England sooner than you 
expect. If not, I shall retire with her to France or 
America, change my name, and lead a quiet pro- 
vincial life. All this may seem odd, but I have got 
the poor girl into a scrape ; and as neither her birth, 
nor her rank, nor h'er connexions by birth or mar- 
riage, are inferior to my own, I am in honor bound 
to support her through. Besides, she is a very 
pretty woman — ask Moore — and not yet one-aud- 
twenty. 

" If she gets over this, and I get over my tertian, I 
will perhaps look in at Albemarle street, some' of 
these days, enpaisant to Bolivar." 



LETTER CCCCX. 



TO MR. BANKES. 



" Vfiiiice, November 20, 1819. 

" A tertian a^ue which has troubled me for some 
time, and the indisposition of my daughter, have 

fnevouted me from replying before to your welcomr 
etter. I have not been ignorant of your progress 
nor of your discoveries, and I trust that you are no 
worst in health from your lahdrs. You may rely 
upon finding every body in England eager to reap 
the fruits of them ; and as you have done more than 
other men, I hope you will not limit yourself to 
Biiying less than may do justice to the talent h and 
time you have bestowed on your perilous researches. 
The first sentence of my letter will have exi)laii)ed 
to you why I cannot join you at Trieste. 1 was or. 
the point of setting" out for England, (before I 
knew of your arrival,) when my child's illness has 
:niide her and me dependent on a Venetian Pioto- 
Medico. 

" It is now seven years since you and 1 met; — 
which time you have e!n])loyed better for others, 
*nd more honoral)ly for yourself, than I have done. 

" In England you will find eonsideral)le changes, 
public and private, — you will see sonic of our oUl 
oolle)<e coutemporuri'9 turned into lords of the 



treasury, adrairality and the like, — others becomt 
reformers and orators, — many settled in life, as it ii' 
called, — and others settled in deatli ; among the 
latter (by-the-way, not our feliow-collegians), 
Sheridan, Curran, Lady Melbourne, Xonk Lewis, 
Frederick Douglas, &c., Sec, &c. ; but you will stiL 
find Mr. * * living and all his family, as also * 

"■ Should you come up this way, and I am still 
here, you need not be assured how glad I shall be 
to see you ; I long to hear some part, from you, ol 
that which I expect in no long time to see. At 
length you have had better fortune than any tra- 
veller of equal enterprise, (except Humboldt,) in re- 
turning safe; and after the fate «f the Brownes, 
and the Parkes, and the Burckhai dts, it is harc^lv 
less surprise than satisfaction to get you bae,k 
again. " Believe me ever 

" And very affectionately yours, 

♦' Bykon." 



LETTER CCCCXl. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Dec. 4, .«19. 

*' You may do as you please, but you are about a 
hopeless experiment.* Eldon will decide against 
you, were it only that my name is in the record. 
You will also recollect that if the publication is 
pronounced against, on the grounds you mention, 
as indecent and blasphemous, that I lose all right in 
my daughter's f/uurdianship and education, in short, 
all paternal authority, and every thing concerning 
her, except ♦ » ♦ * * 

It was so decided in Shelley's case, because he had 
written Queen Mab, &c., &c. However, you can 
ask the lawyers, and do as you like : I do not in- 
hibit you trying the question ; I merely state one 
of the consequences to me. With regard to the 
copyright, it is hard that you sliould pay for a non- 
entity : I will, therefore, refund it, which I can very 
well do, not having spent it, nor begun upon it ; 
and so we will be quits on that score. It lies at my 
banker's. 

" Of the Chancellor's law I am no judge ; but take 
up Torn Jones, and read his Mrs. Waters and Molly 
Seagrim ; or Prior's Hans Carvel and Paulo Pur- 
ganti ; Smollett's Roderick Random, the chanter of 
Lord Strutwell, and many others ; Peregrine Pitklc, 
the scene of the Beggar Girl; Johnscui's London, 
for coarse expressions; for instance, the words ' • 
*,' and ' * * ; • Anstey's Bath Guide, the • Hearken 
Lady Betty, hearken ; ' — take up, in short, Poi>e, 
Prior, Congrevu, Dryden, Fielding, Smollett, and 
let the coliiicil select passages, and what becomes of 
their cojiyright, if his Wat Tyler decision is to jinas 
into a precedent ? f I have nothing more to say : 
you must judge for yoursrlves. 

" I wrote to you some time ago. I have had a 
teritan ague; my daughter Allegra has been ill also, 
and I have beenalmost obliged to run uwuy with a 
married woman ; but with stune diHiculty, and many 
internal struggles, I rect)nciled the lady with her 
lord, and luied the fever of the child with bark, and 
my own with cold water. I tb.ink of setting out for 
KnsAland t)y the Tyrol in a few days, so thiit I could 
wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. Ex- 
cuse my writing in great haste and late in the morn 
iiig, or night, whichever you please to call it. The 
third canto of 'Don Juan' is completed, in about 
two hundred stanzas; very decent, 1 b«lievi-, Imt do 
not kiu»w. and it i.s useless to discuss until it br 
ascertained, if it may or may ntil be a pronerty. 

" My preseirt d«'termination to quit italy was un* 



* Mr. Murray hnil euiimipitopil a •till nf^tiwt • l.>)«aiHi tu>li*r|lrr, ler m 
Uifringxnwnl of hU oopxrlytit, In puUkhiiif • (kratMl ihUUmi uf Usr iiwik 



892 

look'e 1 for ; but I have explained the reasons in let 
ters to my sister and Douglas Kinnaird, a week or 
tvvo ago. My progress will depend upon the snows 
of the Tyrol, and the health of my child, who is at 
present quite recovered : — but I hope to get on well, 
and am ** Yours ever and truly. 

" P. S. Many thanks for your letters, to which 
you are not to consider this as an answer, but as an 
acknowledgement." 



LETTER CCCCXII. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"You are, and ever will be, my first thought, 
hut at this moment, I am in a state most dreadful, 
not knowing which way to decide ; — on the one 
hand, fearing that I should 9oraproraise you for ever, 
by my return to Ravenna, and the consequences of 
Buch a step, and, on the other, dreading that I 
shall lose both you and myself, and all that I have 
ever known or tasted of happiness, by never seeing 
you more. I pray of you, I implore you to be com- 
forted, and to believe that I cannot cekse to love 
you but with my life. 

*«»♦•* 

" I go to save vou, and leave a country insupport- 
able to me without you. Your letters to F * * 
and myself do wrong to my motives — but you will 
yet see your injustice. It is not enough that I 
must leave you — from motives of which ere long 
you will be convinced — it is not enough that I must 
fly fn^om Italy, with a heart deeply wounded, after 
having passed all my days in solitude sine* your 
departure, sick both in body and mind — but I must 
also have to endure your reproaches without an- 
swering and without deserving them. Farewell ! — 
in that one word is comprised the death of my hap- 
piness." 



LETTER CCCCXIII. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

" F * * * will already have told you, with her 
accustomed suhlimity , that Love has gained the vic- 
tory. I could not summon up resolution enough to 
leave the country where you are, without, at least, 
once more seeing you. On yourself, perhaps, it 
will depend, whether I ever again shall leave you. 
Of the rest we shall speak when we meet. You 
ought, by this time, to know which is most condu- 
cive to your welfare, my presence or my absence — 
For myself, I am a' citizen of the world— ^all coun- 
tries are alike to me. You have ever been, since 
our first acquaintance, the sole object ofmythorcqhts. 
My opinion was, that the best course' I could adopt, 
both for your peace and that of all your family, would 
have been to depart and go far, /a/" away from you ; 
—since to have been near and not approach you 
Would have been, for me, impossible. You have 
however decided that I am to return to Ravenna. I 
ihall accordingly return — and shall rfo— and be all 
that you wish. I cannot say more." 



LETTER CCCCXIV. 

to mr. hoppner. 

* Mt Dear Hoppner, 

•' Partings are but bitter work at best, so that I 
shall not venture on a second with you. Pray make 
Qiy respectj to Mrs. Hoppner, and'assure her of mv 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



unalterable reverence for the singu m goodness c • 
her disposition, which is not without its reward ever 
in this world — for those who are no great believers 
in human virtues would discover enough in her to 
give them a better opinion of their fellow-creatures, 
and — what is still more difficult — of themselves, aa 
being of the same species, however inferior in ap- 
proaching its nobler models. Make, too, what ex- 
cuses you can for my omission of the ceremony o! 
leave-taking. If we all meet again, I will make 
my humblest apology : if not, recollect that I wished 
you all well: and, if you can, forget that I hava 
given you a great deal of trouble. 

*' Yoiirs, &c., &6.*' 



LETTER CCCCXV 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Venice, Dec. 10, 1819. 

"Since I last wrote, I have changed my mind, 
and shall not come to England. The more I con- 
template the more I dislike the place and the jjros- 
pect. You may therefore address to me as usual 
here, though I mean to go to another city. I have 
finished the third canto of Don Juan, but the things 
I have read and heard discourage all farther publi- 
caticn — at least for the present. You may try the 
copy question, but you'll lost it : the cry is up, and 
cant is up. I should have no objection to return 
the price of the copyright, and have -yvritten to 'Mr 
Kinnaird by this post on the subject. Talk with 
him. 

" I have not the patience, nor do I feel interest 
enough in the question, to contend with the fellows ^ 
in their own slang ; but I perceive Mr. Blackwood's\; / 
Magazine and one or two others of your missives r^ 
have been hyperbolical in their praise, anddiaboli-^ 
cal in their abuse. I like and admire Wilson, and 
he should not have indulged himself in such outra- 
geous license.* It is overdone and defeats itself. — 
What would he say to the grossness without pas- 
sion and the misanthropy without feeling of Gul 
liver's Travels ? — When he talks of lady Byron's 
business, he talks of what he knows nothing about 
and you may tell him that no one can more desire a 
public investigation of that affair than I do. 

' I sent home oy Moore {for Moore only who 
has my journal also) my memoir written up to 
1816, and I gave him leave to show it to whom he 
pleased, but not to pubhish, on any account. You 
may read it, and you may let Wilson read it, if he 
likes — not for his pvblie opinion, but his private; 
for I like the man, and care very little about hia 
magazine. And I could wish Lady B. herself to 
read it, that she may have it in her power to mark 
any thing mistaken or misstated ; as it may proba 
bly appear after my extinction, and it would be 
but fair she should see it, — that is to say, herself 
willing. 

" Perhaps I may take a journey to you in the 
pring ; but I have been ill and am indolent and in- 
decisive, because few things interest me. These 
fellows first abused me for being gloomy, and now 
they are wroth that I am, or attempted to be, face- 
tious. I have got such a cold and headache that I 
can hardly see what I scrawl ; — the winters here are 
as sharp as needles. Some time ago I wrote to you 
rather fully about my Italian affairs ; at present I 
can say no more except that you shall hear farther 
by-and-by. 

'♦ Your Blackwood accuses me of treating women 
harshly : it may be so, but I have been their mar- 



This U one of the many mistakes into which hia distance from the iceiM 
of literary openition§ led him. The gentleman to w horn the hostile article ii 
the magrazine is here attributed, has never, either then or since, written upM 
the subject of the noble poet's character or genius, without giving »ent ta a 
feeling of adniimtiou aa enthusiastic as it is a. ways eloqaeotly and powar^^iii 
exjpreased .— Jfoor«. 






LETTERS. 



893 



tyr ; my ^hole life has been sacrificed to them and 
by them. I mean to leave Venice in a few days, but 
jrou will address your letters Acre as usual. When I 
t\ elsewhere, you shall know." 



LETTER CCCCXVI. 

TO MB. HOPPNEK. 

"Ravenna, Djc. 31, 1819. 

f *' £ have been here this week, and was obliged to 
/pat on my armor and go the night after my arrival 
j to the Marquis Cavalli's, where there were between 
( two and three hundred of the best company I have 
■een in Italy, — more beauty, more youth, and more 
diamonds among the women than have been seen 
these fifty years in the Sea-Sodom.* — I never saw 
such a difference between two places of the same 
latitude, (or jolatitude, it is all one,) — music, danc- 
ing, and play, all in the same salle. The G.'s object 
appeared to be to parade her foreign lover as much 
as possible, and, faith, if she seemed to glory in the 
scandal, it was not for me to be ashamed of it. No- 
body seemed surprised ; — all the women, on the con- 
trary, were, as it were, delighted with the excellent 
example. The vice-legate, and all the other vices, 
were as polite as could be ; — and I, who had acted 
on the leserve, was fairly obliged to take the lady 
under my arm, and look as much like a cicisbeo as 
I could on so short a notice, — to say nothing of the 
embarrassment of a cocked hat and sword, much 
more formidable to me •^han ever it will be to the 
enemy. .. , 

" I write in great haste — do you answer as hastily. 
I can understand nothing of all this ; but it seems 
as if the G. had been presumed to be planted, and 
was determined to show that she was not,— ^}la7ita- 
tion, in this hemisphere, being the greatest moral 
misfortune. But this is mere conjecture, for I know 
nothing about it — except that every body are very 
kind to her, and not discourteous to me. Fathers, 
and all relations, quite agreeable. 

** Yours ever, 
"B. 
•* P. S. Best respects to Mrs*. H. 
" I would send the compliments of the season ; 
but the season itself is so little complimentary with 
anow and rain that I wait for sunshine." 



LETTER CCCCXVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



' Mt DsAB Moore, 



' J&nuuy 3, 18!20. 



Ox thus— 



•• ' To-day it It my wedding-day, 
And all the tbilu would itare 
If wife ihould dine at Bdmonlon, 
And I ■houl<l dine at Wai«.' 

Here'i a happy new year I but with raaaoa, 

I beg you'll permit me to aay — 
yi iih nie many rcturni of the Ma«on 

But ai fnt ai you plenie ol the mat^, 

" My this present writing is to direct you that, 
if she chooses, she may see the MS. memoir in your 
possession. I wish her to have fair piny in ail cases, 
even though it will not be published till after my 
decease. For this purpose, it were but just that 
Lady B. should know what is there said of her and 
hers, that she may have full power to remark on or 
respond to any part or narts, as may seem fitting 
to herself. This is fair aealing, I presume, in all 
evcntB. 




'• To change the subject, are you in Ei^land ? • 
send you an epitaph for Castlereagh. 
* * * « * 

Another for Pitt — 

" W^ith death doom*d to grappla 
Beaeath ihia cold liab, he 
Who lied in the Chapel 
Now lies in the Abbey. 

" The gods seem to have made me pnetical thifl 
day :— 

' In digging up your bone*, Tom Paioe, 
Will. Cobbett has done weU : 
Tou visit him on earth again, 
He'll visit you in hsX 
" You come to him on etilt again, 
HeUI go with you to helJ. 

" Pray let not these versiculi go forth with mtt 
name, except among the initiated, because my friend 
Hobhouse has foamed into a reformer, and I greatly 
fear, will subside into Newgate ; since the ilonora 
ble House, according to Galignani's Repcrls of Par 
liamentary Debates, are menacing a prosecution to 
a pamphlet of his. I shall be very sorry to hear ol 
any thing but good for him, particularly in these 
miserable squabbles ; but these are the natural ef- 
fects of taking a part in them. 

" For my own part, I had a sad scene since you 
went. Count Gu. came for his wife, and noi\e ot 
those consequences which Scott prophesied ensued. 
There was no damages, as in England, and so Scott 
lost his wager. But there was a great sceiie, for 
she would ^ot, at first, go back with him — at least, 
she did go back with him ; but he insisted, reason- 
ably enough, that all communication should be 
broken off between her and me. So, finding Italy 
very dull, and having a fever tertian, I packed up 
my valise and prepared to cross the Alps ; but my 
daughter fell ill, and detained me. 

" After her arrival at Ravenna, the Gxiiccioli fell 
ill again too ; and, at last her father (who had, all 
along, opposed the liaison most violently till now) 
wrote to me to say that she was in such a state that 
he begged me to come and see her, — and that her 
husband had acquiesced, in consequence of her re- 
lapse, and that he (her father) would guarantee all 
this, and that there would be no farther scenes in 
consequence between them, and that I should not 
be compromised in any way. I set out soon after, 
and have been here ever since. I found ^cr a good 
deal altered, but getting better : — all this comes of 
reading Corinne. 

*' The Carnival is about to beffin, and I saw about 
two or three hundred people at the Marquis Cavalli's 
the other evening, with as much yt)uth, beauty, and 
diamonds among the women, as ever averaged in the 
like number. My appearance in waiting on the 
Guiccioli was considered as a thing of course. The 
Marquis is her uncle, and naturally considered me 
as her relation. 

*• The paper is out, and so is the letter. Pi&y 
write. Adclress to Venice, whence the letters will 
be forwarded. '* Yours, \c., "B" 



LETTER CCCCXVIII. 



TO MR. HOPPNHR 



" Ravenna, Jatuwy 90^ MHl 

*■* I have not decided any thing about iemiiimn# 
at Ravenna. 1 may stay a day, a wt>rk, a yeic, liU 
my life ; but all this "depends upon what 1 can 
neither see nor foresee. I oumc because I wat 
called, and will go the moment that I ijcrcei^e 
what may render my t^^parttire proper. My .itLich- 
ment hn« neither the blindness of the beginning, 
nor the niicroBcopic accuracy of the close to such 
liaisons; but 'time and the hour' must dccid* 
upon what I do. I can as yet say nothing, In^rauM 
d nardly know any thing beyond w^at I harn tnld too 



BYRON'S WOllKS. 



"I wrote to you last post for my movables, as I " To-night there was a — * lottery after the opera 
there is no getting a lodging with a chair or table i it is an odd ceremony. Bankes and I took ticket! 
here ready; and as I havealready some things ofiof it, and buffooned together very merrily. He is 

gone to Firenze. Mrs. '-J* * should have sent you 
my postscript ; there was no occasion to have bored 
you in person. I never interfere in any body's 
squabbles, — she may scratch your face herself. 

" The weather here has been dreadful — sno-W 
several feet — a Jiume broke down a bridge, and 
flooded heaven knows how many campi ; then rain 
came — and it is still tha%ving — so that my saddle 
horses have a sinecure till the roads become more 
practicable. Why did Lega give away the goat ? a 
blockhead — I must have him again. 

" Will you pay Missiaglia and the Buffo Buffini 
of the Gran Bretagna } I heard from Moore, who 
is at Paris ; I had previously written to him in 
London, but he has not yet got my letter, appa 
rently. "Believe me, &c." 



the sort at Bologna which I had last summer there 
for my daughter, I have directed them to be moved ; 
and wish the like to be done with those of Venice, 
that I may at least get out of the ' Albergo Im- 
periale,' which is imperial in all true sense of the 
epithet. Bufhui may be paid for his poison. I 
forgot to thank you and Mrs. Hoppner for a whole 
treasure of toys for Allegra before our departure ; it 
wa« very kind, and we are very grateful. 

" Your account of the wedding of the Governor's 
party is very entertaining. If you do not under- 
stand the consular exceptions, I do ; and it is right 
that a man of honor, and a woman of probity, 
should find it so, particularly in a place where there 
are not ' ten righteous.' As to nobility— in Eng- 
land none are strictly noble but peers, not even 
peers' sons, though titled by courtesy ; nor knights 
of the garter, unless of the peerage, so that Castle- 
reagh himself would hardly pass through a foreign 
herald's ordeal till the death of his father. 

" The snow is a foot deep here. There is a thea- 
tre, and opera, — the Barber of Seville. Balls begin 
on Monday next. Pay the porter for never looking 
after the gate, and ship my chattels, and let me 
know, or let Castelli let me know, how my lawsuits 
go on — but fee him only in proportion to his suc- 
cess. Perhaps we may meet in the spring yet, if 
you are for England. 1 see Hobhouse has got into 
a scrape, which does not please me ; he should not 
have gone so deep among those meir, without 
calculating the consequences. I used to think 
myself the most imprudent of all among my friends 
and acquaintances, but almost begin to doubt it. 

" Yours, &c. 



LETTER CCCCXIX. 

TO MR, HOPPNER. 

" Ravenna, January 31, 1820. 

** You would hardly have been troubled with the 
removal of my furniture, but there is none to be 
had nearer than Bologna, and I have been fain to 
have that of the rooms which I fitted up for my 
daughter there in the summer removed here. The 
expense A-ill be at least as great of the land car- 
riage, so that you see it was necessity, and not 
choice. Here they get every thing from Bologna, 
except some lighter articles from Forli or Faenza. 

" If Scott is returned, pray remember me to him, 
and plead laziness the whole and sole cause of my 
not replying: — dreadful is the exertion of letter- 
writing. The Carnival here is less boisterous, but 
we have balls and a theatre. I carried Bankes to 
both, and he carried away, I believe, a much more 
favorable inipression of the society here than that of 
Venice — recollect that I speak of the tiative society 
only. 

" I am drilling very hard to learn how to double a 
shawl, and should succeed to admiration if I did 
not always double it the wrong side out ; and then I 
Bometimes confuse and bring away two, so as to put 
all the Serventi out, besides keeping their Servite in 
the cold till every body can get back their property. 
But it is a dreadfully moral place, for you must not 
look at an/ body's wife except your neighbor's, — if 
you go to the next door but one, you are scolded, and 
presumed to be perfidious. And then a relazione or 
an amicizia seems to be a regular affair of from five 
to fifteen years, at which period, if there occur a 
widowhood, it finishes by a sposalizio ; and in the 
mean time, it has so iruiny rules of its own that it 
is not much better. A man actually becomes a 
piece of female property, — they won t let their 
P",fventi marry until there is a vacancy for them- 
lelvrs. I know two instances of this iu one family 
lere. i 



LETTER CCCCXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, February 7, 1820. 

" I have had no letter from you these two months ; 
but since I came here in December, 1819, 1 sent 
you a letter for Moore, who is God knows where — 
in Paris or London, I presume. I have copied and 
cut the third canto of Don Juan iiito two, because it 
was too long ; and I tell you this beforehand, because 
in case of any reckoning between you and me, these 
two are only to go for one, as this was the original 
form, and, in fact, the two together are not longer 
than one of the first : so remember that I have not 
made this division to dovJAe upon you ; but merely 
to suppress some tediousness in the aspect of the 
thing. I should have served you a pretty trick if I 
had sent you, for example, cantos of fifty stanzas 
each. 

" I am translating the first canto of Pulci's 
Morgante Maggiore, and have half done it ; but 
these last days of the Carnival confuse and inter- 
rupt every thing. 

"I have not yet sent off the cantos, and have 
some doubt whether . they ought to be published, for 
they have not the spirit of the first. The outcrj 
has not frightened but it has hurt me, and I have 
not written con amore this time. It is very decent, 
however, and as dull as * the last new comedy.' 

" I think my translations of Pulci will make you 
stare. It must be put by the original, stanza foi 
stanza, and verse for verse ; and you will see whal 
was permitted in a Catholic country and a bigoted 
age to a churchman, on the score of religion ; — 
and so tell those buffoons who accuse me of attack- 
ing the Liturgy. 

" I write in the greatest haste, it being the houi 
of the corso, and I must go and buffoon with the 
rest. My daughter Allegra is just gone with the 
Countess G., in Count G.'s coach and six, to join 
the cavalcade, and I must follow with all the rest 
of the Ravenna world. Our old cardinal is deaa, 
and the new one not appointed yet ; but the mask- 
ing goes on the same, the vice-legute bein^ a good 
governor. We have had hideous frost and show, 
but all is mild again. '• Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXl. 



TO MR. BANKES. 



<< Ravenna, February 19, 1820. 

* I have room for you in the house here, as I hac 
in Venice, if you think fit to make use of it ; but 
do not expect to find the same gorgeous suite cl 
tapestried halls. Neither dangerous nor tropica] 



The word here beina ander the WQl taiBe^Me. 



LETTERS. 



895 

cantos : but the tnith is, that I made the first too 
long, and should have cut those down aiso nad i 
thought better. Instead of saying in future for so 
many cantos, say so many stanzas or pages : it was 
Jacob Tonson's way, and certainly the best; it 
prevents mistakes. 1 might have sent you a dozen 
cantos of forty stanzas each, — those of 'The Min- 
strel ' (Beattie's) are no longer, — and ruined yiu at 
once, if you don't suffer as it is. But recollect tJ^at 
you are not pinned doxcn to any thing you say in a 
letter, and that, calculating even these two cantos 
as one only (which they were and are to be 
reckoned), you are not bound by your ofFf r. Act 
as may seem fair to all parties. 

*tl have finished my translation of the first canto 
of the ' Morgante Maggiore ' of Pulci, .which I 
will transcribe and send. It is the parent, not only 
of Whistlecraft, but of all jocose Italian poetry. 
You must print it side by side with the orig'na' 
Italian, because I wish the reader to judge of the 
fidelity : it is stanza for stanza, and often line for 
line, if not word for word. 

" You ask rae for a volume of manners, dtc, on 
Italy. Perhaps I am in the case to know more of 
them than most Englishmen, because I have lived 
among the natives, and in parts of the country 
where Englishmen never resided before (I speak of 
llomngna and this place particularly); but there 
are many reasons why I do not choose to treat in 
print on such a subject. I have lived in their 
houses and in the heart of their families, sometimes 
merely as ' amico di casa,' and sometimes as ' amico 
di cuore ' 6f the Dama, and in neither case do I 
feel myself authorized in making a book of them 
Their moral is UvOt your moral ; their life is no*, 
vour life ; you would not understand it ; it i^ not 
English, nor French, nor German, which you would 
all understand. The conventual education, the < av- 
alier servitude, the habits of thought and living are 
so entirely different, and the difi"orence bommes sc 
much more striking the more you live intimately 
with them, that I know not how to make you com 
prebend a people who are at once temperate anc 
profligate, serious in their characters and buffoons 
in their amusements, capable of impressions and 
passions, which are at once sudden and durabU 
(what you find in no other nation), and who actual- 
ly have no societv (what we would call so), as you 
may see by their comedies ; they have no reai 
cornedy, not evA in Goldoni, and that is because 

Ravenna, Febnmry 21, 1820. ^^^^ j^.^^.g „0 society tO draw it from. 

The bull-dogs will be very agreeable. I have " Their conversazioni are not society t\t all. They 
only those of this country, who, though good, have go to the theatre to talk, and into company to hold 
not the tenacity of tooth and stoicism in endurance I their tongues. The ironien sit in a circle, and the 
of my canine fellow-citizens : then pray send them j men gather into groui)s, or they pluv at dreary 
by the readiest conveyance — perhaps best by sea. faro, or ' lotto reale,' for small sums. Tbrir aoadc 
Mr. KiiHiaird will disburse for them, and dcductniie are concerts like our own, with better inusii, 
from the amount on your application or that of and more form. Their best things are the carnival 
Captain Tyler. balls, and masquerades, wlien every body seems mad 

" 1 see the good old Kinn is gone to his place. ' for six weeks. After their dinners and sup]>era 
One can't help being sorry, though blindness, and j they make extempore verses and buffoon one 
age, and insanity are supposed to be drawbacks on I another; but it is in a htinior which you would 



Beats have evei prevented your penetrating wherever 
rou had a mind to it, and why should the snow 
aow ? — Italian snow — fie on it ! — so pray come, 
rila's heart yearns for you, and mayhap for your 
silver broad pieces : and your playfellow, the 
monkey, is alone and inconsolable. 

" I forget whether you admire or tolerate red 
hair, so tiiat I rather dread showing you all that I 
have about me, and around me in this city. Come, 
nevertheless, — you can pay Dante a morning visit, 
and I will undertake that Theodore and Honoria 
will be most happy to see you in the forest hard 
by. We Goths, also, of Ravenna hope you will not 
despise our arch-Goth, Theodoric. 1 must leave'it 
to these worthies to entertain you all the fore part 
of the day, seeing that I have none at all myself — 
the lark, that rouses me from my slumbers, being an 
afternoon bird. But, then, all your evenings, and 
as much as you can give me of your nights, will be 
mine. Ay! and you will find me eating flesh,- too, 
like yourself or any other cannibal, except it be 
upon Fridays. Then, there are more cantos (and 
be d — d to them) of what the courteous reader, Mr. 
Saunders, calls Grub street, in my drawer, which I 
have a little scheme to commit to your charge for 
England ; only I must first cut up (or cut down) 
two aforesaid cantos into three, because I am grown 
base and mercenary, and it is an ill precedent to let 
my Mecaenas, Murray, gef too much for his money, 
I am busy, also, with Pulci — translating — servilely 
translathig, stanza for stanza, and line for line — 
t-wo octaves every night, — the same allowance as at 
Venice. 

" Would you call at your banker's at Bologna, 
and ask him for some letters lying there for me, 
and l)urn them ? — or I will — so do not burn them, 
but bring them, — and believe me ever and very 
affectionately ** Yours, 

" Byron. 

" P. S. I have a particular wish to hear from 
yourself something about Cyprus, so pray recollect 
all that you can. Good night," 



LETTER CCCCXXIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



bumm felicity ; ])ut I am not at all sure that the 
latter at least might not render him happier than 
any of his subjects. 
*' I have no thoi 



not enter into, yt« of the north. 

"In their houses it i« better. I shoijld kno 

sometlunsj of the matter, having had a pretty gene- 
thoughts of coming to the corona- ral experience among their women, from the flsher- 
tion, though I should like to see it, and though I man's wife un to the Nobil Dnma, whom 1 serve, 
have a riglit to be a puppet in it ; but my division Their system has its rules, and its fitnesses, and its 
with Lady Byron, which has drawn iin equinoctial! decorums, so as to be red)U'ed to a kind of diMii'line 
line between me and mine in all other things, will or game at hearts, which admits few deviifions. 
"Operate in this also to prevent my being in the same j unless you wish to lose it. They are extienidy 
procession. tenacious, and jealous as furies, not peruuttina 

"By Saturday's post I sent you four packets, ' their lovers even to marry if they can help it, ana 
containing cantos third and fourth. Recollect that keeping them always close to them in public as in 
these two cantos reckon only as one with you and private, whenever they can. In short, they trnns- 
me, bcinfi: in fact the third canto cut into two.'fer marria;:c to adultery, and .sti ike the tiof »)ut o( 
because I found it too long. Remember this, and that connnatuhnent. The reason is, that they 
don't imagine that there could be any other motive. I marry for their parents, and love f«>r theni.telvcs 
The whole is :il)out two hundred and tW(Mity-fiye Thoy" exact fldelity from a lover a« a deht of honor 
itanzuM. more or Ifjs, and a lyric of ninety-six wliile they pav the husband as a tradesman, that ie 
Unem »o that they lue no longer thai the tirst sinylc uui at all". Vci hear a person's character. m.»le O' 



'S'J 



JiSKON'S WORKS. 



female canvassed, not as depending on thi-ir con 
duct to their husbands or wives, but to their mis 
tress or lover. If I wrote a quarto, I don't know 
that I could do more than amplify what I have here 
noted. It is to be observed that while they do all 
this, the greatest outward respect is to be paid to 
the husbands, not only by the ladies, but by their 
Serventi — particularly if the husband serves no one 
himself (which is not often the case, however) ; so 
thaf you would often suppose them /tlations — the 
Serventi making the figure of one o '.opted into the 
family. Sometimes the ladies run a little restive 
and elope, or divide, or make a scene; but this is 
at starting, generally, when they know no better, 
or when they fall in love with a foreigner, or some 
such ancmaly, — and is always reckoned unnecessary 
and extravagant. 

" You inquire after Dante's Prophecy : I have not 
done more than six hundred lines, but will vatici- 
nate at leisure. 

"Of the bust I know nothing. No cameos or 
seals are to be cut here or elsewhere that I know 
of, in any good style. Hobhouse should write him- 
self to Thorwaldsen : the bust was made and paid 
for three years ago. 

" Pray tell Mrs. Leigh to request Lady Byron to 
urge forward the transfer from the funds. I wrote 
to Lady BjTon on business this post, addressed to 
the rare of Mr. D. Kinnaird." 



LETTER CCCCXXIII. 

TO MR. BANKES. 

" Bavenna, Pebruaiy 26, 1820. 

** Pulci and I are waiting for you with impatience ; 
but I suppose we must give way to the attraction of 
the Bolognese galleries for a time. I know nothing 
oi pictures myself, and care almost as little ; but to 
me there are none like the Venetian — above all, 
Giorgione. I remember well his judgment of Sol- 
omon in the Mariscalchi in Bologna. The real 
mother is beautiful, exquisitely beautiful. Buy her, 
by all means, if you can, and take her home with 
you : put her in safety — for be assured there are 
troublous times brewing for Italy ; and as I never 
could keep out of a row in my life, it will be my 
fate, I dare say, to be over hejid and ears in it ; but 
no matter, these are the stronger reasons for com- 
ing to see me soon. 

" I have more of Scott's novels (for surely they 
are Scott's) since we met, and am more and more 
delighted. I think that I even prefer them to his 
poetry, which (by-the-way) I redde for the first 
time in my life in your rooms in Trinity college. 

" There are some curious commentaries on Dante 
preserved here, which you should see. Believe me 
ever faithfully and most afiectionately, 

** Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXIV. 



TO MB. MUREAT. 



" RaTenna, March 1, 1820. 

"I sent you bv last post the translation of the 
first canto of the Morgante Ma^giore, and wish you 
to ask Rose about the word ' sbergo,' i. e., * usbergo,' 
which I have translated cuirass. I suspect that i't 
means helmet also. Now, if so, which of the senses 
U best accordant with the text ? I have adopted 
3uiras8, but will be amenable to reasons. Of the 
natives, some say one, and some t'other; but they 
Me no great Tuscans in Romagna. However, I wm 
%ak. Sgricci (the famous improvisatore) to-morrow. 



who is a native of Arezzo. The Countess GuiccioU, 
who is reckoned a very cultivated young lady, and 
the dictionary, say cuirass. 1 have written cuirass 
but helmet runs in my head nevertheless — and wil? 
run in verse very well, whilk is the principal pointl 
I ^viIl ask the Sposa Spina Spinelli, too, the Floren 
tine bride of Count Gabriel Rusponi, just imported 
from Florence, and get the sense out of some- 
^ody. 

*' I have just been visiting the new cardinal, who 
arrived the day before yesterday in his legation. He 
seems a good old gentleman, pious and simple, and 
not quite like his predecessor, who was abon vivant, 
in the worldly sense of the words. 

" Enclosed is a letter which I received some time 
ago from Dallas. It will explain itself. I have not 
answered it. This comes of doing people good. 
At one time or another (including copyrights) this 
person has had about fourteen hundred pounds oi 
my money, and he wi-ites what he calls a posthu- 
mous work about me, and a scmbby letter accusing 
me of treating him ill, when I never did any such 
thing. It is true that I left off letter-writing, as I 
have done with almost everj' body else ; but I can't 
see how that was misusing him. 

"I look upon his epistle as the consequence of 
my not sending him another hundred pounds, 
which he wrote to me for about two years ago, 
and wJiich I thought proper to withhold, he having 
had his share, methought, of what I could dispone 
upon others. 

*' In your last you ask me after my articles of 
domestic wants : I believe they are as usual ; the 
bull-dogs, magnesia, soda-powders, tooth-powders, 
brushes, and every thing of the kind which are here 
unattainable. You still ask me to return to Eng- 
land : alas ! to what purpose } You do not know 
what you are requiring. Return I must, pDbably 
some day or other (if 1 live), sooner or lat-r; but 
it will not be for pleasure, nor can it end iM good. 
You inquire after my health and spirits .n large 
letters : my health can't be very bad, for I cured 
myself of a sharp tertian ague, in threi weeks, 
^vith cold water, which had held my stoutust gon- 
dolier for months, notwithstanding all the bark o! 
the apothecary, — a circumstance which surprised 
Dr. Aglietti, who said it was a proof of great stami- 
na, particularly in so epidemic a season. I did it 
out of dislike to the taste of bark (which I can't 
bear), and succeeded, contrary to the prophecies of 
every body by simply taking nothing at all. As to 
spirits, they are unequal, now high, now low, like 
other people's, I suppose, and depending upon cir- 
cumstances. 

" Pray send me W. Scott's new novels. What 
are their names and characters ? I read some of 
his former ones, at least once a day, for an hour or 
so. The last are too hurried : he forgets Ravens 
wood's name, and calls him Edgar and then Nor 
man ; and Girder, the cooper, is styled now Gilberty 
and now John, and he don't make enaugh of Mon 
trose ; but Dalgetty is excellent, and so is Lucy 
Ashton, and the b — h her mother. What is Ivan- 
hoe ? and what do you call his other ? are there 
two? Pray make him write at least two a year: I 
like no reading so well. 

* The editor of the Bologna Telegraph has sent 
me a paper with extracts from Mr. Mulock's (his 
name always reminds me of Muley Moloch of Mo- 
rocco) • Atheism answered,' in which there is a 
long elogium of my poesy, and a great * compati- 
mento ' tor my misery. I never could understand 
what they mean by accusing me of irreligion 
However, they may have it their own way. Thib 
gentleman seems to be my great admirer, so I take 
what he says in good part, as he e-v'idently intends 
kindness, to which I can't accuse myself of being 
invincible. *' Yours. &o." 



LETTERS. 



8S' 



LETTER CCCCXXV 



TO MR. MURRAY.* 



' Rarenna, March 5, 



LETTER CCCCXXVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



' Tn case, ui your country, you should not readily 
lay hands on the Morgante Maggiore, I send you 
the original text of the first canto, to correspond 
with the translation which I sent you a few days ago. 
It is from the Naples edition in quarto of 1732, — 
dated Florence, however, by a trick of the trade, 
which you, as one of the allied sovereigns of the 
profession, will perfectly understand without any 
farther spiegazione. 

'*It is strange that here nobody understands the 
real precise meaning of ' sbergo,' or ' usbergo,'* an 
old Tuscan word, which I have rendered cuirass, 
(but am not sure it is not helmet.) I have asked at 
least twenty people, learned and ignorant, male and 
female, including poets, and officers civil and mili- 
tary. The dictionary says cuirass, but gives no 
authority ; and a female friend of mine says posi- 
tively ctiirass, which makes me doubt the fact still 
more than before. Ginguene says, ' bonnet de fer ' 
with the usual superficial decision of a Frenchman, 
so that I can't believe him: and what between tnei 
dictionary, the Italian woman, and the French- 
man, there's no trusting to a word they say. The 
context too, which should decide, admits equally of 
either meaning, as you will perceive. Ask Rose, 
Hobhouse, Merivale, and Foscolo, and vote with 
the majority. Is Frere a good Tuscan ? if he be, 
bother him too. I have tried, you see, to be as 
accurate as I well could. This is my third or fourth 
letter, or patket, within the last twenty days." 



LETTER CCCCXXVI. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Rarenna, March 14, 1820. 

** Enclosed is "Dante's Prophecy — Vision — or what 
not. "Where I have left more than one reading, 
(which I have done often,) you may adopt that 
which Giff'ord, Frere, Rose, and Hobhouse, and 
others of your "Utican Senate think the best, or 
least bad. The preface will explain all that is 
explicable. These are but the first four cantos: 
if approved, I will go on. 

" Pray mind in printing : and let some good Ital- 
ian scholar correct the Italian quotations. 

" Four days ago I was overturned in an open car- 
riage, between the river and a steep bank, — wheels 
dashed to pieces, slight braises, narrow escape, and 
all that: but no harm done, though coachman, foot- 
man, horses, and vehicle were all mixed together 
like macaroni. It was owing to bad driving, as I 
Bay ; but the coachman swears to a start on the 
part of the h'^rses. We went against a post on the 
verge of a steep bank, and capsized. I usually ko 
out of the town in a carriage, and meet tne saddle 
norscs at the bridge ; it was in going there that we 
boggled ; but I got my ride, as usual, after the acci- 
dent. They say here it was ail owing to St. Anto- 
nio of Padua (serious, I assure yon), — who does 
thirteen miracles a day, — that worse aid not come 
of it. I have no objection to this being his four- 
teenth in the four-und-twenty hours. He presides 
over overturns and all escapes therefrom, it seems ; 
\nd they dedicate, pictures, &c., to him, as the 
•ailors once did to Neptune, after ' the high Roman 
faflhion.' " Yours, in haste." 



• V^trgo It obvloutly th« Mme lu ha 
Oemnan hali-btr^, or cotoriug ol lh« nw 
■•nhprli'i twiileil iiuaU.'' 

113 



.berk, hntvrfnon, Ao., all from 
ik. Bm Oray't Bartl. •• Halm i 



" Ravenna, 1-lareh 20, 1920. 

" Last post I sent you, ' The Vision of Dante,'— 
first four cantos. Enclosed you will find line fat 
line, in third rhyme (terza r'ima,*) of which youi 
British blackguard reader as yet understands no 
thing, Fanny of Rimini. You know that she was 
born here, and married, and slain, from Car}-, Boyd 
and such people. I have done it into cramp Eng- 
lish, line for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the 
possibility. You had best append it to the poems 
already sent by last three posts. I shall not allow 
you to play the. tricks you did last year, with the 
prose you pos^-scribed to Mazeppa, which I sent to 
you not to be published, if not in a periodical paper, 
— and there you tacked it, without a word of ex]ila- 
nation. If this is published, publish it with tM 
origitml, and together with the Pulci translation, or 
the Dante itnitation. 1 suppose you have ooth bv 
now, and the Juan long before. 



LETTER CCCCXXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, March 23, 1820. 

* I have received your letter of the 7th. Besides 
the four packet you have already received, I have 
sent the rulci a few days after, and since (a fe'^ 
days ago) the first four cantos of Dante's Prophecjr, 
(the best thing I ever wrote, if it be not unintelliyi- 
ole,) and by last post a literal translation, word for 
word (versed like the original) of the episode of 
Francesca of Rimini. I want to hear what you 
think of the new Juans, and the translations, and 
the Vision. They are all things that are, or ought 
to be, very diflferent from one another. 

" If you choose to make a print from the Vene- 
tian, you may : but she don't correspond at all to 
the character you mean her to represent. On the 
contrary, the Contessa G. does (except that she la 
fair), and is much prettier than the Fomarina; but 
I have no picture of her except a miniature, which 
is very ill done ; and, besides, it would not be pro- 
per, on any account whatever, to make such a use 
of it, even if you had a copy. 

" Recollect that the two new cantos only count 
with us for one. You may put the Pulci ana Dante 
together : perhaps that were best. So you have put 
your name to Juan after all your panic. You are a 
rare fellow. — I must now put myself in a passion to 
continue my prose. 

" I have caused H. to write to Thorwaldsen. Pray 
be careful in sending mv daughter's picture— I mean, 
that it be not hurt in the carriage, for it la i joumef 
rather long and jolting." 



LETTER CCCCXXIX. 

TO MR. MURKAl. 

t " Rarrnnn, March 9b, dO. 

" Enclosed is a ' Screed of Doctrine ' for you, ol 
which I will trouble vou to acknowledge the receipt 
by next post. Mr. Hobhouse muHt have the correo* 
tion of It for the press. You may show it first to 
whom you please. 

•• I wish to know what became of my two epistlet 
from St. Paul, (^translated from the Armenian thre« 



* 3m Hoatna, p. S79. 

t LMtar tn aMWcr to Mr. Bawto, ». UOV. 



698 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



years ago and more,) and of the letter to Roberts 
of last autumn, which you ne-fer have attended to ? 
There are two packets with this. 

*' P. S. I have some thoughts of publishing the 
Hints from Horace,' written ten years ago — if Hob- 
house can rummage them out of my papers left at 
Jiis father's, — with some omissions and alterations 
previously to be made when I see the proofs- " 



LETTER CCCCXXX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 
• "Ravenna, March 29, 1820. 

"Herewith you will receive a note (enclosed) on 

CjPope, which you will find tally with a part of the 

t^t of la&t post. I have at last lost all patience 

with the atrocious cant and nonsense about Pope, 

with which our present * *3 are overllowing, and 

am determined to make such head against it as an 

individual can, by prose or verse ; and" I will at least 

, do it with good will. There is no bearing it any 

■ longer ; and if it goes on, it will destroy v\^hat little 

i good writing or taste remains among us. I hope 

there are still a few men of taste to second me ; but 

. if not, I'll battle it alone, convinced that it is in the 

best cause of English literature. 

" I have sent you so many packets, verse and 
prose, lately, that you will be tired of the postage, 
if not of the perusal. I want to answer some parts 
of your last letter, but 1 have not time, for I must 
'boot and saddle,' as my Captain Craigengilt (an 
officer of the old Napoleon Italian army) is in wait- 
ing, and my groom and cattle to boot. 

"You have given me a screed of metaphor and 
what not about Pulci, and manners, * going without 
clothes, like our Saxon ancestors.' Now, the Sax- 
ons did not go loithout clothes; and, in the next 
place, they are not my ancestors, nor yours either ; 
for mine were Norman, and yours, I take it by your 
name, were Gael. And, in the next, I differ from 
you about the ' refinement ' which has banished the 
comedies of Congreve. Are not the comedies of 
Sheridan acted to the thinnest houses } I know (as 
ex-committee J that ' The School for Scandal ' was 
the worst stock-piece upon record. I also know that 
Congreve gave up writing because Mrs. Centlivre's 
balderdash drove his comedies off. So it is not de- 
cency, but stupidity, that does all this ; for Sheridan 
is as decent a writer as need be, and Congreve 
no worse than Mrs. Centlivre, of whom Wilkes 
rthe actor) said, ' not only her play would be 
oamned, but she too.' He alluded to 'A Bold 
Stroke for a Wife,' But last, and most to the pur- 
pose, Pulci is not an indecent writer — at least in his 
first canto, as you will have perceived by this time. 

"You talk of refinement: — are you all more 
moral ? are you so moral } No such thing. / know 
what the world is in England, by my own proper 
experieiioe of the best of it— at least of the loftiest ; 
and I have described it every where as it is to be 
found in all places. 

" fiut to return. I should like to see the proofs 
of mine answer, because there will be something to 
omit or to alter. But pray let it be carefully printed. 
WTien convenient let me have an answer. 

*• Yours." 



LETTER CCCCXXXI. 

TO (MB. HOPPNER. 

« Rarenna, March 31, 1820. 
• •*««* 

"Rayenna continues much th? same as I de- 
roribed ^t Conyersazioui all Lent; and much better 



! ones than any at Vonice. There are small games «r 
hazard, that is, faro, where nobody can point mor« 
than a shilling or two ; — other card-tables, and as 
much talk and coffee as you please. Eveiy body 
does and says what they please ; and I do not recol- 
lect any disagreeable events, except being thre< . 
times falsely accused of flirtation, and once being 
robbed of six sixpences by a noblen an of the city, u 
Count * * *. I did not suspect the illustrious de 
linquent; but the Countess V * * * and the Mar 
quis L * * * told me of it directly, and also that i-. 
was a way he had, of filching money whtm be savf 
it before him; but I did not ax him foi the cash, 
but contented myself with telling him that if he 
did it again, I should anticipate tlie .aw. 

" There is to be a theatre in April and a fair, and 
an opera, and another opera in June, te&ides the 
fine weather of nature's giving, and the rides in ths 
Forest of Pine. With my respects to Mrs. Hopp- 
ner, believe me ever, &c. " Byrox. 

" P. S. Could you give me an item of what books 
remain at Venice ? t do7i''t want them, but want to 
know whether the few that are not here are there, 
and were not lost by the way. I hope and trust you 
have got all your -wine safe, and that it is drinkable. 
Allegra is prettier, 1 think, but as obstinate as a;^ 
mule, and as ravenous as a vulture : health good, to \ 
judge of the complexion — temper tolerable but foi A 
vanity and pertinacity. She thinks herself hani /I 
some and will do as she pleases." (j 



LETTER CCCCXXXll. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, April 9, 183». 

" In the name of all the devils in the printing 
office, why don't you write to acknowledge the 
receipt of the second, third, and fourth packets, viz., 
the Pulci translation and original, the Danticles, 
the Observations on, &c. ? You forget that you 
keep me in hot water till I know whether they arc 
arrived, or if I must have the bore of recopying. 
* * * * * * ° 

" Have you gotten the cream of translations; 
Francesca of Rimini, from the Inferno ? Why, I 
have sent you a warehouse of trash within the last 
month, and you have no sort of feeling about you: 
a pastry-cook would have had twice the gratitude, 
and thanked me at least for the quantity. 

" To make the letter heavier, I enclose you the 
Cardinal Legate's (our Campeius) circular for his 
conversazione this evening. It is the anniversary of 
the Pope's tiara-tion, and all polite Christians, 
even of the Lutheran creed, must go and be civil. 
And there will be a circle, and a faro-table, (for 
shillings, that is, they don't allow high play,) and 
all the beauty, nobility, and sanctity of Fvavenna 
present, The cardinal himself is a very good- 
natured little fellow bishop of Muda, and legate 
here, — a decent believer in all the doctrines of the 
ch\irch. He has kept his housekeeper these forty 
years * * * *, but la reckoned a pious mail, 
and a moral liver. 

" I am not quite sure that I won't be among you 
this autumn, for I find that business don't go on— 
what with trustees and lawyers — as it should do 
' with all deliberate speed.' They diffe * about in 
vestments in Ireland. 

" Between the deTil and deep sea, 
Between the lawyer and Iriisiee, 

I am puzzled ; and so much time is lost b^ my not 
being upon the spot, what with answers, demurs 
rejoinders, that it may oe I nn^st come and look to 
it; for one says do, and t'other don't, so that ] 
know not which way to turn : but perhaps they cao 
manage without me. '« Yoavs, <fc« 



LETTERS. 



899 



P. S I have begun a tragedy on the subject of 
Marino Falieio, the Doge of Venice; but you 
shan't see it these six years, if you don't acknow- 
ledge my packets with more quickness and preci- 
sion. Always write, if but a line, by return of post, 
when any thing arrives, which is not a mere letter. 
•' Address direct to Ravenna ; it saves a week's 
time, and much postage." 



LETTER CCCCXXXIII, 



TO MB. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, April 16, 1820. 

l*ost after post arrives without bringing any 
ftckrowledgment from you of the different packets 
(£xcepting the first) which I have sent within the 
last two months, all of which ought to be arrived 
long ere now ; and as they were announced in other 
letters, you ought at least to say whether they are 
come or not. You are not expected to write fre- 
quent or long letters, as your time is much occu- 
pied ; but when parcels that have cos't some pains 
in the composition, and great trouble in the copy- 
ing, are sent to you, I should at least be put out of 
suspense, by the immediate acknowledgm.ent, per 
return of post, addressed directly to Ravenna. I 
am naturally — knowing what continental posts are 
—anxious to hear that they are arrived : especially 
as I loath the task of copying so much, that if 
there was a human being that could copy my blot- 
ted MSS., he should have all they can ever bring 
for his trouble. All I desire is two lines, to say, 
Buch a day I received such a packet. There are at 
least six unacknowledged. This is neither kind nor 
courteous. 

" I have, besides, another reason for desiring you 
to be speedy, which is, that there is that brewing 
• in Italy, which will speedily cut off all security of 
communication, and set all your Anglo-travellers 
flying in every direction, with their usual fortitude 
in foreign tumults. The Spanish and French af- 
fairs have set the Italians in a ferment ; and no 
A^onder : they have been too long trampled on. 
This will make a sad scene for your exquisite travel- 
l,r, but not for the resident, who naturally wishes a 
people to redress itself, I shall, if permitted by 
the natives, remain to see what will come of it, and 
perhaps to take a turn with them, like Dugald Dal- 
l^erty and his horse, in case of business ; for I shall 
think it by far the most interesting spectacle and 
moment in existence, to see the Italians send the 
barbarians of all nations back to their own dens. I 
have lived long enough among them ta feel more 
fo'* them as a nation than for any other people in 
existence. But they want union, and they want 
principle ; and I doubt their success. However, 
they will try, probably, and if they do, it will be a 
good cause. No Italian can hate an Austrian more 
than I do : unless it be the English, the Austrians 
Beem to me the most obnoxious race imder the sky. 

" But I doul)t if any thing be done, it won't be so 
quietly as in Spain. To be sure, revolutions are 
not to be made with rose water, where there are 
foreigners as masters. 

<' Write while you can; for it is but the* toss up 
of a paul that there will not be a row that will 
lomewhat retard the mail by-and-by. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCXXXIV. 

To MR. HOl'PNER. 

'* KuTeniia, April 18, itfW. 

" I ha». caused ynu to write tc Siri and Wilhalm 
to send with Vincehza, in a boat, the camp-beds and 



swords left in their care when I qtiitted Venict* 
There are also several pounds of Manton's bast pom' 
der in a japan case ; but unless I felt sure of getting 
it away from V. without seizure, I won't have it 
ventured. I can yet it in here, by means of an ac- 
quaintance in the customs, who has offered to get it 
ashore for me ; but should like to be certiorated oj 
its safety in leaving Venice. I would not lose it 
for its weight in gold — there is none such in Italy, 
as I take it to be. * 

" I wrote to you a week or so ago, and hope you 
are in good plight and spirits. Sir Humphrey Daw 
is here, and was last night at the cardinal's. As 1 
had been there last Sunday, and yesterday waa 
warm, I did not go, which I should have done, if 1 
had thought of meeting the man of chemistry. He 
called this morning, and I shall go in search of him 
at Corso time. I believe to-day, being Monday, 
there is no great conversazione, and only the family 
one at the Marchese Cavulli's, where I go as a rela- 
tion sometimes, so thal^ unless he stays a day or 
two, we should hardly meet in public. 

" The theatre is to open in May for the fair, il 
there is not a row in all Italy by that time, — the 
Spanish business has set them all a constitutiouing, 
and what will be the end no one knows — it is also 
necessary thereunto to have a beginning. 

" Yours, &c." 

"P. S. My benediction to Mrs. Hoppner. Hovj 
is your little boy ? Allegra is growing, and has iii 
creased in good looks and obstinacy." 



LETTER CCCCXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Rarenna, April 23, 1820. 

"The proofs don't contain the last stanzas o! 
canto second, but end abruptly witl the one hun- 
dred and fifth stanza. 

" I told you long ago that the nc'^^ cantos* were 
7iot good, and I also told, you a reason. Recollect, 
I do not oblige you to publish them ; you may sup- 
press them, if you like, but I can alter nothing. I 
have erased the six stanzas about those two impos- 
tors, * * * * (which I suppose will give you 
great pleasure,) but I can do no more. I can neither 
recast, nor replace ; but I give you leave to put it 
all into the fire, if you like, or not to publish, and 1 
think that's sutticient. 

" 1 told vou that I wrote on >ipth no good-will— 
that I had been, not frightened, but hart by the 
outcry, and, besides, that when I wrote last Novem- 
ber, I was ill in body, and in very great distress ol 
mind about some private things of my own ; but 
i/ou would have it : so I sent it to you, and to make it 
lighter, cut it in two — but 1 can't niece it togclhor 
again. I can't cobble : I must * either make a spoon- 
or spoil a horn,' — and there's an end ; for there's no 
remeid : but I leave you free will to suppress th*» 
whole, if you like it. 

"About the Moryantc Mnmjiore, J woii't hare a 
line omitted. It may circuhite, or it may not; but 
all the criticism on earth slian't touch a line, unlosi 
it Ite because it is badly translati^d. Now you say, 
and I say, and «)thers say, tkat the translation ia'i 
good one; and so it shall go to press as it is. Pulei 
must answer for his own irreligion : I answer for th« 
translation only. 

• •«••• 

'•Pray let Mr. Hobhouse look to the Italian netl 
time in \\\y proofii : this time, while I am -scribbling 
to yo»i, tliey are corrected by (Uie wlio passes for th« 
pr«'ttiest woman in Uouuigna, and even the Marches, 
us far as Ancona, he the other who she may. 

" I am glad you like my answer to vour inquiridl 



or 



about Italian a ^ciety. It is fit you should like 
tomethitig, and be d li to you. 

"My love to Scott. I shall think higher of 
knighthood ever after for his being dubbed. By- 
the-way, he is the first poet titled for his talent in 
Britain : it has happened abroad before now ; but 
on the cortinent titles are universal and worthless. 
Why don't you send me Ivanhoe and the Monas- 
tery ? I have never written to Sir "Walter, for I 
know he has a thousand things, ar. d I a thousand 
nothings to do ; but I hope to see h im at Abbots- 
ford before very long, and I will sweat his claret for 
him, though Italian abstemiousness has made my 
brain but a shilpit concern for a Scotch sitting 
'inter pocula.'* I love Scott, and Moore, and all 
thf- better brethren ; but I hate and abhor that pud- 
dle of water- worms whom you have taken into 
vour troop. " Yours, &c. 

" p. S. You say that owe-^a^ is very good : you 
%xe wrong ; for, if it were,^it would be the finest 
poem in existence. Where is the poetry of which 
one-half is good ? is it the JEneid f is it Milton's '/ 
xsitDryden'sf is it any one's except Pope's and 
Goldsmith's, of which all is good ? and yet these 
last two are the poets your pond poets would ex- 
plode. But if one-half of the two new cantos be 
good in your opinion, what the devil would yc- 
have more ? No — no ; no poetiy is generally good 
—only by fits and starts — and you are lucky to get a 
sparkle here and there. You might as well want a 
midnight all stars as rhyme all perfect. 

" We are on the verge of a roio here. Last night 
they have overwritten all the city walls with ' Up 
the republic ! ' and ' Death to the Pope ! ' &c., &c. 
This would be nothing in London, where the walls 
are privileged. But here it is a different thing : 
they are not used to such fierce political inscriptions, 
and the police is all on the alert, and the Cardinal 
glares pale through all his purple. 

" April 24th, 1820, 8 o'clock, P. M. 

" The police have been, all noon and after, search- 
ing for the inscribers, but have caught none as yet. 
They must have been all night about it, for the 
' Live republics — Death to Popes and Priests,' are 
innumerable, and plastered over all the palaces : 
ours has plenty. There is ' Down with the Nobili- 
ty,' too; they are down enough already, for that 
matter. A very heavy rain and wind having come 
on, I did not go out and ' skirr the country ; ' but 
I shall mount to-morrow, and take a canter among 
the peasantry, who are a savage, resolute race, al- 
ways riding with guns in their hands. I woiider 
they don't suspect the serenaders, for they play 
on the guitar here all night, as in Spain, to their 
mistresses. 

" Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, 
pray look at the conclusion of my Ode on Waterloo, 
written in the year 1815, and comparing it with the 
Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820, tell me if I 
have not as good a right to the character of ^Vates,' 
in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Cole- 
ridge ? 

' Crimion tears will follow yet — ' 

and have Bot they ? 

" I can't pretend to foresee what will happen 
Rmcng you Englisheis at this distance, but I vatici- 
nate a row in Ital) in whilk case, I don't know 
that I won't have a finger in it. I dislike the Aus- 
trians, and think the Italians infamously oppressed ; 
%nd if they begin, why, I will recommend ' the 
erection of a sconce upon Drumsnab,' like Dugald 
Oalgetty." 



iiXKON'S WORKS. 




LETTER CCCCXXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Ma; 8, -TO. 

" From your not having vsTitten again, an intcu 
tion which your letter of the 7th ultimo indicated, ) 
have to presnime that the • Prophecy of Dante !. hat 
not been found more worthy than its predecessors 
in the eyes of your illustrious sjTiod. In that case, 
you will be in some perplexity ; to and which, I 
repeat to you, that you are^iot to consider yourself 
as bou; d or pledged to publish any thing bncauee it 
is mine, but always to act according to your own 
views, or opinions, or those of your friends ; and to 
be sure that you in no degree off'end me by * declin- 
ing the article,' to use a technical phrase. The 
prose observations on John Wilson's attack,* I do 
not intend for publication at this time ; and I send 
a copy of verses to Mr. Kinnaird, (they were writtei 
last year on crossing the Po,)t which must not be 
published either. I mention this, because it ia 
probable he may give you a copy. Pray recollect 
this, as they are mere verses of society, and written 
upon private feelings and passions. And, more- 
over, I can't consent to any mutilations or omis- 
sions of Pulci : the original has been ever free from 
-vjct> in Italy, the capital of Christianity, and the 
translation may be so in England ; though you will 
think it strange that they should have allowed such 
freedom for many centuries to the Morgante, while 
the other day they confiscated the whole transla- 
tion of the fourth canto of Childe Harold, and have 
persecuted Leoni, the translator — so he writes me, 
and so I could have told him, had he consulted me 
before its publication. This shows how much more 
politics interest men in these parts than religion.— 
Half a dozen invectives against tyranny confiscate 
Childe Harold in a month ; and eight-and-twenty 
cantos of quizzing monks and knights, and church 
government, are let loose for centuries. I copy Le- 
oni's account. 

" ' Non igncrera forse che la mia versione del 4° 
canto del Childe Harold fu confiscata in ogni parte : 
ed io stesso ho dovuto sofii-ir vessaxioni altrettantc 
ridicole quanto illiberali, ad arte che alcuni versi 
fossero esclusi dalla censura. Ma siccome il divieto 
non fa d'ordinario che accrescere la curiosita cosi 
quel carme sull'ItaHa e ricercato piu che mai, e 
penso di farlo ristampare in Inghilterra senza nulla 
escludere. Sciagurata condizione di questa Alia 
patria ! se patria si pu6 chiamare una terra cosi 
avvilita dalla fortuna, dagU uomini, da se mede- 
sima.' 

" Rose will translate this to you. Has he had his 
letter ? I enclosed it to you months ago. 

" This intended piece of publication I shall dis- 
suade him from, or he may chance, to see the inside 
of St. Angelo's. The last sentence of his letter ia 
the common and pathetic sentiment of all his coun 
trymen. 

" Sir Humphrey Davy was here last fortnight, and 
I was in his company in the house of a very pretty 
Italian lady of rank, who, by way of displaying her 
learning in presence of the great chemist, then 
describing his fourteenth ascension of Mount Vesu- 
vius, asked ' if there was not a similar volcano in 
Ireland 1 ' My only notion of an Irish volcano 
consisted of the lake of Killamey, which I natu- 
rally conceived her to mean ; but on second thoughts 
I divined that she alluded to /celand and to Hecla 
— and so it proved, though she sustained her volcan- 
ic topography for some time with all the amiable 
pertinacity of 'the feminie.' She soon after turned 
to me, and asked me various questions about Sir 
Humphrey's philosophy, and I explained as well at 
an cracle his skill in gasen safety lamps, and un« 
gluing the Fompeian MSS. * But what do you call 



* See Letter tp the editor of Biachwood's M»f rinii. 
t Bw Poema, p. on. 



LETTERS. 



901 



mm ? * said she. * A great chemist,' quoth I. * What 
^&n he do r ' repeated the lady. ' Almost any thing,' 
said I. ' Oh, then, mio caro, do pray beg him to 

five me something to dye my eyebrows black. I 
ave tried a thousand things, and the colors all 
cjme off; and besides, they don't grow; can't he 
invent soiaething to niake them grow ? ' All this 
with the greatest earnestness ; and what you will be 
surprised at, she is neither ignorant nor a fool, but 
really well educated and clever. But they speak 
like children, when first out of their convents ; 
and, after all, this is better than an English blue- 
Stocking. 

" I did not tell Sir Humphrey of this last piece of 
philosophy, not knowing how he might take it. — 
Davy was much taken with Ravenna, and the 
PRIMITIVE Italianism of the people, who are un- 
used to foreigners : but he only staid a day. 
" Send me Scott's novels and somte news. 

" P. S. I have begun and advanced into the 
second act of a tragedy on the subject of the Doge's 
conspiracy, (i. e. the story of Marino Faliero;) but 
my present feeling is so little encouraging on such 
matters that I begin to think I have mined my tal- 
ent out, and proceed in no great phantasy of finding 
a new vein. 

" P. S. I sometimes think (if the Italians don't 
rise) of coming over to England in the autumn 
after the coronation, (at which I would not appear 
on account of my family schism,) but as yet I can 
decide nothing. The place must be a great (^eal 
changed since I left it, now more than four years 
aj?o." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, May 20, 1820. 

Murray, my dear, make my respects to Thomas 
Campbell,* and tell him from me, with faith and 
friendship, three things that he must right in his 
poets : Firstly, he says Anstey's Bath Guide char- 
acters are taken from Smollett. 'Tis impossible : 
— the Guide was published in 1766, and Humphrey 
Clinker in 1771 — chmque, 'tis GmoUett who has taken 
from Anstey. Secondly, he does not know to whom 
Cowper alludes when ne says that there was one 
who ' built a church to God, and then blasphemed 
his name: ' it was ' Deo ercxit Voltaire,' to wliom 
that maniacal Calvinist and coddled poet alludes. — 
Thirdly, he misquotes and spoils a passage from 
Shakspcare, 'to gild refined gold, to paint the lily,' 
&c. ; for Illy he ptits rose, and bedevils in more 
words than one the whole quotation. 

"Now, Tom is a fine fellow; but he should be 
correct : for the first is an injustice, (to Antsey), the 
ipcond an i</iioraii,ce, and tlio third a hhiinkr. Tell 
him all this, and lot him take it in good part ; for 1 
»lght have rammed it into a review and rowed him 
— iliB*.?ad of which, I act like a Christian. 

"Yours, &«." 



LETTER CCCCXXXVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Mny 20, ItUO. 

" ]f\rH\ ana foremost, you miist forward my letter 
lo Moore dated 'ZdJutiuari/, which I Haid you luii^ht 
9j jn, but desired vou to /onrarU. Now, you should 
really not forget these little things, because they do 
rnischief au\ong friends. You are an excoUeut man, 

* Sm !>•■ Juui. auito 1., noto Ik. 



a great man, and live among great men, but dt praj 
recollect your absent friends and authors. 

"In the first place, your packets; then a Ipttei 
from Kinnaird, on the most urgent business , an 
other fiom Moore, about a communication to Ladj 
Byron of importance ; a fourth from the mother ni 
Allegra; and fifthly, at Ravenna, the Contessa G 
is on the eve of being divorced. — But the Italian 
public are on our side, particularly the women, — and 
the men also, because they say that he had no busi- 
ness to take the business up now after a year of tol- 
eration. All her relations (who are numerous high 
in rank and powerful) are furious against hi-n, k>i 
his conduct. I am warned to be on my guird, as hi 
is very capable of employing sicarii — this is Latic 
as well as Italian, so you can understand it ; but 1 
have arms, and don't mind them, thinking that I 
could pepper his ragamufttns. if they don't come un- 
awares, and that if they do, one may as well end that 
way as another ; and it would besides serve you as 
an advertisement. 

' Mm may escape from rop» or gim, &c., 
But he who tdces woman, /omaii, woman,' &e. 

** Yours." 
" P. S. I have looked over the press, but heaven 
knows how. Think what I have on hand, and the 
post going out to-morrow. Do you remember thi= 
epitaph on Voltaire ? 

«Ci-git I'enfant gSte,' 4« 

• Here liei the spoil'- I'ld 
Of the world whtc. ii>.- ipol'l.' 

The original is in Grimm and Diderot, &c., &c., «jcc 



LETTER CCCCXXXIX. 

TO MR. MOOKfi. 

<< Rf venna, May 24, l«B. 

" I wrote to you a few days ago There u also A 
letter of January last for you at Munay's which 
will explain to you why I ani here Murray ought 
to have forwarded it long aijo. I encU)se you an 
epistle from a countrywoman of yours at Paris, 
which has moved my entrails. You will have th« 
goodness, perhajjs, to iucjuire into the truth of het 
story, and I will help her as far as I can, — though 
not in the useless way she i)roi)oses. II cr letter ia 
evidently unstudied, aiu' so natural, that .he orthog 
raphy is" also in a state of nature. 

" Ilere is a poor creature, ill and soli\ary, who 
thinks, as a last resource, of translating you or me 
into French ! Was there ever such n notion ? It 
seems to nie the e(Uis\uiimation of despair. Pray 
incjuire, and let me know, aiul. if yim could draw a 
hill on me here for a few hundrovl francs, at yoox 
banker's 1 will duly l»)uor it, — tliat is, if she is ovt 
an impostor. If not, lt>t me know, that I n.H> get 
something remitted by my banker Longhi, o^ fto 
h)gna, lor 1 have no correspondence, niyself, at Faria; 
hut tell her she must not transhite; — If she does, it 
will be the heiglit of ingriititmlo. 

'* 1 had a Utter (not i)f the same kind, but iu 
Frt'iu'h aiui tlattery) from a Madanie Sophie (Jail, ol 
Paris, whom I take to be the spouse of a (lallo- 
Grcek of tliat name. Who is she? and what it 
she? and how came she to take an interest in n.y 
poexhit' ox '\\» author? If you km»w h«T, tell hw, 
with my coniplinu-nts, that, as I only rt'tui French, 
I have'iuit answered her letter; hut wotild havr 
(h)ue so in Italian, if I had not th(Uighl it would 
h)ok like an affectation. I have just been seoldina 
jniy monkey for tearing the seal of her letter, ani 
I spoiling a mock book, in which I put rose IoMve« 
' 1 had a civet-c«t the other day, too ; but it ruu iwa} 



902 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



aftei sjratching my monkey's cheek, and I am in 
search of it still. It was the fiercest beast I ever 
saw, and like * * in the face and manner. 

" I have a world of things to say ; but as they are 
not come to a d nouement, I don't care to begin 
their history till it is wound up. After you went I 
had a fever, but got well again without bark. Sir 
Humphrey Davy was here the other day, and liked 
Ravenna very much. He will tell you any thing you 
may wish to know about the place and yom- humble 
servitor. 

*' Your apprehensions (arising from Scott's) were 
.unfounded. There are no damages in this country, 
/but there will probably be a separation between them, 
' as her family, which is a principal one, by its con- 
' Qexioi.5, are very much against him, for the whole 
of his conduct; — and he is old and obstinate, and 
she is young and a woman, determited to sacrifice 
every thing to her affections. I have given her 
the best advice, \iz., to stay -withhim, — pointing out 
the state of a separated woman, (for the priests 
won't let lovers live openly together, unless the hus- 
band sanctions it,) and making the most exquisite 
moral reflections, — ^but to no purpose. She says, 
' I \vill stay with him, if he will let you remain with 
me. It is hard that I should be the only woman in Ro- 
magi ">. who is not to have her Amico ; but, if not, I 
will net live with him ; and as for the consequences, 
love,' &c., &c., &c., — you know how females reason 
on such occasions. 

" He says he has let it go on, till he can do so no 

longer. Bu< he wants her to stay and dismiss me ; 

' for he doesii't like to pay back her dowry and to 

make an alimony. Her relations are rather for the 

separation, as they detest him — indeed, so does 

; every body. The populace and the women are, as 

\ usual, all for those who are in the wTong, viz., the 

\ lady and her lover. T should have retreated, but 

' honor and an erysipelas which has attacked her, 

prevent me, — to say nothing of love, for I love her 

most entirely, though not enough to persuade her 

to sacrifice every thing to a frenzy. ' I see how it 

will end ; she will be the sixteenth Mrs. Shuilleton.' 

" My paper is finished, and so must this letter. 
" Yours ever, 
"B. 

•' P. S. I regret that you have not completed 
the Italian Fudges. Pray, how come you to be still 
in Paris ? Murray has four or five things of mine in 
hand — the new Don Juan, which his back-shop synod 
don't admire; — a translation of the first canto of 
Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, excellent ; — a short 
litto from Dante, not so much approved; — the 
Prophecy of Dante, very grand and worthy, &c., 
&c., &c. ; — a furious prose answer to Blackwood's 
Observations on Don Juan, with a savage Defence 
of Pope — likely to make a row. The opinions 
above I quote from Murray and his Utican senate ; 
— you will form your own, when you see the things. 

" You will have no great chance of seeing rne, 
for I begin to think I must finish in Italy. But, if 
you come my way, you shall have a tureen of maca- 
roni. Pray tell me about yourself and your in- 
tents. 

" My trustees are going to lend Earl Blessington 
llxty thovsand pounds (at six per cent.) on a Dub- 
lin mortgage. Only think of my becoming an Irish 
absentee . 



LETTER CCCCXL. 

TO Ma. HOPPNER. 

" Ravenna, May 25, ia». 

*' A German named Ruppsecht has sent me, 
heaven knows why, several Deutsche Gazettes, of 
%11 which I understand neither word nor letter. I 
Have sent you the enclosed to beg you to translate 



to me some remarks, which appear to be Gcelhe'i 
upon Manfred ! — and if I may judge by two notes of 
admiration (generally put after s imething ridicu 
lous by us), and the word ^ hypocondriseh,' are anj 
thing but favorable. I shall regret this, for I should 
have been proud of Goethe's good word; but 1 
shan't alter my opinion of him, even thov gh he 
should be savage. 

" Wni you excuse this trouble, and do me thia 
favor ? — never mind — soften nothing — I am literary 
proof — having had good and evil said in most mod' 
ern languages. " Believe me, &c ' 



LETTER CCCCXLL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Rarenna, Jaie, 1820. 

" I have received a Parisian letter from W. W., 
which I prefer answering through you, if that 
worthy be still at Paris, and, as he says, an occa- 
sional visiter of yours. In November last he vnrote 
to me a well-meaning letter, stating, for some rea- 
sons of his own, his belief that a reunion might be 
eff"ected between Lady B. and myself. To this I 
answered as usual ; and he sent me a second letter, 
repeating his notions, which letter I have never 
answered., having had a thousand other things to 
think of. He now writes as if he believed that he 
had offended me, by touching on the topic; and I 
wish you to assure him that I am not at all so, — ■ 
but on the contrary, obliged by his good-nature. 
At the same time acquaint him the thinci is impoS' 
sible. You knoio this, as well as I, — and there let 
it end. 

" I believe that I showed you his epistle in 
autumn last. He asks me if I have heard of my 
' laureate' at Paris,* — somebody who has written ' a 
most sanguinary Epitre' against me ; but whether 
in French, or Dutch, or on what score, I know not, 
and he don't say, — except that (for my satisfaction) 
he says it is the best thing in the fellow's volume. 
If thej-e is any thing of the kind that I ought to 
know, you will doubtless tell me. I suppose it to 
be something of the usual sort ; — he says, he don't 
remember the author's name. 

" I wrote to you some ten days ago, and expect 
an answer at your leisure. 

" The separation business still continues, and all 
the world are implicated, including priests and car- 
dinals. The public opinion is furious against him, 
because he ought to have cut the matter short at 
frst, and not waited tv>'elve months to begin. 
He has been trying at exidence, but can get none 
siifficient ; for what would make fifty divorces in, 
England won't do here — there must be the most de- 
cided proofs. * * * . , 

'*It is the first cause of the kind attempted in 
Ravenna for these two hundred years ; for, though 
they often separate, they assign a different motive 
You know that the continental incontinent are 
more delicate than the English, and don't like pro- 
claiming their coronation in a court, even when no 
body doubts it. 

" All her relations *e furious against him. Th.« 
father has challenged him — a superfluous valor, for 
he don't fight, though suspected of two assassina- 
tions — one of the famous Monzoni of Forli. Warn- 
ing was given me not to take such long rides in the 
Pine Forest without being on my guard ; so I take 
my stiletto and a pair of pistols in my pocket 
during my daily rides. 

" Iwon't stir from this place tiil the matter ia 
settled one way or the other. She is as feminmely 
firm as possible ; and the opinion is so much against 
him, that the advocates decline to undertake hii 
cause, because they say that he is either a fool or \ 



LETTERS. 



903 



lugao- -fcol , if he did n^i discover tlie liaison till i Mukic assists my memory throu"-h the ear not 
now ; and rogue, if he did know it, and waited, for ' ' ' ' •'- . => > 

■ome bad end, to divulge it. In short, there has 
been nothing like it since the days of Guido di Po- 
lenta's family, in these parts. 

'* If the man has me taken oflF, like Polonius, * say 
he made a good end' — for a melodrame. The prin- 
cipal security is, that he has not the courage to 
upend twenty scudi — the average price of a clean- 
handed bravo — otherwise there is no want of op- 
portunity, for I ride about the woods every evening, 
with one servant, and sometimes an acquaintance, 
who latterly looks a little queer in solitary bits of 
bushes. 

" Gcod-by. — Write to yours ever, &c. 



LETTER CCCCXLII. 



TO MR MURRAY. 



■' Ravenna, June 7, 1820. 

» Enclosed is something which -will interest you, 
to wit, the opinion of the greatest man of Germany 
perhaps of Europe — upon one of the great men of 
your advertisements (all 'famous hands,' as Jacob 
Tonson used to say of- his ragamuffins) — in short, a 
critique of Goethe's upon Manfred. There is the 
original, an English translation, and an Italian one ; 
keep them all in yo\ir archives, for the opinions of 
such as Goethe, whether favorable or not, are al- 
ways interesting — and this is more so, as favorable. 
His Faust I never read, for I don't know German ; 
but Matthew Monk Lewis in 1816, at Coligny, 
translated most of it to me vive voce, apid I was 
naturally much struck with it ; but it was the 
Steinbach and the Jungfrau, and something else, 
much more than Fauatus, that made me write Man- 
fred. The first scene, however, and that of Faus- 
tus, are very similar. Acknowledge this letter. 

** Yours ever. 
♦'P. S. I have received Ivanhoe ; — good. Pray 
Bend me some tooth-powder and tincture of m}Trh, 
by Waite, &c., llicciardetto should have been trans- 
lated literally, or not at all. As to puffing Whisth- 
vraft, it won't do. I'll tell you why some day or 
of^er. Cornwall's a poet, but spoiled by the de- 
testable schools of the day. Mrs. Hemans is a 
pott also, but too stiltified and apostrophic, — and 
quite wrong. Men died calmly before the Chris- 
tian era, and since, without Christianity : — witness 
the Romans, and lately, Thistlewood, Sandt, and 
Lovcl — men xoho ought to have been weighed down 
with their crimes, even had they believed. A death- 
bed is a matter of nerves and constitution, and not 
of religion. Voltaire was frightened, Frederick of 
Prussia not ; Christians the same, according to 
their strength rather than their creed. What does 
IJ ♦ ♦ H * * mean by his stanza? which is octave, 
got drunk, or gone mad. — He ought to have his 
tazs boxed with Thor's hammer for rhyming so fan- 
tastically." 



LETTER CCCCXLIII. 

TO Mil. MOOKB. 

" Ravenna, Juna S, ISW. 

** Oaiignani has just sent me the Paris edition of 
jrcur works, (which I wrote to order,) and I am glad 
to see my old friends with a French face. I have 
been skimming and dipping, in and over them, like 



through the eye ; I mean, that her "quaver (4 perplej 
me o)on j aper, but they are a help when heard. 
And thus I was glad to see the words without theii 
borrowed robes ;— to my mind they look none the 
worse for theii- nudity. 

"The biographer has made a botch of your life — 
calling your father • a venerable old gentleman,' 
and prattling of ' Addison,' and dowager couu\ 
esses.' If that dammed fellow Avas to write myllfe, 
I would certainly take his. And then at the Dub^ 
lin dinner, you have * made a speech,' (do you re- 
collect, at Douglas K.'s. ' Sir, he made mo a 
speech ?') too complimentary to the * living pnets,' 
and somewhat redolent of universal praise. I am 
but too well off in it, but * ♦ • 

* * * * # 

" You have not sent me any poetical or peisoniu 
news of yourself. Why don't you complete an Ital- 
ian Tour of the Fudges ?^I have just been turning 
over Little, which I ku^ by heart in 1803, being 
tlien in my fifteenth summer. Heigho ! I beheve 
all the mischief I have ever done, or sung, haa 
been owing to that confounded book of yours. 

" In my last I told you of a cargo of * Poeshie,* 
which I had sent to M. at his own impatient desire ; 
— and, now he has got it, he don't like it, and de- 
murs. Perhaps he is right. I have no gi'eat 
opinion of any of my last shipment, except a trans- 
lation from Pulci, which is word for word, and verse 
for verse. 

" I am in the thud act of a tragedy ; but whether 
it will be finished or not, I know not ; I have, at 
this present, too many passions of my own on hand 
to do justice to those of the dead. Besides the 
vexations mentioned in my last, I have incurred a" 
quarrel with the Pope's carabiniers, or gens- 
d'armerie, who have petitioned the cardinal against 
my liveries, as resembling too nearly their own lousv 
uniform. They particularly object to the epaulettes, 
which all the world with us have upon gala days. 
My liveries are of the colors conforming to my 
arms, and have been the family hue ever since the 
year 1066. 

" I have sent a trenchant reply, as you may sup- 
pose ; and have given to understand that, if any 
soldados of that respectable corps insult my ser 
vants, I will do likewise bv their gallant com- 
manders ; and I have diiected, my ragauiufKns, six 
in number, who are tolerably savage, to defend 
themselves, in case of agression : and, on holydaya 
and gaudy days, I shall arm the whole set, including 
myself, iii case of accidents or treachery. I used 
to play pretty well at the broadsword, once upon a 
time, at Angelo's ; but I should like the pistol, our 
national buccaneer weapon, l)ettcr though I ara 
out of practice at present. Howe><'r, I can 'wink 
md hold out mine iron.' It makes me think (the 
whole thing docs) of Romeo and Juliet — 'now, 
Gregory, remember thy smashing blow.' 

All these feuds, however, with the cavalier for 
his wife, and the troopers for niy liveries, are very 
tiresome to a quiet man, who does his best to plooM 
all the world, and longs for fellowship and good- 
will. Pray write. ** I am yuurtt. Sic' 



LETTER CCCCXLIV. 

TO MR. MOORB. 

■' Rarrnna, JuIt 13, Imii 

"To remove or increase yimr Irish auxifty iihoai 
my being ' in a whisp." • I answer vour lrtti«r forth* 
w'fh : premising tliat as I am a ' IlV/Zof ihe wisp,' I 



a swallow, and as pleased as one. It is the first may chance to flit out of it. Hit, first, a word on 

time that 1 had seen the melodies without music; the Memoir; — I have no objection, nay, 1 would 

ind I don't know how, but I can't read in a music- rather that otw correct copy was taken and drpos 
book — the crot( hets conl'ound the words in my head, 
though I recollect them perfectly when J«ny. 



^4 



BYRON'S WDKKS. 



ited i a honora .le hands, In case of accidents 
htppeuing to tne original; for you know that I 
have none, and have never even re-read, nor, indeed, 
read at all what is there written ; I only know that 
I wrote it with the fullest intention to be ' faithful 
and true ' in my narrative, but not impartial — no, 
by the Lord ! I can't pretend to be that, while I 
feel. But I msh to give every body concerned the 
opportunity to contradict or correct me. 

" I haveno objection to any proper person seeing 
what is there written, — seeing it was written, like 
every thing else, for the purpose of bein^ read, 
however much many writings may fail in arriving at 
tLat object. 

"With regard to 'the whisp,' the Pope has 
Picnounced their separation. The degree came 
't'Sterday from Babylon, — ^it was she and her fHends 
Tho demanded it, on the grounds of her husband's 
(the noble Count Cavalier's) extraordinary usage. 
He opposed it with all l|iB might, because of the 
alimony, which has beeif assigned, with all her 
goods, chattels, carriage, &c., to be restored by 
him. In Italy they can't divorce. He insisted on 
her giving me up, and he would forgive every thing 
— even the adulteiy which he swears that he can 
prove by * famous winesses.' But, in this country, 
the very courts hold such proofs in abhorrence, the 
Italians being as much more delicate in public 
than the English, as they are more passionate in 
private. 

" The friends and relatives, who are numerous 
and powerful, reply ' to him — ' You yourself are 
either fool or knave, — fool, if you did not see the 
consequences of the approximation of these two 
young persons, — kna-ve, if you connive at it. Take 
your choice, — but don't break ohit (after twelve 
months of the closest intimacy, under your own 
eyes and positive sanction) with a scandal, which 
can only make you ridiculous and her unhappy.' 

'• He swore that he thought our intercourse was 
purely amicable, and that / was more partial to him 
than to her, till melancholy testimony proved the 
contrary. To this they answer, that ' WiU of this 
wisp ' was not an unknown person, and that 
' clamosa Faraa ' had not proclaimed the purity of 
my morals ; — that her brother, a year ago, wrote 
from Rome to warn him, that his wife would 
infallibly be led astray by this ignis fatuus, unless 
he took proper measures, all of which he neglected 
to take, &c., &c. ♦ 

" Now, he says, that he encouraged my return to 
Ravenna, to see ' in quanti piedi di acqua siamc,' 
and he has found enough to drown him in. In 
short, 

" Ce lie flit pas le tout j sa fcmme so plaigfnit — 
Procti — La parentes so joint en excuse et ilit 
duo du Docteur venoil tout le mauvais inenaure ; 
due cet homme litoit foil, que sa I'emme eloit sage. 
On fit cusser le manage.' 

It is but to let the women alone, in the way of con- 
flict, for they are sure to win against the field. She 
returns to her father's house, and 1 can only see her 
ander great restrictions — such is the custom of the 
30untry. The relations behaved very well ; — I offered 
any settlement, but they refused to accept it, and 
iwear she shan't live with G., (as he has tried to 
pro re her faithless,) but that he shall maintain her; 
and, i:i fact, a judgment to this effect came yester- 
day. I am, of course, in an awkward situation 
enongu. 

" I have heard no more of the carabiniers who 

firotested against my liveries. They are not popu- 
ar, those same soldiers, and, in a small row, the 
other night, one was slain, another wounded, and 
divers put to flight, by some of the Romagnuole 
youth, who are dexterous, and somewhat liberal of 
ihe knife. The perpetrators are not discovered, but 
L hopp and believe that none of my ragamuffins were 
hi it, though they are somewhat savage, and secret- 
'.y armed, like most of the inhabitants. It is their 
vay, and saves sometimes a good ieal of litigation. 



** There is a revolution at Naples. If so, it wxl 
probably leave a card at Ravenna in its way to Lorn. 

bardy. 

" Your publishers seem to have used you like 
mine. Murray has shuffled, and almost insinuated 
that my last productions are dull. Dull, sir I— 
damme, dull ! I believe he is right. He begs fo*' 
the completion of my tragedy on Marino Faliero, 
none of which has yet gone to England. The fifth 
act is nearly completed, but it is dieadfully long- 
forty sheets of long paper, four pages each— about 
one hundred and fifty when printed ; but ' so fuU 
of pastime and prodigality ' that I think it will do. 

** Pray send and publish your poem upon me ; and 
don't be afraid of praising me too highly, I shall 
pocket my blushes. 

"'Not actionable!' — Chantre d'etifer!* — b; • • 
that's • a speech,' and I won't put up with it A 
pretty title to give a man for doubting if theie be 
any such place ! 

" So my Gail is gone- — and Miss Mahowy won't 
take inoney. I am very glad of it — I like to be 
generous free of expense. But beg her not to trans- 
late me. 

" Oh, pray tell Galignani that I shall send him a 
screed of doctrine if he don't be more punctual 
Somebody reyularly detains tico, and sometimes 
four, of his "messengers by the way. Do, pray, 
entreat him to be more precise. News are worth 
money in this remote kingdom of the Ostrogoths. 

" Pray, reply. I should like much to share some 
of your champagne and La Fitte, but I am too Ital- 
ian for Paris in general. Make Murray send my 
letter to you if it is full of epigrams. 

" Yours. &c." 



LETTER CCCCXLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, July 17, 1820. 

"I have received some books, and Quarterlies, 
and Edinburghs, for all which I am grateful ; they 
contain all I know of England, except by Galigna- 
ni's newspaper. 

"The tragedyt is completed, but now comes the 
task of copy and correction. It is very long, (forty- 
two sheets of long paper, of four pages each,) and I 
believe must make more than one hundred and forty 
or one hundred and fifty pages, besides many his- 
torical extracts as notes, which I mean to append. 
History is closely followed. Dr. Moore's account is 
in some respects false, and in all foolish and flip- 
pant. No7ie of the chronicles (and I have consulted 
Sanuto, Sandi, Navagero, and an anonymous Siege < 
of Zara, besides the histories of Laugier, Dara, Sis- 
moudi, &c.) state, or even hint that he begged hia 
life ; they merely say that he did not deny the con- 
spiracy. He was one of their great men, — com- 
mander at the siege of Zara, — beat eighty thousand 
Hungarians, killing eight thousand, and at the 
same time kept the town he was besieging in order, 
— took Capo d'Istria, — was ambassador at Genoa, 
Rome, and finally Doge, where he fell for treason, 
in attempting to alter the government, by what 
Sanuto calls a judgment on him for, many years 
before, (when podesta and captain of Trrviso.) 
having knocked down a bishop, who was sluggish 
in carrying the host at a profession. He ' saddles 
him,' as Thwackum did Square, 'with a judgment;' 
but he does not mention whether he had been pun- 
ished at the time for what would appear very strange, 
even now, and must have been still more so in an 
age of papal power and glory. Sanuto says, that 
Heaven took away his senses for this buffet, aii| 
'■ . ...^ 

* The title given him by M. Lamai tiue, in one of hii poenA 
t Mauino Faliero. 



LETTERS 



906 



induced him to cotij.pire. ' Per6 fu permesso che il 
Faliero perdette 1' intelletto,' &c. 

"1 do not know what your parlor-boarders will 
think of the drama I have founded upon this extra- 
ordinary event. The only similar one in history is 
the story of Agis, King of Sparta, a prince, with 
the commons against the aristocracy, and losing his 
life therefor. But it shall be sent when copied. 

"I should be glad to krow why your Quarteri/i^ 
Reviewers, at the close of ' the Fall of Jerusalem,' 
accuse me of Manicheism ? a compliment to which 
the sweetener of ' one of the mightiest spirits ' bj 
no means reconciles me. The poem they review is 
very noble , but could they not do justice to the 
writsr without converting him into my religious 
»ntidote ? I am not a Manichean, nor an Any- 
chf-au. [ should like to know what harm my 
' poeshii* ' have done ? I can't tell what people 
mean by making me a hoogoblin." 

« 4 « « « « 



LETTER CCCCXLVI. 

TO MR. MUURAY. 

" Ravenna, August 31, 1820. 

" 1 have ^put my soul ' into the tragedy, (as you 

if it;) but you know that there are d d souls as 

well as tragedies. Recollect that it is not a politi- 
cal play, though it may look like it : it is strictly 
historical. Read the history and judge. 

/ " Ada s picture is her mother's. I am glad of it 
-:_the mother made a good daughter. Send Rie 
Gifibrd's opinion, and never mind the Archbishop. 
1 can neither send you away, nor give you a hundred 
pistoles, nor a better taste ; I send you a tragedy, 
and you asked for 'facetious epistles ; ' a little like 
your predecessor, who advised Dr. Pridea,ux to ' put 
some more humor into his Life of Mahomet.' 

" Bunkes is a wonderful fellow. There is hardly 

me of my school or college contemporaries that has 
not turned out more or less celebrated. Peel, Pal- 
luerston, Baukes, Hobhouse, Tavistock, Bob Mills, 
Douglas Kinnaird, &c., &c,, have all talked an: 
aeen talked about. 

***•*♦ 

' '< "We ire here going to fight a little next month, 
if the Huns don't cross the Po, and probably if they 
do. I can't say more now. If any thing happens, 
you have matter for a postlmmous work in MS. ; so 
priiy be civil. Depend upon it, there will be savage 
work, if once they l)egin licre. The French courage 
proceeds from vanity, the German from plilegm, the 
Turkish from fanaticism and opium, the Spanisli 
from pride, the English from coolness, the Dutch 
from obstinacy, the Russian from insensibility, but 
the lUilicm from anyer ; so you see that they will 
spi'jc nothing. " 



LETTER CCCCXLVIL 

rO MR. MOORE. 

•• Rulrnnii, Auipiit 81, IB20. 

< D—n your * mezzo cainmin '•— you Bhouid say 
the prime of lif.s' a much more cons(.latorv phruse 
Besides, it is not ri)rr(>ct. I was born m 17«», and 
eonsequoiitly am but thirty-two. You ure nuKtuk.<n 
on another point. The ' S..(|uin Bo.x ' never nime 
Into requisition, nor is it lik.-ly to do so. It were 
better that it had, for then a man m not bound, you 



I Uvi MP(rruliiI«»« Wm upon nmrrlng at whM IU,.u. «11. ih. 
uiUu " oJ UJe, IM a(r« ul Uiiry-iliroa.— ^oor« 



know. As to reform. I did reform — what w uld vog 
have ? ' Rebellion lay in his way, and he founa it. 
1 verily believe that nor you, nor any man of poeti- 
cal temperament, can avoid a strong passion ol 
some kind. It is the poetry of life. What should 
I have known or \vritten, had I been a quiet, mer- 
cantile politician, or a lord in waiting ? A mao 
must travel and turmoil, or there is no existence. 
Besides, I only meant to be a cavalier servente, 
and had no idea it would turn out a romance, in the 
Anglo fashion. 

" However, I suspect I know a thing or two ol 
Italy — more than Lady Morgan has picked up in 
her posting. What do Englishmen know of Ital- 
ians beyond their museums and saloons— and seme 
hack**, en jjussant? Now, I have lived in the 
heart of their houses, in parts of Italy freshest and 
least influenced by strangers, — have seen and be- 
come (pars magna fui) a portion of their hopes, 
and fears, and passions, and am almost inoculated 
into a family. This is tu see men and things as 
they are. 

"You say that I called you * quiet 'f — I don't 
recollect any thing of the sort. On the contrary 
you are always in scrapes. 

<*What think you of the Queen? I hear Mr 
Hoby says, ' that it makes him weep *o see her, sh« 
reminds him so much of Jane Shore.' 

" Mr. Hoby, the boatmaker'i heart is quite tore, 
For iteeiiig the dueen makea him thiiilc ol Jane Sliore ; 
And, in fact, • • • • • 

Pray, excuse this ribaldry. What is your poejs 
about ? Write and tell me all about it and you. 

** Yours, (S:c." 

"P. S. Did you write the lively quiz on Petei 
Bell ? It has wit enough to be yours, and almost 
too much to be any body else's now going. It wan 
in Galignani the other day or week " 



LETTER CCCCXLVIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY 

" Knvenn* V plemtier 7, 1890. 

" In correcting the proofs you must refer to the 
innnuscrifjt, because there are in it various reaitiiu/a. 
Pray attend to tliis, and choose what (iiH'ord tliinka 
best. Let me hear what he thinks of the whole. 

•* You sj)eak of Lady * *'s illness; she is not of 
those who die : — the amiable only do ; and those 
whose death wouUl do (/ood live. Whenever she is 
pleased to return, it may be presumed she will tuktt 
her ' divining rod ' along with her : it may be of 
use to her at homo, as well as to the ' rich man ' of 
the Evangelists. 

" Pray, do not let the papers paragraph n>e back 
to England. They may say what they please, any 
loathsome abuse but that. Ct)ntradict it. 

"My last letters will have taught you to expect 
an exi)losion here: it was primed and loaded, but 
they hesitated to fire the train. One of the eitiei 
shirked from the leugi.o. I cannot write in >ro at 
large for a thousand reasons. Our ' puir hill folk * 
otler^ to strike, and raise tlie tirst banner, but Bo- 
logna i)iiused; and now 'tis autumn, and the seit«t»n 
half over. * O Jerusalem ! JerusaU-m ! ' Thf Hunt 
are on the Po ; but if once they pass it on thtir way 
to Naples, all Italy will he bi-hiiul tliem. The do^i 
—the wolves — may they perish like the ht»sl of 
Sennarherib ! If you want to puliliHh the Propheot 
of Dante, you never will have u ht-tter time." 

• I h«a tntM»k«a tlw MMiuiUnc wurtU of hb Ul«t til IW •th af iw 



906 



BVKON'S WORKS. 



LEITER CCCCXLIX. 



TO MR. MUKRAT. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 11, 1820. 

" He^L-e is another historical note for you. I want 
to be as near truth as the di-ama can be. 

*' Last post I sent you a note fierce as Faliero 
himself,* in answer to a trashy tourist, who pre- 
tends that he could have been introduced to me 
Let me have a proof of it, that I may cut its lava 
into some shape. 

" What Gitford says is very consolatory, (of the 
first act.^ En2;lish, sterling genuine English, is a 
desideratum among you, and 1 am glad that I have 
got so much left ; though Heaven knows how I 
retain it ; I hear none bad from my valet, and his is 
Nottinghamshire ; and I see none but in your new 
publications, and their's is. no language at all, but 
jargon. Even your * * * * is ten-ibly stilted and 
affected, with ' very, very ' so'soft and pamby. 

" Oh ! if ever I do come among you again, I will 
give you such a ' Baviad and Mteviad ! ' not as good 
as the old, but even better merited. There never 
was such a set as your ragamuffins, (I meant not 
yom-s only, but every body's.) What with the 
Cockney's, and the Lakers, and the followers of 
Scott, and Moore, and Byron, you are in the very 
uttermost decline and degradation of literature. I 
can't think of it without all the remorse of a mur- 
derer. I wish that Johnson were alive again to 
crush them ! " 



LETTER CCCCL. 



TO \ia. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, SepL 14, 1820. 

'♦ What ! not a line ? Well, have it in your own 
way. 

" I wish you would inform Perry that his stupid 
paragraph is the cause of all my newspapers being 
stopped in Paris. f The fools believe me in your 
infernal country, and have not sent on their ga- 
Eettes, so that 1 know nothing of your beastly trial 
of the Queen. 

"I cannot avail myself of Mr. Gilford's remarks, 
because I have received none, except on the first 
act. "Yours, &c. 

" P. S. So, pray, beg the editors of papers to 
■ay any thing blackguard they please ; but not to 
put me among their arrivals. They do me more 
mischief by such nonsense than aU their abuse can 
do." 



LETTER CCCCLI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 21, 1820. 

*'So you are at your old tricks again. This is 
the »econd packet I have received unaccompanied 
bj a single line of good, bad, or indiiferent. It is 
•trange that you have never fo'-warded any farther 
observations of Gilford's. How am I alter or 
unend, if I hear no farther ? or does this silence 
mean that it is well enough as it is, or too b^d to 
be repaired ? if the last, why do you not say so at 
Buce, instead of playing pretty, while you know 
that soon or late you must out with the truth. 

" Yours, &c. 

<* r. S. My sister tells me, that you sent to her 



• See note* to Marino Faliero. 

* It li»d been reijoned that be had anived in Loodoa 
wen'i dial. 



to inquire where I was, belieiing in my arrital 
' driving a curricle,' &c., &c., into Palace-yard. Dc 
you think me a coxcomb or a madman, to be capa 
ble of such an exhibition ? My sister knew me 
bettsr, and told you, that could not be me. Yon 
might as well have thought me entering on • a pale 
horse,' Hke Death in the Revelations." 



LETTER CCCCLIL 

::0 MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Sept, 33, 189IV. 

" G«?t from Mr. Hobhouse, and send me a prco! 
(with the Latin) of my Hints from Horace : it has 
now the nonum premuture in annum complete for 
its production, being written at Athens in 1811. I 
have a notion that, with some omissions of names 
and passages, it will do ; and I could put my late 
observations for Pope among the notes, ■nith the 
date of I81M), and so on. As far as versification 
goes, it is good ; and on looking back to what I 
wrote about that period, I am astonished to see how 
little I have trained on. I wrote better then than 
now ; but that comes of my having fallen into the 
atrocious bafl taste of the times. If I car trim it 
for present publication, what with the other things 
you have of mine, j'ou will have a volume or two of 
variety at least, for there will be aU measures, styles, 
and topics, whether good or no. I am anxious to 
hear what Gilford thinks of the tragedy ; pray let 
me know. I really do not know what to think 
myself. 

" If the Germans pass the Po, they will be treated 
to a mass out of the Cardinal de Retz's Breviary. 
* *'s a fool, and could not undercLand this: Frere 
will. It is as pretty a conceit as } :u would wish to 
see on a summer's day. 

" Nobody here believes a word of the evidence 
against the queen. The very mob cry shame against 
their countrymen, and say that for half the money 
spent upon the trial, any testimony whatever may 
be brought out of Italy. This you may rely upon 
as fact. I told you as much before. As to what 
travellers report, what are .tracellersf Now I have 
lived among the Italians — not Florenced, and Romed, 
and gulleried, and conversationed it for a few months, 
and then home again ; but been of their families, 
and friendships, and feuds, and loves, and councils, 
and correspondence, in a part of Italy least known 
to foreigners, — and have been among them of all 
classes, from the Conte to the Contadine ; and you 
may be sure of what X say to you. 

" Yours, &o " 



LETTER CCCCLIIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 28, 1990. 

' I thought that I had told you long agi, that it* 
never was intended nor written with any view to ;h8 
stage. I have said so in the preface to i. It is too 
long and too regular for your stage, the persons too 
few, and the U7iity too much observed. It is more 
like a play of Alfieri's than of your stage, (I say 
this humbly in speaking of that great man;) but 
there is poetry, and it is equal to Manfred, thovghl 
know not what esteem is held of Manfred. 

" I have now been nearly as long out of England 
as I was there during the time I saw you frequently. 
I came home Julv 14th, 1811, and left again Apri"' 
2oth, 1816: so that Sept. 28th, 1820, brings me 
within a very few months of the same daration oi 



MaiiiM FalMM. 



LETTERS. 



dOl 



time of mj' stay and my absence. In course, I can 
Know nothing of the publio taste and feelings, but 
from what I glean fiom letters, &c. Both seem to 
be as bad as p. ssible. 

"I thougiit Anasiasius eve client : did I not say 
«o? iNIatthews's Diary most v»x3ellent; it, and For- 
syth, and parts of Hobhour>e are all we have of 
truth « r sense upon Italy. Tho letter to Julia very 
good "ndeed. I do not despise * * * * * *.j but if 
8he knit blue stockings instead nf wearing them, it 
would be better. You are taken 'n by that false, 
stilted, trashy style, which is a n.'ixture of all the 
styles ef the day, which are all bot.iLaHic, (I don't 
except n.y own — no one has done more through 
negligence to corrupt the language ;) but it is neither 
Er.glish nor poetry. Time will show. 

•• I am sorry GifFord has made no farther remarks 
beyond the first act: does he think all i\y English 
equally sterling as he thought the first ? You did 
right to send the proofs ; I was a fool ; but I do 
really detest the sight of proofs : it is an absurdity ; 
but comes from laziness. 

" You can steal the two Juans into the world 
quietly tagged to the others. The play as you will 
— the JDante too ; but the Pulci I am proud of: it is 
superb; you have no such translation. It i& the 
best thing I ever did in my life. I wrote the play 
from beginning to end, and not a single scene with- 
out interruption, and being obliged to break oft" in 
the middle ; for I had my hands full, and my head, 
too, just then ; so it can be no great shakes — I mean 
the play ; and the head too, if you like. 

" P. S. Politics here still savage and uncertain.^ 
However, we are all in our 'bandaliers ' tc join the 
• Highlanders if they cross the Forth,' i. e., to crush 
the Austrians if they pass the Po. The rascals ! — 
and thiiA dog Liverpool, to say their subjects are 
happy! If ever I come back, I'll work some of 
these ministers. 

" Sept. 29. 

" I open my letter to say that on reading more of 
the four volumes on Italy, where the author says 
' declined an introduction,' I perceive (hurresco re- 
ferens) it is Avritten by a WOMAN ! ! ! In that 
case you must suppress my note and answer,* and 
all I have said about the book and the writer. I 
never di earned of it until now, in my extreme wrath 
at tliat precious note. I can only say that I am 
sorry that a lady should say any thing of the kind. 
What I would have said to one of the other sex you 
know already. Iler book too (as a she book) is not 
a bad one ; but she evidently don't know the Ital- 
ians, or rather don't like tliem, and forgets- the 
causes of their misery and profligacy, (Matthews 
and Forsyth are your men for the truth and tact,) 

and has gone over Italy hi company always a 

bad plan : you must be alone with people to know 
them well. Ask her, who was the ' descendant of 
Lady M. W. Montague,' and by whom ? by Alga- 
rotti } 

" I suspect that in Marino Falicro, you and yours 
won't like the politics which are perilous to you in 
these times ; but recollect that it is not a political 
(/lay, and that I was ol^ligcd to put into the mouths 
cf the characters the sentiments upon which they 
acted. 1 hate all things written like Pizarro, to 
represent France, England, and so forth. All I 
have done is meant to be purely Venetian, even to 
the very pro])hecy of its present state. 

" Your Angles in general know little of the Ital- 
ians, who detest them for their numbers and tlieir 
Gexoa treachery. Ik-siJes, tlie ICnglisli travellers 
have not l)een composed of the l)est company. How 
could tliey ? — out of onn hundred thousand, how 
many gentlemen were there, or honest men ? 

'MitchcH's Aristophanes is excellent. Send nie 
the rest of it. 

" '1 hese Cools will force me to write a book about 
Italy myself, to give them ' the loud lie.' They 



■m Letter eeccxir. 



prate ebout assassin9lte«n.»w^at is it tut the origir. 
of duelling — and ' a wild justice,' as Lord Bacon 
calls it ? It is the fount of the modern point oi 
honor in what the laws can't or won't reach. Every 
man is liable to it more or less, according to cir- 
cumstances or place. For instance, I am living 
here exposed to it daily, for I have happened tc 
make a powerful and unprincipled man my enemy; 
— and I never sleep the worse for if, or ride in lesj 
solitary places, because' precaution is useless, and 
one thinks of it as of a disease which may or may 
not strike. It is true, that there are those :j<=re, 
who. if he did, would ' uve to think on't ; ' but thit 
would not awake my bones : I should be sorry \f it 
would, were they once at rest." 



LETTER CCCCLIV 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, Sbre. 6o, 1820. 

" You will have now received all the acts, cor- 
rected, of the Marino Faljero. What you say ol 
the ' bet of one hundred guineas,' made by some 
one who says that he saw me last week, remiujjli 
me of what happened in 1810 ; you can easily ascer 
tain the fact, and it is an odd one. 

" In the latter end of 1811, I met one evening at 
the Alfred my old school and form-fellow, (for we 
were within two of each other, he the higher, though 
both very near the top of our remove?) Peel, the- 
Irish Secretary. He told me that, in 1810, he met 
me, as he thought, in St. James' street, but we 
passed without speaking. He mentioned this, and 
it was denied as impossible ; I being then in Tur 
key. A day or two afterwards, he pointed out to 
his brother a person on the opposite side of the way : 
— ' There,' said he, * is the man whom I took for 
Byron.' His brother instantly answered, ' Why it 
<s Byron, and no one else.' But this is not all: — J 
was seen by some body to ^critc down my namt 
among the inquirers after the king's health, then 
attacked bj' insanity. Now, at this very period, aa 
riearly as I could make out, I was ill of a strong 
fever'-At Patras, caught in the marshes near Olym 
l)ia, from the malaria. If I had died there, "this 
would have been a new ghost story ft)r you. You 
can easily make out the accjirucv of this from Peel 
himself, who told it in detail. 1 supnose you wiU 
be of the opinion of Lucretius, who (denies the ini , 
mortality of the soul, but) asserts that from thei 
' flying ort' of the surfaces of bodies, these surfacefci 
or cases, like tlie coats of an onion, are sometimca^ 
seen entire when they are separated from it, so that 
the shapes and shadtiws of both the dead and living 
are frequently beheld.' 

** But if they are, are their coats and waistconts 
also seen ? I do not dislielievc that we may be twc 
by some unconscious j)rocess, to a eertnin siKii, Imt 
which of these two I hanpen at present to bp, I 
leave you to decide. I only hope that t'other nie be- 
haves like a gemman. 

'• I wish you would Ket Peel asked how far I am 
accurate in my recollection of wliat he told me ; 
for 1 don't like to say buch things without author- 
ity. 

" I am not sure that I was not a/ioken tcith , 
but this also you can ascertain. I have WTilten 
to you such letters that I stop. 

*• Yoiirs, Xc. 

«• P. S. Last year (in June. 1819) I met at Count 
MoHti's, at Ferrara, an Italian, who asked mr ' if 1 
knew L(vid Hvron ? ' I told him no. (no one knowt 
himsflf. i/oii know.) * Then.' says he, ' 1 do ; 1 met 
him at Naplrs the other day.' I pulled out my 
card und asked him if thai was the way he s|>ellea 
his name: he aunwered, yt-s. I 8US|>ect that it wai 
a blackguiu-d navy surgeon, who attended a yuicj 



^08 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



travelling madnnn ab#UU"Siicl passed himself for a 
lord at the pos ;-houses. He was a vulgar dog — 
quite of the cockpit order — and a precious repre- 
sentative I must have had of him, if it was even so 
but I don't know, He passed himself off as a gen 
tleman, and squired about a Countess * * (of this 

£la;e) then at Venice, an ugly battered woman, of 
ad morals even for Italy." 



LETTER CCCCLV. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" RaT3Diia, 8bre 80, 1820, 

'* Foscolo's letter is exactly the thing wanted ; 
firstly, because he is a man of genius ; and, next, 
because he is an Italian, and therefore the best 
judge of Italics. Besides, 

' He's more an antique Roman than a Dane ; ' 

that is, he is more of the ancient Greek than of 
the modern Italian. TKbugh * somewhat,' as Du- 
gal Dalgetty says, * too wild and salvage, (like 
'Ronald of the Mist,') 'tis a w^onderful man, and 
my friends Hobhouse and Rose both swear by him ; 
and they are good judges of men and of Italian hu- 
manity. 

• Here are in all two worthy voices gain'd : ' 

Gifford says it is good ' sterling, genuine English,' 
and Foscolo says that the characters are right Ve- 
netian. Shakspeare and Otway had a million of ad- 
vantages over me besides the incalculable one of 
being dead from one to two centuries, and having 
been both born blackguards, (which are such 
attractions to the gentle living reader ;) let me then 
preserve the only one which I could possibly have — 
that of having been at Venice, and entered more 
into the local spirit of it. I claim no more. 

*' I know what Foscolo means about Calendaro's 
spitting at Bertram; that's national — the objection, 
I mean. The Italians and French, with those 'flags 
of abomination,' their pocket-handkerchiefs, spit 
there, and here, and every where else — in your face 
almost, and therefore object to it on the stage as too 
familiar. But we who spit nowhere — but in a man's 
face when we grow savage — are not likely to feel 
this. Remember Massinger, and Kean's Sir Giles 
Overreach — 

• Lord I thus 1 spit at thee and at thy counsel ! ' 

Besides, Calendaro does not spit in Bertram's face ; 
he spits at him, as I have seen the Mussulmans do 
upon the ground when they are in a rage. Again, 
he does tiot in fact despise Bertram, though he affects 
it, — as we all do, w-hen angry with one we think our 
inferior. He is angry at not being allowed to die 
in his own way, (although not afraid of death;) 
and recollect that he suspected and hated Bertram 
from the first. Israel Bertuccio, on the other hand, 
ie a cooler and more concentrated fellow : he acts 
upon prinoiple and impulse ; Calendaro upon impulse 
and example. 

*' So there's argument for you. 
' The Doge repeats ; — true, but it is from engross- 
ing passion, and because he sees different persons, 
and is always obliged to recur to the cause upper- 
most in his mind. His speeches are long ; — true, 
but I wrote for the closet, and on the French and 
Italian model rather than yours, which I think not 
very highly of, for all your old dramatists who are 
long enough, too, God knows ; — look into any of 
them, 

" I return you Foscolo's letter, because it alludes 
also to his private affairs. I am sorry to see such 
% man in straits, because I know what they are, or 
what they were. I never met but three men who 



would have llfeld out a finger to me : one was jtjai 
self, the other Wi-lliam Bankes, and the oticr v 
nobleman long ago dead : but of these the first wai 
the only one -who offered it while I really wanted it; 
the second from good-will — but I was not in need o . 
Bankes's aid, and "vould not have accepted it if I 
had, (though I :ove and esteem him ;) — and the third 



" So you see that I have seen some strange thinaa 
in my time. As for your own offer, it was in 1815 
when I was in actual uncertainty of five pounds. \ 
rejected it ; but I have not forgotten it, al thought 
you probably have. 

"P. S. Foscolo's Ricciardo was lent, with the 
leaves uncut, to some Italians, now in villeggiatura, 
so that I have had no opportunity of heaiing thc-il 
decision, or of reading it. They seized on it aa 
Foscolo's, on account of the beauty of the pape/ 
and printing, directly. If I find it takes, I will 
reprint it here. The Italians think as highly oi 
Foscolo as they can of any man, divided and mis- 
erable as they are, and with neither leisure at pres- 
ent to read, nor head nor heart to judge of any 
thing but extracts from French newspapers and the 
Lugano Gazette. « 

" We are all looking at one another, like wolves 
on their prey in pursuit, only waiting for the first 
falling on to do unutterable things. They are a 
great world in chaos or angels in hell, which you 
please ; but out of chaos came paradise, and out of 
hell — I don't know what; but the devil went in 
there, and he was a fine fellow once, you know. 
. " You need never favor me wdth any periodical 
publication, except the Edinburgh, Quarterly, and 
an occasional Blackwood ; or now and then a Month- 
ly Review : for the rest I do n&t feel cm-iosity 
enough to look beyond their covers. 

" To be sure I took in the editor of the British 
finely. He fell precisely into the glaring trap laid 
for him. It was inconceivable how he could be so 
absurd as to imagine us serious with him. 

" Recollect, that if you put my name to * Don 
Juan ' in these canting days, any lawyer might op- 
pose my guardian right of my daughter in chancery, 
on the plea of its containing the parody ; — such are 
the perils of a foolish jest. I was not aware of this 
at the time, but you will find it correct, I believe ; 
and you may be sure that the Noels would not let it 
slip. Now I prefer my child to a poem at any time, 
and so should you, as having half a dozen. 

" Let me know your notions. 

" If you turn over the earlier pages of the Hun- 
tingdon peerage story, you will see how common a 
name Ada was in the early Plantagenet days. I 
found it in my own pedigree in the reign of John 
and Henry, and gave it to my daughter. It was 
also the name of Charlemagne's sister. It is in an 
early chapter of Genesis, as the name of the wife 
of Lamech; and I suppose Ada is the feminine 
of Adam. It is short, ancient, vocalic, and had 
been in my family, for which reason I gave it to my 
daughter." 



LETTER CCCCLVI. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, 8bre 12o, i§30. 

* By land and sea carriage a considerable quant 
ty of books have arrived ; and I am obliged anU 
grateful : but ' medio de fonte leporum, surgit amari 
aliquid,' &c., &c. ; which, being interpreted, means, 

" I'm thankful for your books, dear IVlurrdy ; 
But why not ieud Scott's Monaslery ? 

the only book in four living volumes that I woulrf 



• The paragraph is left thu« im; erfect in the eri^nal 

* S«e Letter ccixxxix. 



LETTERS 



909 



give a baiocolo to see-~'bating ne rest of the same 
author, and an occasional Edinburgh and Quarterly, 
as brief chroniclers of the times. Instead of this, 
here are Johnny Keats's * * poetry, and three nov- 
els, by Ood knows whom, except that there is 
Peg * * *'s name to one of them — a spinster whom 
I thought we had sent back to her spinning. Cray- 
on is very good ; Hogg's Tales rough but racy, and 
lyelcome. 

" Books of travel are expensive, and I don't want 

them, having travelled already ; besides, they lie. — 

Thank the author of 'The Profligate' for his (or 

her) present. Pray send me no more poetry but 

what is rare and decidedly good. There is such a 

/ffash of Krats and the like upon my tables that I 

/ am ashamed to lodk at them. I say nothing against 

i your parsons, your Smith's, and your Croly's — it is 

^' all very fine — but pray dispense me from the plea- 
sure. Instead of poetry if you will favor me with a 
fev/ soda powders, I shall be delighted ; but all prose 
('bating travels and novels not by Scott) is wel- 
come, especially Scott's Tales of My Landlord, and 
so on. 

" In the notes to Marino Faliero, it may be as well 
to say that * Benintende ' was not really of the Ten, 
but merely Grand Chancellor, a separate office, (al- 
though important:) it was an arbitrary alteration of 
mine. The Doges too were all buried in St. Mark's 
before Faliero. It is singular that when his pre- 
decessor, Andrea Dandolo died, the Ten made a law 
that all the future Dot/es should be buried with their 
families, in their ownchurc/ies, — one would think bi/ 
a kind of presentiment. So that all that is said of 
his ancestral Doges, as buried at St. John's and 
Paul's, is altered from ,the fact, they being in St. 
Mark's. Make a note of this, and put Editor a.^ the 
subscription to it. 

" As I make such pretensions to accuracy, I should 
not like to be twitted even with such trifles on that 
score. Of the play they may say what they please, 
but not so of my costume and dram. pers. they 
having been real existences. 

" I omitted Foscolo in my list of living Venetian 
worthies in the notes, considering him as an Italian 
in general, and not a mere provincial like the rest ; 
ana as an Italian I have spoken of him in the pre- 
face to canto fourth of Childe Harold. 

*' The French translation of us ! ! ! oini'^ ! omie ! — 
and the German ; but I don't understand the latter, 
and his long dissertation at the end about the 
Fausts. Excuse haste. Of politics it is not safe to 
speak, but nothing is decided as yet. 

"I am in a very fierce humor at not having Scott's 
V'Monastery. — You are too liberal in quantity, and 

/ somewhat careless of the quality, of your missives. 
All the Quarterlies (four in number) 1 had had be- 
fore from you, and two of the Edinbugh ; but no 
matter, we shall have new ones by-aiid-by. No 
more Keats, I entreat : — flay him alive ; if some of 
rou don't, I must skin him myself. There is no 

/ tearing the drivelling idiotism ot the manikin. 

1/ **\ don't feel inclined to care farther about * Don 

/Juan.' What do you think a very pretty Italian 

, Ud^sald to me the other day ? She had read it in 

' the French, and paid me some compliments, with due 

' DRAWBACKS, upon it. I answered that what she 

naid was true, but that I suspected it would live 

longer than Childe Harold. — ' Ah, but,' (said she,) 

• / would rather haoe the fame of Childe Harold for 

three years than an immohtality of Don Juan!' 

The truth is that it is too truk, and the women 

f hate many things which strip off the tinsel of sen- 
timent, and they are right, as it would rob them of 
their weapons. I never knew a woman who did not 

I hate'De Grammont's Memoirs for the same reason : 

■ even Lady • • used to abuse them. 

" Rose B wark I never received. It was seized at 
Venice «uch is the liberality of the Huns, with 
►,neir two hundred thousand men, that they dare 
kot 1«* luch a Tolume m his circulate " 



LETTER CCCCLVII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, 8bte ISa, WKL 

*' The Abbot has just arrived ; many than.is ; at 
also for the Monastery — when you send it ! ! ! 

"The Abbot will have a more than ordinary in- 
terest for me, for an ancestor of mine by the mo« 
ther's side, Sir J. Gordon of Gight, the handsomest 
of his day, died on a scaffold at Aber-'een for his 
loyalty to Mary, of whom he was an imputed para- 
mour as well as her relation. His fate was mufth 
commented on in the Chronicles of the times. If I 
mistake not, he had something to do wixh her ea* 
cape from Loch Leven, or with her captivity there 
But this you will know better than I. 

" I recollect Loch Leven as it were but yesterday. 
I saw it in my way to England, in 179S. being then 
ten years of age. My mother who was as ..aughty as 
Lucifer with her descent from the Stuarts, and "her 
right line from the old Gordotis, not the Seyton Gor- 
dons, as she disdainfully termed the ducal branch, 
told me the story, always reminding me how supe- 
rior her Gordons were to the southern Byrons,— 
notwithstanding our Norman, and always masculine 
descent, which has never lapsed into a female, 
as my mother's Gordons had done in her own per 
son. 

•* I have written to you so often lately that the 
brevity of this will be welcome. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravennn, Sbre 17o, 1830. 

" Enclosed is the Dedication of Marino Faliero 
to Goethe. Query, — is his title Baron or not ? 1 
think yes. Let me know yorr opinion, and so 
forth. 

"P. S. Let me know what Mr. Hobhouse and 
you have decided about the two p^-ose letters and 
their publication. 

"I enclose you an Italian abstract of the German 
translator of Manfred's Appemiix, in which vou 
will perceive quoted what Goethe says of the irhoU 
body of English poetrv, (and not of me in particu- 
lar.) On this the Dedication is founded, as you will 
f)erceive, though 1 had thought of it before, lor 1 
ook upon him as a great man." 

" ' Dedication to Baron Goethe, arc., drc., Sfc. 
•« • Sir, 

" • In the Appendix to an English work lately 
translated into German and miblished at Iieipsio, ■ 
judgment of yours unon KniHish poetry is quoted m 
follows : " That in Knglish poetry, great i^enius, 
universal power, a feeling of profundity, with auffl- 
cient tennerncHs and force, are to be found ; but 
that altogether these do not comtitute ptwit," Ao,, 
&c. 

" * I regret to see a groat man falling into a grv^t 
mistake. This opinion of yours only proves thai 
the '• Dictionary of ten thousand living F.iuiU.%h aU' 
thora " has not been translutrd into German. Von 
will have read, in your friend Schlegel's version, th* 
dialogue in Macbeth — 

'• Thora »i« Ira (AoutoiW t 
a*M«, vUluIn I 

AuOior'§ itr." 



Now, of these "trn thousand authors," there a<« 
actually nineteen hundred and oighty-soTrn poet*, 
all alive at this moment, whatever their works may 
be, as their booksellers well know ; and among thes« 
there are several who posaOBS a far greater r«puta« 



BIO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tion than minej although considerably less than 
fours. It is owing to this neglect on the part of 
four German translators that you are not aware of 
the works of * * * * * 

'* ' There is also another, named * * * 

****** 
» * * *. 

" * T mention these poets by 'way of sample to 
enlighten you. They form but two bricks of our 
Babel, (Windsor bricks, by-the-Avay,) but may serve 
for a specimen of the building. 

" ' It is, moreover, asserted that " the predomi- 
nant character of the whole body of the present 
English poetry is a disgust and contempt for life." 
But I rather suspect that, by one single work of 
■prose, you yourself have excited a greater contempt 
for life than all the Enghsh volumes of poesy that 
ever were written. Madame de Stael says, that 
/<r\Verther has occasioned more suicides than the 
most beautiful woman ; " and I really believe that 
'; he has put more individuals out of this world than 
> Napoleon himself, — except in the way of his profes- 
sion. Perhaps, illustrious sir, the acrimonious 
judgment passed by a celebrated northern journal 
upon you in particular, and the Germans in general, 
has rather indisposed you towards English poetry as 
well as criticism. But you must not regard our crit- 
ics, who are at bottom good-natured fellows, con- 
sidering their two professions — taking up the law 
in court, and laying it down out of it. No one can 
more lament their hasty and unfair judgment, in 
your particular, than I do ; and I so expressed my- 
self to your friend Schlegel, in 1816, at Copet. 

"'In behalf of my "ten thousand" living bre- 
thren, and of myself, I have thus far taken notice of 
an opinion expressed with regard to " English po- 
etry" in general, and which merited notice, because 
it was Youiis. 

" ' My principal object in addressing you was to 
testify my sincere respect and admiration of a man, 
who, for half a century, has led the literature of a 
great nation, and will go down to posterity as the 
first literary character of his age. 

" ' You have been fortunate, sir, not only in the 
writings which have illustrated your name, but in 
the name itself, as being sufficiently musical for the 
articulation of posterity. In this you have the ad- 
van.tage of some of your countrymen, whose names 
would perhaps be immortal also — if any body could 
pronounce them. 

" * It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this appa- 
rent tone of levity, that I am wanting in intention- 
al respect towards you ; but this \nll be a mistake : 
I am always flippant in prose. Considering you, as 
I really and warmly do, in common with all your 
own, and with most other nations, to be by far the 
first literary character which has existed in Exn-ope 
since the death of "Voltaire, I felt, and feel, desirous 
to insciabe to you the following work, — not as being 
either a tragedy or Sijioem, (for I cannot pronounce 
upon its pretensions to be either one or the other, 
or both, or neither,) but as a mark of esteem and 
admiration from a foreigner to the man who has 
been hailed in Germany "the great goethe." 
" * I have the honor to be, 

" 'With the truest respect, 
" * Your most obedient 

" ' And very humble servant, 

" * Byron.' " 



" Ravenna, 8bre Ho, 1820. 

" P. S. I perceive that in Germany, as well as in 
[taly, there is a great struggle about what they call 
' Classical, and ^Romantic,' — terms which were not 
subjects of classification in England, at least when 
[ left it four or five years ago. Some of the English 
icnbbiers, it is true, abused Pope and Swift, but the 
reason was that they themselves did not know how 
•o \»rite either prose or verse ; but nobody thought 



them worth making a sect of. Peihaps there mav 
be something of the kind sprung up lately, but J 
have not heard much about it, and it would be such 
bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it." 



LETTER CCCCLIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravsnna, October '.7, 1890. 

" You owe me two letters — pay them. I want to 
know Avhat you are about. The summer is o'ver 
and you will be back to Paris. Apropos of Paris 
it was not Sophia Gail, but Sophia Gay — the Eng- 
lish word Gay — who was my correspondent. Can 
you tell who she is, as you did of the defunct * * ? 

" Have you gone on with your poem ? I have 
received the French of mine. Only think of being 
traduced into a foreign language in such an abomi- 
nable travesty ! It is useless to rail, out one can't 
help it. ^ 

' ' Have you got my m^emoir copied ? I have begun 
a continuation. Shall I send it you as far as it is 
gone ? 

" I can't say any thing to you about Italy, for the 
government here look upon me with a suspicious 
eye, as I am well informed. Pretty fellows ! — as ii 
I, a solitary stranger, could do any mischief. It is 
because I am fond of rifle and pistol shooting, 1 
oelieve ; for they took the alarm at the quantity of 
cartridges I consumed, — the wiseacres ! 

" You don't deserve a long letter — nor a letter at 
all — for your silence. You have got a new Bourbon, 
it seems, whom they have christened ' Dieu-donne ;* 
perhaps the honor of the present may be disputed. 

Did you write the good lines on , the 

Laker?. * * 

"The queen has made a pretty theme for 
the journals. Was there ever such evidence pub- 
lished ? Why it is worse than * Little's Poems' or 
^on Juan.' If you don't write soon, I will ' make 
you a speech.' " " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLX. 



TO MR. MURRAY 



" Rarenna, 8bre 25, 1820. 

' Pray forward the enclosed to Lady Byron. It 
is on business. 

' In thanking you for the Abbot, I made foul 
grand mistakes. Sir John Gordon was not of Gight, 
but of Bogagicht, and a son of Huntley's. He suf- 
fered not for his loyalty, but in an insurrection. He 
had nothing to do with Loch Leven, having been 
dead some time at the period of the Queen's con- 
finement : and, fourthly, I am not sure that he was 
the Queen's paramour or no, for Robertson does 
not allude to this, though Walter Scott does, in.tho 
list he gives of her admirers (as unfortunate) at 
the close of ' the Abbot.' 

" I must have made all these mistakes in recol 
lecting my mother's account of the matter, although 
she was more accurate than I am, being precise 
upon points of genealogy, Jike all the aristocratica] 
Scotch. She had a long list of ancestors, like Sil 
Lucius O'Trieger's, most of whom are to be found 
in the old Scotch Chronicles, Spaldinor, &c., in arm? 
and doing mischief. I remember well passing. Lock 
Leven, as well as the Queen's Ferry : we were o» 
our way to England in 1798. " Yours. 

"You had better not publish Blackwood an^ 
the Robert's prose, except what regards' Pope ;--yoT; 
have let the time slip by." 



LETTERS. 



911 



LETTER CCCCLXL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenr.i, 9bre 4, 1820. 

•I have recei-ved from Mr. Galignaiii the en- 
olosed letters, duplicates, and receipts, which ex- 

Elain themselves.* As the poems are your property, 
J purchase, ric;ht, and justice, all matters of pub- 
hcation, &c., &c., are for you to decide upon. I 
know not how far my compliance with Mr. Galig- 
nani's request might be legal, and I doubt that it 
would not be honest. In case you choose to ar- 
range with hira, I enclose the permits to you, and 
in so doing I wash my hands of the business alto- 
gether. I sign them merely to enable you to exert 
the power you justly possess more properly. I will 
aave nothing to do with it farther, except, in my 
answer to Mr. Galignani, to state that the letters, 
&c., &c., are sent to you, and the causes thereof. 

" If you can check these foreign pirates, do ; if 
not, put the permissive papers in the fire. I can 
have no view nor object whatever, but to secure to 
you your property. -'Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I have read part of the Quarterly just ar- 
rived ; Mr. Bowles shall be answered : he is not quite 
correct in his statement about English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers. They support Pope, I see, in 
the Quarterly : let them continue to do so ; it is a 
Bin, and a shame, and a dam^iation to think that 
Pope ! ! should require it — but he does. Those 
miserable mountebanks of the day, the poets, dis- 
grace themselves and deny God in running down 
Pope, the most faultless of poets, and almost of 



LETTER CCCCLXIL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Nov, 5, 1820. 

• Thanks for your letter, which hath come some- 
what costively,-^but better late than never. Of it 
anon. Mr, Galignani, of the press, hath, it seems, 
been sub-planted and snb-piratcd by another Parisian 
publisher, who has audaciously printed an edition 
of L. B.'s Works, at the ultra-liberal price of ten 
francs, and (as Galignani piteously observes) eight 
francs only for 1)ookscllers ! ' horresco referens.' 
Think of a man's lohole works producing so little ! 

" Galignani sends me, post haste, a permission 
for hijn from me, to publish, &c,, Ike, which permit 
I have "signed and sent to Mr. Murrav, of Albe- 
marle street. Will you explain to G. t)iat I have 
no right to dispose of Mu/ray's works without his 
leave ,^ and thoiefore I musi refer him to M. to get 
the permit out of his claws — no easy matter I sus- 
pect. I have written to G. to say as much ; but a 
word of mouth frojn a * great brother autlior' would 
coBTince him that 1 could not honestly have com- 

rlied with his wish, tliough I might legally. What 
could do I have done, viz., signed the warrant and 
wnt it to Murray. Let the dogs divide the carcass, 
If it is killed to their liking. 

" I am glad of /our epigram. It is odd that we 
•hould both let our wits run away with our sonti- 
ments ; for I am sure that we are both Queen's men at 
bottom. But there is no resisting a clinch — it is so 
clever ! Aprojjos of that — we have a ' dinthong' 
also in this part of the world — not a GrcvK, but a 
Spanish one — do you tniderstand mo ? — which is 
about to blow up the whole alphabet It was first 
pronounced at Naples, and is spreading ; but we are 



• Mr. rJiillgniinl hnci npplM to I *nl Byron with th^ »lnw of pmeuiinf 
Iwin lilir. »iicli iBjriil rifflii oivt lhi>«» worki of hi* ol which l« hwl hllhttrto 
MCI the «iln piiblUliPr In Kmncn <■ would enaUe bin to prrteut oUitn, \m 
x|i r« f'-vii •uurvtnff 1e tama | 'IvUage. 



nearer the barbarians ; who are in ^eat orce or 
the Po, and will pass it, with the first Itgitimatc 
pretext. 

" There will be the devil to pay, and there is no 
saying who will or who will not be set down in hii 
bill. If 'honor should come unlocked for' to any 
of your acquaintance, make a melody of it, that hii 
ghost, like poor Yorick's, may have the satisfaction 
of being plaintively pitieii — or still more noblv com- 
memorated, like ' Oh breathe not his' name.' In case 
you should not think him worth it, he'-e is a chant 
for you instead — 

" When a man hath no frsedom te figit fx tt Mce, 
Let hiin combat for tlJit of hu neigtiloTi ; 
Let him think of the g 'cies of Greece and of Bone 
And get knock'd od , he head for hia labon 

" To do good to mank' id is the chivalroua plan, 
And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then hattle for freedom wherever you can. 
And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knigfa'.ed, 

" So you have gotten the letter of ' Epigrama'— I ' 
am glad of it.* You will not be so, for I shall send 
you more. Here is one 1 ^vrote for the ondorse- 
ment of ' the Deed of Separation' in 1816 ; but the 
lawyers objected to it, as superfluous. It wa.s 
written as Ave were getting up the signing and seal 
ing. * * has the original. 

" E'.idorsement to the Deed of Separation, in the 
April of I81&, 

" A year agt you swore, fond she I 
' To love, to honor,' and so forth : 
Such was the vow yon pledged to me. 
And here's exactly what 'tis worth. 

" For the anniversary of January 2, 1821, I have 
a small grateful anticipation, which, in case of ac- 
cident, I add — 

" To Penelope, January 2, 1821 

•' This day, of all our days, has done 
The worst for me and you — 
'Tis )n8t tix yeivn since we were OfW, 
Andyjce since we were loo. 

" Pray, excuse all this nonsense ; for I must talk 
nonsense just now for fear of wandering to more 
serious topics, which, in the present state of things, 
is not safe by a foreign post, 

" I told vou in my last, that I had been going on 
with the '"Memoirs,' and have got as far as twelve 
more sheets. But I suspect they will be interruptrd. 
In that case I will send them on by post, though I 
feel remorse at making a friend pay so much for 
postage, for we can't frank here beyond the frontier. 

*' I shall be glad tt) hear of the event of the 
Queen's concern. As to the ultimate clfcct, Jhe 
most inevitable one to you and me (if they and we 
live so long) will be that the Miss Moorcs and Mi.H8 
Byrons will jirosent us with u great variety ol 
grandchildren t)y dilferont fathers. 

" Pray, where did you get hold of Goethe's Flo- 
rentine husband-killing story ? upon such matters, 
ii» general, I may say, with fieau Clincher, in r^ply 
to Krrand's wife — 

" 'Oh the villain, he hath murdered my pool 
Timothy ! 

' ' clincher. Damn your Timothy !— I tell »ou, 
woman, your husbaud has murdcrt^i me— ht hnt 
carried away my fine jubilee •lothea.' 

" So Bowles has been telling a story, too, ('ti* i« 
the Quarterly,) about the woods of ' Madori*,' and 
80 forth, I shall be at Bowles again, if ho it no" 
(luiet. lie miHstates, or mistiikes, in u point or two 
The paper is finished and so is the letter. 

•* Yours, Ac." 



912 



BYRON'S TVJRKS. 



LETTER CCCCLXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" RaTenna, 9bre 9, 1820, 

♦• The talent you approve of is an amiable one, 
md might prove a ' national service,' but unfortu- 
nately I must be angry with a man before I draw 
Qis real portrait ; and I can't deal in ' generalsy' so 
that I trust never to have provocation enough to 
make a gallery. If * t?ie parson' had not by many 
little dirty sneaking traits provoked it, I should 
have been silent, though I had observed him. 
FT ere follows an alteration : put — 

« Deril, *ith tuch delight in damning, 
That if at the resurrection 
Unto him the free election 
Of his future could be given, 
^Twould be rather Hell than Hearen ; 

that is to say, if these two new lines do not too 
much lengthen out and weaken the amiability of the 
original thought and expression. You have a 
discretionary power about sho^ving. I should think 
that Croker would not disrelish a sight of these 
light little humorojis things, and may be indulged 
now and then. 

" Why, I do like one or two vices, to be sure; 
but I can back a horse and fire a pistol ' without 
thinking or blinking' like Major Sturgeon ; I have 
fed at times for two months together on sheer bis- 
cuit and water, (without metaphor ;) I can get over 
seventy or eighty miles a day riding post, and swim 
■five at a stretch, as at Venice, in 1818, or at least I 
could do, and have done it once. 

"I know Henry Matthews ; he is the image, to 
the very voice, of his brother Charles, only darker 
— his cough his in particular. The first time I ever 
met him was in Scrope Davies's room after his 
brother's death, and I nearly dropped, thinking 
that it was his ghost. , I have also dined %vith him 
m his rooms at King's College. Hobhouse once 
purposed a similar memoir ; but I am afraid the 
letters of Charles's correspondence with me (which 
are at Whitton with my other papers) would hardly 
do for the public ; for our lives were not over strict, 
and our letters somewhat lax upon most subjects. 
* * ♦ » ♦ 

" Last week I sent you a correspondence with 
Galignani, and some documents on your property. 
You have now, I think, an opportunity of checking, 
or at least limiting, those French republications. 
You may let all your authors publish what they 
olease against me and mine. A publisher is not, 
and cannot be responsible for all the works that 
issue from his printer's. 

" The ' White Lady of Arvenel,' is not quite so 
good as a real well authenticated (' Dona Bianca') 
White Lady of Colalto, or spectre in the Marca 
Trivigiana, who has been repeatedly seen. There 
is a man (a huntsman) now alive who saw her also. 
Iloppner could tell you all about her, and so can 
Rose, perhaps. I myself have no doubt of the fact, 
historical and spectral. She always appeared on 
particular occasions, before the deaths of the family, 
&C., &c. I heard Madame Benzoni say, that she 
knew a gentleman who had seen her cross his room 
at Colalto Castle. Hoppner saw and spoke with 
the huntsman, who met her at the chase, and never 
hunted afterward. She was a girl attendant, who, 
one day dressing the hair of a Countess Colalto, 
was seen by her mistress to smile upon her husband 
in the glass. The Countess had her shut up in the 
wall of the castle, like Constance de Beverly. Ever 
after, she haunted them and all the Colaltos. She 
is described as very beautiful and fair. It is well 
ULtbenticated. 



LETTER :!CCGLXIV, 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" RaTcnna, 9bre IE. KtO, 

' The death of Waite* is a shock to the— teeth 
as well as to the feelings of all who knew him 
Good God, he and Blakef both gone ! I left then 
both in the most robust health, and little thought 
of the national loss in so short a time as five years 
They were both as much superior to Wellington in 
rational greatness, as he who preserves the hair and 
the teeth is preferable to • bloody blustering -vat 
rior' who gains a name by breaking heads and 
knocking out grinders. Who succeeds him? 
Where is tooth-powder, mild, and yet efficacious— 
where is tincture — where are clearing-roo^« and 
brushes now to be obtained ? Pray obtain what in 
formation you can upon these ' Tuscxxlaix ques- 
tions.' My jaws ache to think on't. Poor fellows ! 
I anticipatedf seeing both again ; and yet they are 
gone to that place where both teeth and hair last 
longer than they do in this life. I have seen a 
thousand graves opened, and always perceived, that 
whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remain with 
those who hcd died with them. Is not this odd ? 
They go the very first things in youth, and yet last 
the longest in the dust, if people will but die to pre- 
serve them ! It is a queer life, and a queer death, 
that of mortals. 

' I knew that Waite had married, but little 
thought that the other decease was so soon to over- 
take him. Then he was such a delight, such a 
coxcomb, such a jewel of a man ! Tliere is a tailor 
at Bologna so Hke him ! and also at the top of his 
profession. Do not neglect this commission. Who 
or what can replace him ? "What says the public T 

'* I remand you the preface. Doti't forget tha\ 
the Italian extract from the Chronicle must be 
translated. With regard to what you say of re- 
touching the Juans and the Hints, it is all very 
well ; but I can't furbish. I am like the tiger, (in 
poesy,) if I miss the first spring I go growling back 
to my jungle. There is no second : I can't correct ; 
I can't, and I won't. Nobody ever succeeds in it, 
great or small. Tasso remade the whole of his 
Jerusalem ; but who ever reads that version ? all 
the world goes to the first. Pope added to ' The 
Rape of the Lock,' but did not reduce it. You 
must take my things as they happen to be. If thoy 
are not likely to suit, reduce their estimate accord- 
ingly. I would rather give them away than hack 
and hew them. I don't say that you are not right ; 
I merely repeat that I cannot better them. I must 
' either make a spoon or spoil a horn ;' and there's 
an end. *' Yours. 

" P. S. Of the praises of that little * * * Keats, 
I shall observe, as Johnson did when Sheridan the 
actor got 2L pension, ' What ! has he got a pension ? f 
Then it is time that I should give up mine ! ' No- ; 
body could be prouder of the praise of the Edinburgh 
than I was, or more alive to their censure, as I 
showed in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. At 
present, all the men they have ever praised are de- 
graded by that insane article. Why don't they re- 
view and praise ' Solomon's Guide to Health ? ' 
it is better sense and as much poetry as Johnny 
Keats^ 

" Bowles must be bowled down. 'Tis a sad match 
at cricket if he can get any notches at Pope's ex- 
pense. If he once get into ' Lord's ground,' (to 
continue the pun, because it is foolish,) I think 1 
could beat him in one innings. You did not know, 
perhaps, that I was once (not metaphorically, but 
really) a good cricketer, particularly in batting, and 
I played in the Harrow match against the Etonians 
in 1805, gaining more notches (as one of our chosen 
eleven) than any, except Lord Ipswich and Brook 
man, on our side." 

• Hia dentUt. 

4 MMnlad halr-drewer. 



LETTERS. 



913 



LErrER CfJCCLXV. 



TO MR. MURBAY. 



" Rarenna, 9bie > 2, \CiO. 

•* Wliet you said of the late Charles Skinner Mat- 
thews has set me to my recollections ; but I have 
not been able to turn up any thing which would do 
for the purposed memoir of his brother, even if he 
^«id previously done enough during his life to sanc- 
tion the introduction of anecdotes so merely person- 
al. He was, however, a very extraordinary man, 
and would have been a great one. No one ever suc- 
ceeded in a more surpassing degree than he did, as 
far as he went. He was indolent too ; but whenever 
he stripped, he overthrew all antagonists. His con- 
quests will be found registered at Cambridge, partic- 
nWly his Downing one, which was hotiy and highly 
contesied, and yet easily won. Hobhouse was his 
most Ultimate friend, and can tell you more of him 
than any man. William Bankes also a great deal. 
I myself recollect more of his oddities than of his 
^^cademical qualities, for we lived most together at a 
(/^rj idle period of my life. When I went up to 
^ Trinity in 180-5, at the age of seventeen and a half, 
II was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was 
jf wretched at leaving Harrow, to which I had become 
'' attached during the last two years of my stay there ; 
wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford, 
(there were no rooms vacant at Christchurch,) 
wretched from some private domestic circumstances 
of diiferent kinds, and consequently about as unso- 
cial as a wolf taken from the troojp. So that, al- 
though I knew Matthews, and met him often then 
at Bankes's, (who was my collegiate pastor, and mas- 
ter, and patron,) and at Rhodes's, Milnes's, Price's, 
Dick's, Macnamara's, Farrell's, Galley Knight's, 
•tnd others of that set of contemporaries, yet 1 was 
neither iiftimate with him nor with any else, except 
my old schoolfellow Edward Long, (-with whom I 
used to pass the day in riding and swimming,) and 
William Bankes, who was good-naturedly tolerant 
of my ferocities, 

" It was not till 1807, after I had been upwards of 

a year away from Cambridge, to which I had return- 

1 ea again to reside for my degree, that I became one 

\ of Matthews's familiars, by means of Hobhouse, who, 

, \ after hating me for two years, because I ' wore a 

\ white Jiai and s grcty coat, and rode a gray horse,' 

', (as he E£,y8 himself,) took me into his good graces 

because I had written some poetry. I had always 

lived a good deal, and got drunk occasionally, in 

their company ; but now we became really friends in 

a morning. Matthews, however, was not at this 

Eeriod resident in college. I met him chiefly in 
.ondon, and at uncertain periods at Cambridge. 
Hobhouse, in the mean time, did great things : he 
founded the Cambridge ' Whig Club,' (which he 
seems to have forgotten,) and the * Amicable Socie- 
ty,' which was dissolved in consequence of thp 
members constantly quarrelling, and made himself 
very popular with 'us youth,' and no less formida- 
ble to all tutors, professors, and heads of colleges. 
William Bankes was gone; while he stayed he ruled 
the roast, or rather the roasting, and was father of 
all mischiefs. 

" Matthews and I, meeting in London, and elso- 
where, became great cronies. Fc was not goo l- 
tempered — nor am I — but with a little tact his teia- 
per was managcaljle, and I thought him so superior 
a mnri, that I was willing to sacrifice something to 
ais humors, which were often, ut the same time, 
tmusing and provoking. What became of his pu- 
ffers, (aiid he certainly luid many,) at the time of his 
death, was never known. I mention this by the way, 
fr,<iring to skip it over, and aa he wrote renuirkatily 
well, both in Latin and English. We went down 
to NewHtcad togeth.»r, where I had got a famous 
eellar, and monks' dresses from a masciuerade \yare- j 
houBC. We were a company of some seven or eight, 
▼ith au uccasiontU neighbor or so for visitors, and i 



used tc sit up late In our friars' dresse.^. drinking 
BurguE ly, claret, champagne, and what not, out ol 
the skull-cup, and all sorts of glasses, and buffoon- 
ing all round the house, in our conventual gai 
ments. Matthews always denominated me ' the 
Abbot,' and never called me by any other name ir 
his good humors, to the day of his death. The har- 
mony of these our symposia was somewhat inter- 
rupted, a few days after our assembling, by Mat- 
thews's threatening to throw ' bold Webster,' (as ho 
was called, from winning a foot-match, and a horse- 
match, the first from Ipswich to London, and the 
second from Brightelmstone,) by threateniuR to 
throw * bold Webster ' out of a window, in couse 
quence of I know not what commerce of jckes 
ending in this epigram. Webster came to me and 
said, that ' his respect and regard for me as no.-t 
would not permit him to call out any of my guests, 
and that he should go to town next morning.' He 
did. It was in vain that I represented to him that 
the window was not high, and that the turf under 
it was particularly soft. Away he went. 

"Matthews and myself had travelled down from 
London together, talking all' the way incessantly 
upon one single topic. When we got to Longhbor 
ough, I know not what chasm had made us diverge 
for a moment to some other subject, at which he 
was indignant. ' Come,' said he, ' don't let us break 
through — let us go on as we begaUj to our journey's 
end ; ' and so he continued, and was entertaining as 
ever to the very end. He had previously occupied, 
during my year's absence from Cambridge, my 
rooms in Trinity, with the furniture ; and Jones the 
tutor in his odd way, had said on putting him in. 
' Mr. Matthews, I recommend to your attention not 
to damage any of the moveables, for Lord Bvron. 
sir, is a young man of tumultuoris passions.' Mat- 
thews was delighted with this ; and whenever any 
body came to visit him, begged them to handle the 
very dOor with caution ; and used to repeat Jones'* 
admonition, in his tone and manner. There was t 
large mirror in the room, on which he remarked, 
'that he thought his friends were grown uncom- 
monly assiduous in coming to see hirn, but he soon 
discovered that Ihey only came to see themselves.' 
Jones's phrase of ^ tumultuous passioris,' and th« 
whole scene had p-tt him into such good humor, that 
I verily believe, that I owed to it a portion of his 
good graces. 

*' When at Newstead, somebody by accident rub 
bed against one of his white silk stockings, one day 
before dinner ; of course the gentleman apologizea. 
' Sir,' answered Matthews, ' it may be all very well 
for you, who have a great many silk stockings, to 
dirty other people's ; but to me, who have only thii 
one pair, which I have put on in honor of the 
' Abbot' here, no apology can compensate for sucb 
carelessness; besides the expense of washing ' H* 
had the same sort of droll sardonic way about every 
thing. A wild Irishman named F ♦ ♦, one evening 
beginning to say something at a large supper at 
Cambridge, Matthews roared out ' Sih>nce ! ' %nd 
(hen, pointing to F • ♦, cried out, in the words of 
the oracle, ' Orson m endowed with reason ' You 
may easily suppose that Orson lost what rea'on he 
had acqjiired, on hearing this conipliment. When 
Hobhouse published his volume of po«in«. *;Lti Mi« 
cellanv, (which Matthews would cailthe Miss-sttl- 
I 7it/,' ) a! that could be drawn from him was, tuat 
tie prefa o was • extronudy like Walsh.' Ilobhous* 
tho>ight this at first a compliment ; b\it wo never 
cotjld make out what it was, for all we know o^ 
Walsh is his Ode to King William, and rope's cpi 
thet of ' hwwinq Walsh.' When the NewRimd 
party broke up for London, Hobhouse and Mat 
th(W8, who were the greatest friends jHis.Hible, 
agreed, for a whim, to walk togrthrr to town. They 
(Hurrllcd l)y the way, and "jutually walked th« 
liitter half of their journev, occasionallv pasniug 
mid repii.s.sing, without speaking. When "Mutthewi 
hud got to Highgute. he bad spent all his mouer but 



914 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



threepence fialfpenny, and ietermined to spend t'hat 
^Iso in a pint of beer, which I believe he was drink- 
ing before a public house, as Hobhouse passed him 
(still without speaking), for the last time on their 
route. They were reconciled in London again. 

" One of Matthews's passions was * the Fancy ; 
and he sparred uncommonly well. But he always 
got beaten in rows, or combats with the bare fist. 
In swimming too, he swam well ; but with effort and 
labor, and too high out of the water ; so that Scrope 
Davies and myself, of whom he was therein some 
what emulous, always told mm that hf would be 
drowned if ever he came to a difficult pass in the 
water. He was so ; but surely Scrope and myself 
would ha-ve been most heartily glad that 

" ' The Dean had lived, 
And cur prediction proved a lie.' 

"His head was uncommonly handsome, very like 
■vb.at Pope's was in his youth. 

" His voice, and laugh, and features are strongly 
resembled by his brother Henry's, if Henry be he of 
King's College. His passion for boxing was so great, 
that he actually wanted me to match him with 
Dogherty, (whom I had backed and made the match 
for against Tom Belcher,) and I saw them spar to- 

fethe * at my own lodgings, wth the gloves on. As 
e was bent upon it, I would have backed Dogherty 
to please him, but the match went off. It was of 
course to have been a private fight in a' private 
room. 

" On one occasion, being too late to go home and 
dress, he was equipped by a friend, (Mr. Bailey, I 
believe,) in a magnificently fashionable and some- 
what exaggerated shirt and neckcloth. He pro- 
ceeded to the Opera, and took his station in Fop's 
Alley, During the interval between the opera and 
' the ballet, an acquaintance took his station by him, 
and saluted him : ' Come round,' said Matthews, 

• come round.' ' Why should I come round ? ' said 
the other ; ' you have only to turn your head — I am 
close by you.' ' That is exactly what I cannot do,' 
answered Matthews : ' don't you see the state I am 
in ? ' pointing to his buckram shirt-collar, and in- 
flexible cravat ; and there he stood with his head 
always in the same perpendicular position during 
the whole spectacle. 

" One evening, after dining together, as we were 
■going to the opera, I happened to have a spare 
opera ticket, (as subscriber to a box,) and presented 
it to Matthews. * Now sir,' said he to Hobhouse, 
afterward, ' this I call courteous in the Abbot— 
another man would never have thought that I 
might do better with half a guinea than throw it to 
a door-keeper ; but here is a man not only asks me 
to dinner, but gives me a ticket for the theatre.' 
Tliese were only his oddities, for no man was more 
liberal, or more honorable in all his doings and 
dealings than Matthews. He gave Hobhouse and 
me, before we set out for Constantinople, a most 
splendid entertainment, to which we did ample 
'ustice. One of his fancies was dining at all sorts 
of out-cfthe-way places. Somebody "popped upon 
bim, in I know not what coffee-house in the Strand 
—and what do you think was the attraction } Why, 
that he paid a shilling (I think) to dine with his hat 
on. This he called his ' hat house,' and used to 
boast of the comfort of being covered at meal- 
times. 

" When Sir Henry Smith was expelled from 
Cambridge for a row with a tradesman oamed 

* Hiron,' Matthews solaced himself with si outing 
ander Hiron's windows every evening, 

' Ah me I whai perils do environ 
The man who meddles witli hot I^on.' 

•'He was also of that band of profane scoffers, 
»eho, under the auspices of * * * *, used to rouse 
Lort Mansel date bishop of Bristol) from his slum- 
0^8 in the lodgs of I'linity, and when ha appeared 



at the window foaming tv'th wrath, and crying '9ii 
' I know you, gentlemen, I know you I ' were W(m1 
to reply, 'We beseech thee to hear rs, good Lort-^ 
good Lort deliver us ! ' CLort was his Christian 
name.) As he was very ^ree in his speculations 
upon all kinds of subjects, although by no means 
either dissolute or intemperate in his conduct, and 
as I was no less independent, our conversation and 
correspondence used to alarm our friend Hobhouse 
tc a considerable degree. 

*****■« 

" You must be almost tired of my patkets, Thich 
will have cost a mint of postage. 

'* Salute Gifford a,nd all my friends. 

"Yours, %c," 



LETTER CCCCLXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Rivenna, Sbre 23, 1820. 

' The * Hints,' Hobhouse says, will require a 
good deal of slashing to suit the times, which will 
be a work of time, for I don't feel at all laborious 
just now. Whatever effect they are to have would 
perhaps be greater in a separate form, and they 
also must have my name to them. Now, if yoy 
pubhsh them in the same volume with Don Juan, 
they identify Don Juan as mine, which I don't 
think worth a chancery suit about my daughter's 
guardianship, as in your present code a facetious 
poem is sufficient to take away a man's right over 
his family. 

' Of the state of things here it would be difficult 
and not very prudent to speak at large, the Huns 
opening all letters. I wonder if they can read them 
when they have opened them ; if so, they may see, 
in my most legible hand, that I think them 

DAMNED SCOUNpRELS AND BARBARIANS, and THEIB 

EMPEROR A FOOL, and themselves more fools than 
he ; all which they may send to Vienna for any 
thing that I care. They have got themselves 
masters of the Papal police, and are bullying away ; 
but some day or other they will p^y for all : it may 
not be very soon, because these unhappy Italian* 
have no consistency among themselves; Kut I sup- 
pose that Providence will get tired of them at last 
****** 

" Yours, &c.' 



LETTER CCCCLXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Lee. 9, 1830. 

*' Besides this letter, you will receive three pack- 
ets, containing, in all, eighteen more sheets of 
Memoranda, which, I fear, vnW cost you mere in 
postage than they vdW ever produce by being prir t- 
ed in the next century. Instead of waiting so lorg, 
if you could make any thing of them rco In the 
way of reversion, (that is, after my death ; I should 
be very glad, — as, with all due regard to your pro- 
geny, I prefer you to your grandchilii-en. Would 
not liOngman or Murray advance you a certain sum 
now, pledging themselves not to have them pub- 
lished till after my decease, think you ? — and what 
say you ? 

' Over these latter sheets I would leave you a dis 
cretionary power; because they contain, perhaps, a 
thing or two which is too sincere for the public. If 
I consent to your disposing of the reversion now, 
where would be the harm ' Tastes may change. I 
would, in your case, make my essay to dispose o< 
them, not publish, now;- and if you (as is most i 
ii lely) sxirvive me, add what you please from youi 



LETTERS. 



915 



DwiL knowledge, and, ahove all, contradict any thing, 
If I have mis-stated ; for my first object is the truth, 
even at my own expense. 

"I have some knowledge of your countryman, 
Muley Moloch, the lecturer. He wrote to me seve- 
ral letters upon Christianity, to convert me ; and, if 
I had not been a Christian already, I should proba- 
bly have been now, in consequence. I thought 
there was something of wild talent in him, mixed 
with a due leaven of absurdity, — as there must be 
in all talent let loose upon the world without a 
martingale, 

" The ministers seem still to persecute the Queen 
#******* ^)^^. ^i[^gy ^0^7 go out, the 

S0E.9 of b es. Damn reform — I want a place — 

what say you ? You must applaud the honesty of 
the declaration, whatever you may think of the 
intention. 

" I have quantities of paper in England, original 
and translated — tragedy, &c., &'?. ; and am now 
copying out a fifth canto of Don Juan, one hundred 
and forty-nine stanzas. So that there will be near 
three thin Albemarle, or two thick volumes of all 
Borts of my Muses. I mean to plunge thick, too, 
into the contest upon Pope, and to lay about me 
like a dragon till I make manure of * * * for the 
top of Parnassus. 

" Those rogues are right — we do laugh at f others 
— eh ? don't we ?* You shall see — you shall see 
what things I'll say, an' it pleases Providence to 
leave us leisure. But in these parts they are all 
going to war ; and there is to be liberty, and a row, 
and a constitution — when they can get them. But 
1 won't talk politics — it is low. Let us talk of the 
Queen, and her bath, and her bottle — that's the 
only motley now-a-days. 

" If there are any acquaintances of mine, salute 
them. The priests here are trying to persecute me, 
—but no matter. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXVIII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 
^ " Ravenna, Dec. 9, 1820. 

' ' J open my letter to tell you a fact, which will 
show the state of this country better than I can. 
The tommandantf of the troops is now lying dead 
in my house. He was shot at a little past eight 
o'clock, about two hundred paces from my door. I 
was putting on my great-coat to visit Madame la 
Contessa G. when I heard the shot. On coming 
into ti.e hall, I found all my servants on the bal- 
cony, exclaiming that a man was murdered. I 
immediately ran down, calling on Tita (the bravest 
of them) to follow me. The rest wanted to hinder 
us from going, as it is the custom for every body 
here, it seems, to run away from ' the stricken deer.' 

" However, down we ran, and found him lying on 
his back, almost, if not (jnite, dead, with five 
wounds, one in the heart, two in the stomach, one 
in the finger, and the other in the arm. Some 
soldiers cocked their guns, and wanted to hindiM- 
me from pasjising However, we passed, and I found 
D:cgO; the adjutant, crying over him like a child — 
a suigeon, vvho said nothing of his profession — a 
priest, sobbing a frightened prayer — and the com- 
mandant, all this time, on his back, on the hard, 
cold pavement, without light or assistance, or any 
thing around him but contusion and dismay. 

" As nol)ody could, or would, do any thing but 
howl and pray, and as no one would stir a finger to 
move him, for fear of consequences, I lost my pn- 

* flu hpn* alliiil'i l^ ■ hiiinoroiii actlclp, uf which I hitil (old him, In 

Knckwooil't Miigu/.lne, whcrr llm tn"lJi ol ihr clnv wrn- all irn>iip<-il (o- 

y»<hrr In b Turtetjr dI IhiijuiIc iliii)--*, with " Ixirl Hymn ■nil lUtle M<"ii>" 

« «lili.Tbehlnf .ailfthey w<Mi|ilipm,"i« .!»». ntltrth- 'V.il' rnlly.— iV/uor*. 

Hci Hon Jt ui, eunl> v., •tnnin xxxlli. 



tience — made My servant and a co'xple of the mob 
take up the body — sent off two soldiers to the guaiC 
— despatched Diego to the Cardinal with the news, 
and had the commandant carried up stairs into mj 
own quarter. But it was too late, he was gone— 
not at all disfigured — bled inwardly — not above an 
ounce or two came out. 

' I had him partly stripped — made the surgeon 
examine him, and examined him myself. He had 
been shot by cut balls, or slugs. I felt one of the 
slugs, which had gone through him, all but the 
skin. Every body conjectures why he was killed, 
but no one knows how. The gun was found close 
by him — an old gun, half filed down. 

" He only said, • O Dio ! ' and ' Gesu ! * two or 
three times, and appeared to have suffercl little. 
Poor fellow! he was a brave officer, but had made 
himself much disliked by the people. I knew him 
personally, and had met him often at conversazinni 
and elsewhere. My house is full of soldiers, dra 
goons, lectors, priests, and all kinds of persons, — 
t'finugh I have now cleared'it, and clapped sentinels 
at the ioors. To-morrow the body is to be moved. 
The tovm. is in the greatest confusion, as you may 
suppose. 

' You are to know that, if I had not had the body 
moved, they would have left him there till morning 
in the street, for fear of consequences. I would not 
choose to let even a dog die in such a manner, 
withoiit succor ; — and, as for consequences, I care 
for none in a duty. " Yours, &c. 

*' P. S. The lieutenant on duty by the body is 
moking his pipe with great composure. — A queer 
people this." 



LETTER CCCCLXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Dec. 36, 1830. 

' You will or ought to have received the packet 
and letters which I remitted to your address a fort- 
night ago, (or it may be more days,) and I shall bi 
glad of an answer, as, in these times and placet- 
packets per post are in some risk of not reachinjj 
their destination. 

" I have been thinking of a project for you and 
me, in case we botli get to London again, which (if 
a Neapolitan war don't suscitate) may be calculated 
as possible for one of us about the spring of 18*21. 
I presume that you, too, will be back by that time, 
or never ; but on that you will erive me some iiulev. 
The project, then, is for you anil me to set up ioip' 
ly a ni'trspaper — notliiiig more nor less — wii-kly. or 
so, witli some improvement or modifications »ipon 
the plan of the present scoundrels, who digraj- 
that department, — but a newspaper, which we wilt 
edit in due form, and, nevertheless, with some at- 
tention. 

•' There must always be in it a piece of poesy 
from one or other of us tiro, leaving room, howevei 
for sucll dilettanti rhymers as may be deemed woith) 
of ai)pcaiing in the same ct)luinns ; but this must bt 
i\ sinf </na uon; and iilso as much prose as we caii 
compas-*. We will take an q/fire — our names uot 
announced, but suspected — and, by the bless;; ' 
Providrnce, give the age some new lights xiy" 
icv, poesy, biography, criticism, morality, th..'. 
aiid all other inuifi, nlity, and o/o</// wliatsoevi r. 

" Why, nuin, if we were to take to this in gooj 
earnest, vour debts would be paid off in a twilve- 
month, and bv dint of a little diligence and prac- 
tice, I doubt not that we could distance the com 
mon-place blackgiuirds, who have so lo'i ' ^ 

common sense and the c(unnu)n rradrr. 
no merit but practice and impudmce, lu' 
we n>av actjuire, and, as for talent nnd nilli i< . th< 
devil's' in't if such proofs as we have given f Ixul 
can't furnish out something better than th« fune 



916 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ral baked meats ' which have coldly set forth the 
breakfast table of all Great Britain for so many 
-^ years. Now, what think you ? Let me know ; and 
recollect that, if we take to such an enterprise, we 
must do so in good earnest. Here is a hint,-^o 
you make it a plan. We Avill modify it into as lite- 
rary and classical a concern as you please, only»let 
us put out our powers upon it, and it will most 
likely succeed. But you must live in London, and 
I also, to bring it to bear, and we must keep it a 
secret. 

/■ " As for the living in London, I would make that 

( not dirficult to you, (if you would allow me,) until 

\ we could see whether one means or other (the suc- 

! iess of the plan, for instance) would not make it 

quite easy for you, as Avell as for your family; and, 

in any case, we should have some fun, composing, 

correcting, supposing, inspecting, and supping to- 

i gether over our lucubrations. If you think this 

worth a thought, let me know, and I will begin to 

' lay in a small literary capital of composition for 

/ the occasion. ♦' Yoiyrs ever, affectionately, 

• •' p. S. If you thought of a middle plan between 
a Spectator and a newspaper, why not ? — only not 
on a Sunday. Not that Sunday is not an excellent 
day, but is engaged already. We will call it the 

• "Tenda Rossa,' the name Tassoni gave an answer 
of his in a controversy, in allusion to the delicate 
hint of Timour the Lame, to his enemies, by a 

♦ Tenda ' of that color, before he gave battle. Or 
we will call it ' Gli,' or ' I Carbonari,' if it so please 
you — or any other name full of ' pastime and prodi- 
gality,' which you may prefer. ****»» 

^ Let me have an answer. I conclude poetically, with 
the bellman, * A merry Christmas to you ! ' " 



ADDRESS 

TO THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT. 

[Translation from the original Italian.] 

*' An Englishman, a friend to liberty, having un- 
derstood that the Neapolitans permit even foreign- 
ers to contribute to the good cause, is desirous that 
they should do him the honor of accepting a thou- 
sand louis, which he takes the liberty of offering. 
Having already, not long since, been an ocular 
witness of the despotism of the barbarians in the 
States occupied by them in Italy, he sees, with the 
enthusiasm natural to a cultivated man, the gene- 
rous determination of the Neapolitans to assert 
their well-worn independence. As a member of the 
English House of Peers, he would be a traitor to 
the principles which placed the reigning family of 
England on the throne, if he were not grateful for 
the noble lesson so lately given both to people and 
to kings. The offer which he desires to make is 
email in itself, as must always be that presented 
bova. an individual to a nation ; but he trusts that 
It will n^f: be the last they will receive from his 
©ountrymfcn. His distance from the frontier, and 
the feeling of his personal incapacity to contribute 
eiDcaciously to the service of the nation, prevents 
him from proposing himself as worthy of the low- 
2St commission, for which experience and talent 
might be requisite. But if, as a mere volunteer, 
his presence were not a burden to whomsoever he 
might serve under he would repair to whatever 
place the Neapolitan government might point out, 
there to obey the orders and participate in the dan- 
gers of his commanding officer, without any other 
motive than that of sharing the destiny of a brave 
Bation, defending itself against the self-called Holy 

Mliance, which but combines the vice of hypocrisy 

Tith despotism " 



LETTER CCCCLXX 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Ravenna, Jin. S. t8M. 

"Your entering into my project for theMemci 
is pleasant to me. But I doubt (contrary to mj 
dear Made MacF * *, whom I always loved, and 
always shall— not only because I really did feel at- 
tached to her personally, but because she and about 
a dozen others of that sex were all who stuck by ma 
in the grand conflict of 18L5)— but I doubt, I say, 
whether the Memoir could appear in my lifetime;— 
and, indeed, I had rather it did not, for a man 
always looks dead after his Life has appeared, and I 
should certes not survive the appearance of mine. 
The first part I cannot consent to alter, even al- 
though Made de Stael's opinion of Benjamin Con- 
stant, and my remarks upon Lady Caroline's beauty, 
(which is surely great, and I suppose that I have 
said so — at least, I ought, ) should go down to our 
grandchildren in unsophisticated nakedness. 

" As to Madame de StaPl, I am by no means 
bound to be her beadsman — she was always more 
civil to me in person than during my absence. Our 
dear defunct friend, Matthew Lewis, who was too 
great a bore ever to lie, assured me, upon his tire- 
some word of honor, that, at Florence, the said 
Madame de StaSl was OTpen-mouthed against me; 
and, when asked, in Switzerland, why she had" 
changed her opinion, replied, -with laudable sincer- 
ity, that I had named her in a sonnet with Voltaire, 
Rousseau, &c., &c., and that she could not help it, 
through decency. Now, I have not forgotten this, 
but I have been generous, — as mine acquaintance, 
the late Captain Whitby of the navy, used to say to ^ 
liis seamen (when * married to the gunner's daugh- | \ 
ter ') — ' two dozen, and let you off easy.' The ' tw6, \/ 
dozen ' were with the cat-'-nine-tails ; — the ' let you ^. 
off easy ' was rather his own opinion than that of 
the patient. 

*' My acquaintance with these terms and practices 
arises from my having been much conversant with 
ships of war and naval heroes in the years of my 
voyages in the Mediterranean, Whitby was in the 
gallant action off Lissa in 1811. He was brave, but 
a disciplinarian. When he left his frigate, he left a 
parrot, which was taught by the crew the following 

sounds (It must be remarked that Captain Whit- , 

by was the image of Fawcett the actor in voice, face,, - 
and figure, and that he squinted.) 

*' The parrot loquitur. A^ 

" ' Whitby ! Whitby ! funny eye ! funny eye ! two' : 
dozen, and let you off easy. Oh you ! ' 

" Now, if Madame de B. has a parrot, it had bet- 
ter be taught a French parody of the same sounds. 

" With regard to our purposed journal, I will call 
it what you please, but it should be a newspaper, to 
make it pay. We can call it ' The Harp,' if you 
like — or any thing. 

" I feel exactly as you do about our ' art,' but it 
comes over me in a kind of rage every now and 
then, like * * * * and then, if I 
don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that 
regular, uninterrupted love of writing, which you 
describe in your friend, I do not understand it. 1 
feel it as a tortxu-e, which I must get rid of, but 
never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think com- 
position a great pain. 

" I wish you to think seriously of the journal 
scheme — for I am as serious as one can be, in this 
world, about any thing. As to matters here, they 
are high and mighty — ^but not for paper. It is 
much about the state of things between Cain and 
Abel. There is, in fact, no law or government at 
all ; and it is wonderful how well things go on with- 
out them. Excepting a few occasional murders, 
(every body killing whomsoever he pleases, and 
being killed, in turn, by a friend, or relative, of the 
defunct,) there is as quiet a socie'rjr and' as merrt 
a Carnival as can be met with in s tour tkroucn 



LETTERS. 



917 



Ettrop*. There is nothing like habit in these 
things. 
'* I shall remain here till May or June, and, 



compared? and yet she drove Congreve from th* 
theatre." 



unless 'honor comes unlooked for,' we may per- Yme* the bustle of Congreve; but are they to be 
haps meet, in France or England, within the year. J^ i . . 

'* Yours,'&c. 

" Of course, I cannot explain to you existing 
eircumstances, as they open all letters. 

"Will you set me right about your cursed 



/ 



• Champs Elysces ? ' — are they ' (^s ' or ' ees ' for the 
adjective ? I know nothing of French, being all 
Italian. Though I can read and understand 
French, I never attempt to speak it ; for I hate it. 
From the second part of the Memoirs cut what you 
please 



LETTER CCCCLXXI. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, January 4, 1821, 

1 just see, by the papers of Galignani, that 
there is a new tragedy of great expectation by Barry 
/Cornwall.* Of what I have read of his works 1 
/-liked the Dramatic Sketches, but thought his 
Sicilian story and Marcian Colonna, in rhyme, quite 
spoiled, by I know not what affectation of Words- 
worth, and Moore, and myself, — all mixed up into 
a kind of chaos. I think him very likely to produce 
a good tragedy, if he keep to a natural style, and 
not play tricks to form harlequinades for an audi- 
ence. As he (Barry Cornwall is not hiu true name) 
was a schoolfellow of mine, I take more than com- 
mon interest in his success, and shall be glad to 
hear of it speedily. If I had been aware that he 
was in that line, I should have spoken of him in 
the preface to Marino Faliero. He will do a world's 
wonder if he produce a great tragedy. I am, how- 
ever, persuaded, that this is not to be done by 
following the old dramatists, — who are full of gross 
faults, pardoned only for the beauty of t^eir lan- 
guage, — but by writing naturally and regularly, and 
producing regular tragedies, like the Greeks; but 
not in imitation, — merely the outline of their con- 
duct, adapted to our own times and circumstances, 
and of course no chorus. 

*' You will laugh, and say, ' Why don't you do 
60 ? ' I have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino 
Faliero ; but many people think my talent _ ' essen- 
tially midramatic,^ and 1 am not at all clear tliat 
they are not right. If Marino Faliero don't fall — 
in the perusal — I shall, perhaps, try again, (but not. 
for the stage) ; and as I think that lace is not the 
principal passipn for tragedy, (and yet most of ours 
turn upon it,) you will not find me a popular writer. 
Unless it is love, furious, criminal, and /lap/css, it 
ought not to make a triigic subject. When it is 
melting and maudlin, it does, but it ought not to do ; 
it is then for the gallery and second-price boxes. 

"If you want to have a notion of what I am 
trying, take up a frn/islation of any of the (inrA- 
tragedians. If I said the original, It would l)e an 
impudent presumption of mine; but the transla- 
tions are so inferior to the originals that 1 think I 
nmy risk it. The* judge of the ' simi)licity of 

Slot,' Sec, and do not judge me by your old uuid 
ramaUsts, which is like drinking us(iiiel)atigli and 
then p'-oving a fountain. Yet, after all, I suppose 
that you do not mean that spirits is a nobler eh-ment 
than a clear spring bubbling in the stin ? and this 1 
take to be the dillerence between the (Jrerks and 
those turbid mountebanks — always excepting lUn 
Johnsojj, who was a scholar and a classk'. Or, take 
Up a translation of Altieri, and try the interest, Ac., 
ot these my new attempts in the old line, by Aim in 
Etu/li&\; and then tell me fairly your opinion. But 



don't measure me by your own old or nexc tailors' 
yards. Nothing so easy as intricate confusion ot 
plot and rant. Mrs. Centlivre, in comedy, has ten 



LETTER CCCCLXXIl 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Jauou? 18 IMl 

*' Yours of the 29th ultimo hath arrived. I miut 
really and seriously request that you will beg ol 
Messrs. Harris or EUiston to let the Doge al:ne; it 
is not an acting play ; it will not serve their pur- 
pose ; it will destroy yours, (the sale) ; and it will 
distress me. It is not courteous, it is hardly even 
gentlemanly, to persist in this appropriation of a 
man's writings to their mountebanks. 

"I have already sent you by last post a shcrt 
protest to the public, (against this proceeding) ; in 
case that they persist, which I trust that they will 
not, you must then publish it in the newspapers. I 
shall not let them off with that only, if they go on ; 
but make a longer appeal on that subject, a'nd state 
what I think the injustice of their mode of behavior. 
It is hard that I should have all the buffoons in 
Britain to deal with— jjirates who will publish, and 
players who will act — when re are thousands ol 
worthy men who can neither get bookseller nor 
manager for love nor nroney. 

" You never answered me a word about Gali(/nam. 
If you mean to use the two doci/.i ''-, do ; if not, 
btirn them. I do not choose to leii\^ them in any 
one's possession; suppose some one f id there 
without the letters, what would they imnkt why, 
that / had been doing the opposite of what I hav€ 
done, to wit, referred the whole thing to you— an 
act of civility, at least, which required saying, ' I 
have received your letter.' I thought that you 
might have some hold upon those publications by 
this means ; to me it can be no interest ene way or 
the other. 

" The third canto of Don Juan is ' dull,' but you 
must really put up with it : if the first two and thti 
two following are tolerable, what do you expect/ 
particularly as I neither dispute with you on it as » 
matter of criticism or as a matter of business, 

" Besides, what am I to understand ? you, and 
Douglas Kinnaird, and others, write to me, that 
the first two published cantos are among tlie best 
that I ever wrote, and are reckoned so ; Augusta 
writes that they are thought * execrable' (bitter 
w'oviXthat for an author — eh, Murray?) as a com 
position even, and that she had heard so m-uh 
af^ainst them that she would nicer rtnid tht^i ».nd 
never has. Be that as it luny, 1 can't alt*» thit is 
not my forte. If you i)ublish the three r.»w ones 
without ostentation, they may p^'rli'ins su eeei 

"Pray publish tlie Dante und Ine PuUi, ^tb4 
Prophecy oi Dante, 1 mean.) I look upon the Puloi 
as my ^rand performance. The remainder of lit 
' lliu'ls,' where be they ? Now, bring tlieni all otl 
al)out the same time, otherwise 'the furtety' you 
wot of will be less obvious, 

" I am in bad humor : — some obstructions in 
business with those plaguy trustees, who object t«» 
an advantageous loan which I was to furnish to a 
nobleman on mortgage because his property is in 
Ireland, have shown nie how u man is treat(>d in 
his absence. Oh, if I du come baik, I will uiak« 
those who little dieum of it spin, — or they cr I 
tihull go down." • • • • 



I Don Juan, i 



918 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER CCCCLXXIII. 



TO MB. MURRAY. 

"January 20, 1821, 

*' 1 di d n(>t think to have troubled you with the 
plaa i.e and postage of a double letter this time, but 
I have. just road in an Italian pape^\ 'That Lord 
Byron has a tragedy coming out,' &c., &c., &c., 
and that the Courier and Morning Chronicle, &c., 
&c., are pulling one another to pieces about him, 
&c. 

" Now I do reiterate and desire, that every thing 
may be done to prevent it from coming out on any 
hc'atre^ for which it never was designed, and on 
^?hich (in the present state of the stage of London) 
t could never succeed. I have sent you my appeal 
*y last post, which you viust publish in case of 
need ; and I require you even in yotir own iiajne (ii 
my honor is dear to you) to declare that such 
representation would be contrary to my wish and to 
my judgment. If you do not wish to drive me mad 
altogether, you will hit upon some way to prevent 
this. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I cannot conceive how Harris or Elliston 
should be so insane as to think of acting Marino 
Faliero ; they might as well act the Prometheus of 
^schylus. 1 speak of course humbly, and with 
the greatest sense of the distance of time and merit 
between the two performances ; but merely to show 
the absvirdity of the attempt. 

"The Italian paper speaks of a 'party against 
it : ' to be sure there would be a party. Can you 
imagine, that after having never flattered man, nor 
beast, nor opinion, nor politics, there would not be 
a party against a man, who is also a popular writer 
—at least a successful ? Why, all parties would be 
a party against." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIV. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, January 20, 1821. 

' If Harris or Elliston persist, after the remon- 
btranoe which I desired you and Mr. Kinnaird to 
make on my behalf, and which I hope will be suffi- 
cient — but if, I say, they do persist, then I pray you 
to j}resent 'in person tlie enclosed letter to the Lord 
Chamberlain : I have said /« j)erson, because other- 
wise I shall have neither answer nor knowledge that 
it has reached its address, owing to the ' insolence 
of office.' 

"1 wish you would speak to Lord Holland, and 
to ail my friends and yours, to interest themselves 
in preventing this cursed attempt at representation. 

"God help me! at this distance, I am treated 
like a corpse or a fool by the few people that I 
thought I could rely upon ; and I was a fool to 
think any better of them than of the rest of man- 
kind. 

" Pray write. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. I have nothing more at heart (that is, in 
literature) than to prevent this drama from going 
apon the stage : in short, rather than perinit it, it 
IBiyit be suppressed altogether, and only fo7-ty copies 
Hruck off privately for presents to my friends. 
What cuised fools those speculating buffoons must 
DC not to see that it is unfit for their fair — or their 
!>ooth . " 



LETTER CCCCLXXV. 

T« MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, January 22, 1821. 

••Pi»y get well. I do not like your complaint. 
5o, le*; ine have a line to say you are up and doing 
%«raiu Ttwluy I ana thirty-three y^ars of age. 



" Through life's road, &c., Ac.* 



" Have you heard that the ' Braziers' Company 
have, or mean to present an address at Brandenburgn- 
•liouse, ' in armor,' and with all possible variety and 
splendor of brazen apparel ? 

" The Braziers, it seems, are preparing' to pass 

An address, and present it themselves all in bras»— 

A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry, 

They'll find where they're going much more than they canr. 

There's an ode for you, is it not ? — worthy 

"Of * * * * , the grand metaquizzical poet, 
A man of vast merit, though few people know it ; 
The penual of whom (as I told you at Meslri) 
1 owe, in great part, to my passiou for pastry. 

" Mesti, and Fusina are the ' trajects, or common 
ferries,' to Venice ; but it was from Fusina that you 
and I embarked, though ' the wicked necessity oi 
rhyming ' has made me press Mestri into the 
voyage. 

" So, you have had a book dedicated to you ? I 
am glad of it, and shall be very happy to see the 
volume. 

" I am in a peck of troubles about a tragedy of 
mine, which is fit only for the (*****) closet, 
arfd which it seems that the managers, assuming a 
right over published poetry, are determined to 
enact, whether I will or no, with their own altera- 
tions by Mr. Dibdin, I presume. I have written to 
Murray, to the Lord Chamberlain, and to others, to 
interfere and preserve me from such an exhibition. 
I want neither the impertinence of their hisses nor 
the insolence of their applause. I write only for the 
reader, and care for nothing but the silent approba- 
tion of those who close one's book with good humor 
and quiet contentment. 

" Now if you would also write to our friend Perry, 
to beg of him to mediate with Harris and Elliston 
to forbear this intent, you will greatly oblige me. 
The play is quite unfit for the stage, as a single 
glance will show them, and, I hope, has shown 
them ; and, if it Avere ever so fit, I will never have 
any thing to do willingly with the theatres. 

" Yours ever, in haste, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXVL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, Janiuiry 37, 1821. 

" I differ from you about the Dante, which I think 
should be published AA'ith the tragedy. But do as 
you please : you must be the best judge of youJ 
own craft. I agree with you about the title. The 
play may be good or bad, but I flatter myself that 
it is original as a picture of that kind of passion, 
which to my mind is so natural, that I am con- 
vinced that I should have done precisely what the 
Doge did on tTtose provocations. 

" I am glad of Foscolo's approbation. 

"Excuse haste. I believe I mentioned tc jcr 
that 1 forget what it was, but no matter. 

"Thanks for your compliments of the year. 1 
hope that it will be pleasanter than the last. I 
speak with reference to England only, as far aa 
regards myself, lohere I had every kind of disap- 
pointment — lost an important lawsuit — and the 
trustees of Lady Byron refusing to allow of an 
advantageous loan to be made from my property to 
Lord Blessington, &c., &c., by way of closing the 
four seasons. These, and a hundred other such 
things, made a year of bitter business for me in 
England. Luckily, things were a little plaftsaiitel 
for me here, else I should have taken the liberty (A 
Hannibal's ring. 



Giren lu hb Jounal, page 1004. 



LETTERS. 



nj 



'* Pray thank Gifford for all las goodnesses. The 
"rinter is as cold here as Parry's p larities. I must 
now take a canter in the forest ; my horses are 
waiting. " Yours ever and truly." 



LETTER CCCCLXXVIl 



TO MB. MURRAY. 

" Ravenua, Fehvazj 2, 1821. 

•' Your letter of excuses has arrived. I receive 
the letter, but do not admit the excuses, except in 
courtesy, as when a man treads on your toes and 
begs your pardon the pardon is granted, but the 
joint aches, especially if there be a corn upon it. 
However, I shall scold you presently. 

*' In the last speech of the Doge, there occurs (I 
think from memory) the phrase — 

' And Thou who makest and unmakest auns : ' 

change this to — 

' And Thou who kirdlbSt and who quenchest suns ; ' 

that is to say, if the verse runs equally well, and 
Mr. GifFord thinks expression improved. Pray have 
the bounty to attend to this. You are grown quite 
a minister of state. Mind if some of these days 
you are not thrown out. * * will not be always a 
Tory, though Johnson says the first Whig was the 
devil. 

"You have learned one secret from Mr. Galig- 
nani's (somewhat tardily acknowledged) corre- 
spondence : this is, that an English author may dis- 
pose of his exclusive copyright in France, — a fact 
of some consequence (in time of peace) in the case 
of a popular writer. Now I will tell you what you 
shall do, and take no advantage of you, though you 
were scurvy enough never to acknowledge my letter 
for three months. Offer Galignani the refusal of 
tlie copyright in France ; if he refuses, appoint any 
bookseller in France you please, and I will sign any 
assignment you please, and it shall never cost you 
R, sou on my account. 

" Recollect that I will have nothing to do with it, 
except as far as it may secure the copyright to your- 
self. I will have no bargain but with the English 
booksellers, and I desire no interest out of that 
country. 

" Now, that's fair and open, and a little hand- 
somer than your dodyiny silence, to see what 
would come oi it. You are an excellent fellow, mio 
caro Moray, but there is still a little leaven of 
Fleet strcH't about you now and then — a crum of 
the old loaf. You have no right to act suspiciouslv 
with me, for I have given you no reason. 1 shall 
always be frank with you; as, for instance, when- 
ever you talk with the votaries of Apollo arith- 
nwt-cally, in guineas, not pounds— to poets, as well 
&£ fhysicians, and bidders at auctions. 

" I shall say no more at present, save that I am 

"Yours, (It-c. 

" P. S. If you venture, as you say, to Ravenna 
th- year, I will exercise the rites of hospitalitv 
While you live, and bury you handsomely, (though 
aot in holy ground,) if you get 'shot or slashed m 
H creagh or Ki)lore,' which are frp(iu('nt here of lute 
fcmoKg tlio native parties. But perhaps your visit 
may bo anticijiated ; I may probably come t(» 
your country ; m which case write to her ladyship 
the dupiinite of the cpiatlo the king of France 
tnrote to I'rinco John." 



LETTER CCCC^^XXVIIT. 



TO MB, MUBRAl. 



" RaTenna, »c J8, 1831. 

*' In the month of March will arrive from Bar 
celona Siynor Curioni, engaged for the opera. Ht 
is an acquaintance of mine, and a gentlemanly 
young man, high in his profession. I must request 
your personal kindness and patronage in his favor 
Pray introauce him to such of the theatrica: people, 
editors of papers, and others, as may be useful to 
him in his profession, publicly and privately. 

" The fifth is so far from being the last of li'^n 
Juan, that it is hardly the beginning. I rooant to 
take him the tour of Europe, with a propel mixture 
of siege, battle end adventure, and to make him 
finish as Anacnarsis Cloots, in the French Revolu- 
tion. To how many cantos this may extend, I 
know not nor whether (even if I live) I shall com 
plete it ; but this was my notion. I meant to have 
made him a cavalier servente in Italy, ^ind a cause 
for a divorce in England, and a sentimental 
' VVerther-faced man' in Germany, so as to show the 
different ridicules of the society in each of those 
countries and to have displayed him gradually ydt^ 
and blas'^ as he grew older, as is natural. But I'had 
not quite fixed whether to make him end in hell, or 
in an unhappy marriage, not knowing which would 
be the severest ; the Spanish tradition says hell ; 
but it is probably only an allegory of the other state 
You are now in possession of my notions on the 
subject. 

" You say the Doge will not be popular : did I ever 
write iox jjopularityf I defy you to show a work of 
mine (except a tale or two) of a popular style or 
complexion. It appears to me that there is room 
for a different style of the drama ; neither a ser- 
vile following of the old drama, which is a grossly 
erroneous one, nor yet too French, like those who 
succeeded the old writers. It appears to me that 
good English, and a severer approach to the rules, 
might combine something not dishonorable to our 
literature. I have also attempted to make a play 
without love, and there are neither rings, nor mis- 
takes, nor starts, nor outrageous ranting villains, 
nor mclodrauir in it. All this will prevent its pop- 
ularity, but does not persuade me that it is thirefotv 
faulty. Whatever faults it has will aris*> from de 
ficiency in the conduct, rather than iu the concep- 
tion, whiph is simple and severe. 

" So you epiy ram mtttize upon my epiy ram f 1 will 
pay you for that, mind if I don't, some day. I never 
let any one off in the long run, (who Jirst bfyins.) 
Remember * ♦ ♦, and see if I don't do you as gooa 
a turn. You unnatural publisher ! what! quiz your 
own authors ? you are a paper cannibal ! 

" In the letter on Bowles, (which I sent by Tues- 
day's post,) after the words 'attempts had h,,'n 
made' (alluding to the rej)ublieation of * Kiu'Ii-^h 
Bards,') add the words, ' /« Ire/and ;' (or I li«iie\e 
that Knglish i)irates did not begin their attt mpts 
till after I had left England the second time Pray 
attend to this. Let me know what you anJ your 
synod think on Bowles. 

" I did not think the second »«»/ so bad; MireW 
it is far better tlian the Saracen's head witL which 
you have sealed your la.st Irtfcr ; the larger in 
proji/f, was surtly much better than that. 

" So Foscolo says he will get you a seat rut bei"i.>r 
in Italy ? he means a throat — that is the only t', n>< 
thev do dexterously. The Arts — all btit (.'anov.i's 
and Morghen's, and Orid's (I don't mcatt forfry) — 
are as low as need be : look at the seal whieh I gav« 
to William Bunkes, and own it. How came (ieorijc 
Bankos to quote * Fnglish Bards' in the llou-.e ot 
Conunons ? AH the world Ki'op flinging that poem 
in inv face. 

" Bel/.(.ni M a grond traveller, and his Engltah ii 
▼cry prettily broken. 

"At fur uows, the barbarians are marcmng oa 



G20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" With regard to the difference of the . PM;re»*i, i 
perceived none; it ia favorable to the swimmer oc 
neither side, but may be stemmed by plunging into 
the sea, a considerable way above the op_^posite 
point of the coast which the swimmer wishes to 
make, but still bearing up against it ; it is strong^ 
but if you calculate well, you may reach land. 
My own experience and that of others bids me pro- 
nounce the passage of Leander perfectly practicable 
Any young man, in good and tolerable skill in 
swimming, might succeed in it from either side. 1 
was three hours in swimming across the Tagus 
which is much more hazardous, being two hor.rs 
longer than the Hellespont. Of what may be done 
in swimming, I wiU mention one more instance. In 
1818, the Chevalier Mengaldo, (a gentleman ol 
Bassano,) a good swimmer, wished to swim with my 
friend Mr. Alexander Scott and myself. As he 
seemed particularly anxious on the subject, we in- 
dulged him. We all three started from the island 
of the Lido and swam to Venice. At the entrance 
of the Grand Canal, Scott and I were a good way 
ahead, and we saw no more of ouj foreign friend, 
which, however, was of no consequence, as there 
was a gondola to hold his clothes and pick him up. 
Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got 
out, less from fatigue than from chill, having been 
four hours in the water, without rest or stay, ex- 
cept what is to be obtained by floating on one's 
back — this being the 'condition of our performance. 
I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, com- 
prising the whole of the Grand Canal, (besides the 
distance from the Lido,) and got out where the 
Laguna once more opens to Fusina. I had been in 
the water, by my watch, without help or rest, and 
never touching ground or boat, four hours and 
twenty minutes. To this match, and during the 
greater part of its performance, Mr. Hoppner, the 
consul-general, was witness, and it is well known 
to many others. Mr. Turner can easily verify the 
fact, if he thinks it worth while, by referring to Mr. 
Hoppner. The distance we could not accurately 
ascertain ; it was of course considerable, 

"I crossed the Hellespont in one hour and ten 
minutes only. I am now ten years older in time and 
aiau I twenty in constitution, than I was when I passed 
that ! ^i^g Dardanelles, and yet two years ago I was capable 
of swimming four hours and twenty minutes ; and I 
am sure that I could have continued two hours 
longer, though I had on a pair of trowsers, an ac- 
icoutrement, which by no means assists the per- 
I formance. My" two companions were also/b^r hours 
^, , ^i- • ^ i. ^1. T. 1. 1 . iTi the water. Mengaldo might be about thirty 

the stream on this part of the European bank, niust ,,f gcott about six-and-twenty. 

arrive at the Asiatic shore. This is so far from P .. with this experience in swimming, at different 
being the case, that it mmst arrive m the Archi- 3^.iods of life, not only upon the 8p5t, but else- 
pela-o. If left to the current, although a strong ^^j^^^ ^^.^^^.^^^^^^ ;;j^^t ^3 tl^^^.^ ^^ ^^j.^ ,^^ 
mnd m the Asiatic direction might ^have such an ^^^^^ ^hat Leander's exploit was perfectly nracti 



jSTaples, and if they lose a single battle, all Italy 
wiL be up. It will be Uke the Spanish row, if they 
Have any bottom. 

" ' Letters opened ?' — to be sure they ara, and 
that's the reason why I always put in my opinion of' 
:he German Austrian scoundrels. There is not 
an Italian who loathes them more than I do ; and 
whatever I could do to scour Italy and the earth of 
*beir infamous oppression would be done co7i amore. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

"Ravenna, feb. 21, 1821. • 

"In. the forty-fourth page, volume first, of 
Turner's Travels, (which you lately sent me,) it is 
stated that ' Lord Byron, when he expresssd such 
confidence of its practicability, seems " to have for- 
gotten that Leander swam iioth ways, with and 
against the tide ; whereas he (Lord Byron) only 
performed the easie'st part of the task by swim- 
ming with it from Europe to Asia.' I certainly 
could not have forgotten, what is known to every 
«choo]boy, that Leander crossed in the night, and 
returned towards the morning. My object was, to 
ascertain that the Hellespont could be crossed at all 
Dy swimming, and in this Mr. Ekenhead and toyself 
both succeeded, the one in an hour and ten minutes, 
and the other in an hour and five minutes. The 
tide was 7iot in our favor ; on the contrarj', the 
great difficulty was to- bear up against the current, 
which, so far from helping us into the Asiatic side, 
Bet us dowT right toward the Archipelago. Neither 
Mr. Ekenhead, myself, nor, I will venture to add, 
any person on board the frigate, from Captain 
Bathurst do^vnwards, had any notion of a difference 
of the current on the Asiatic side, of which Mr. 
Turner speaks. I never heard of it till this mo- 
ment, or I would have taken the other course. 
Lieutenant Ekenhead's sole motive, and mine also 
for setting out from the European side was 
the little cape above Sestos was a more prominent 
starting-place, and the frigate, which lay below, 
close under the Asiatic castle, formed a better point 
of view for us to swim towards ; and, in fact, we 
landed immediately below it. 

" Mr. Turner says, ' Whatever is thrown into 



effect occasionally 

" Mr. Turner attempted the passage from the 
Asiatic side, and failed : ' After '^ve-and-twenty 
minutes, in which he did not advance a hundred 
yards, he gave it up from complete exhaustion.' 
Thi.'* is very possible, and might have occurred to 
him just as readily on the European side. He 
fthould have set out a couple of miles higher, and 
CO aid then have come out below the European 
castle. I particularly stated, and Mr. Hobhouse 
}ias done so also, that we were obliged to make the 
real passage of one mile extend to between three 
and /bur, owing to the force of the stream. I can 
assiire Mr. Turner, that his success would have 
given mf great pleasure, as it would have added one 
more ir stance to the proofs c f the probability. It 
is not quite fair in him to infer, that because he 
failed Leander could not succeed. There are still 
four instances on record : a Neapolitan, a young 
Jew, Mr. Ekenhead, and myself; the last done in 
*he presence of hundreds of English witnesses. 




ploit was perfectly practi 
cable ? If three individuals did more than the 
passage of the Hellespont, why should he have 
less ? But Mr. Turner failed, and naturally seek- 
ing a plausible reason for his failure, lays the 
blame on the Asiatic side of the strait. He tried 
to swim directly across, instead of going higher up 
to take the vantage ; he might as well have tried to 
fly over Mount Athos. 

" That a young Greet of the heroic times, in 
love, and ^vith his limbs in full vigor, might have 
succeeded in such an attempt is neither wonderful 
nor doubtful. Whether he attempted it or not ia 
another question, because he might have had a 
small boat to save him the trouble. 

" I am yours very truly, 
"BrRON. 

" P. S. Mr. Turner says that the swimming from 
Europe to Asia was ' the easiest part of the task. 
I doubt whether Leander found it so, as it was the 
return ; however, he had several hours between the 
intervals. The argument of Mr. Turner ' that 
higher up, or lower down the strait widens so coa 
siderably that he could save little labor by hif 



LETTERS. 



921 



Itarting,' is only good for indifferent swimmers; 
ft man cf any practice or skill will always consider 
the distance less than the strength of the stream. 
If Ekenhead and myself had thought of crossing 
at the narrowest point, instead of going up to the 
Cape above it, we should have been swept aown to 
Tenedos. The strait, however, is not so extremely 
wide even where it broadens above and below the 
forts. As the frigate was stationed some time in 
the Dardanelles waiting for the firman, I bathed 
often in the straits subsequently to our traject, and 
generally on the Asiatic side, without perceiving 
the greater strength of the opposite stream by 
which the diplomatic traveller palliates his own 
failure. Our amusement in the small bay which 
opens immediately below the Asiatic fort was to 
dive for the land tortoises, which we flung in on 
purpose, as they amphibiously crawled along the 
bottom. This does not argue any greater violence 
of current than on the European shore. With re- 
gard to the modest insinuation that we chose the 
European side as * easier,' I appeal to Mr. Hob- 
house and Captain Bathurst if it be true or no, 
(poor Ekenhead being since dead.) Had we been 
aware of any such difference of current as is as- 
serted, we would at least have proved it, and were 
not likely to have given it up in the twenty-five 
minutes of Mr. Turner's own experiment. The 
secret of all this is, that Mr. Turner failed, and 
that we succeeded ; and he is consequently disap- 
pointed, and seems not unwilling to overshadow 
whatever little merit there might be in our success. 
Why did he not try the European side ? If he had 
succeeded there, after failing on the Asiatic, his 
plea would have been more graceful and gracious. 
Mr. Turner may find what fault he pleases with my 

f)oetry, or my politics ; but I recommend him to 
eave aquatic reflections till he is able to swim 
' five-and-twenty minutes' without being ^exhamted,' 
though I believe he is the first modern Tory who 
ever swam * against the stream' for half the time." 



LETTER CCCCLXXX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 






" Ravenna, Feb. 22, 1821 

•• As I wish the soul of the late Antoine Galignani 
to rest in peace, (you will have read his death pub- 
listied by himself, in his own newspaper), you are 
requested particularly to inform his children and 
neirs, that of their ' Literary Gazette,' to which I 
subscribed more than two mouths ago, I have only 
ceccived one nuniber, notwithstanding I have writ- 
ten to them repeatedly. If tliey have no regard for 
me, a subscriber, they ought to have some for their 
deceased parent, who is undoubtedly no better olf 
in his present residence for his total want of atten- 
tion. If not, let me have my francs. They were 
paid by Missiaglia, the rFenetian bookseller. You 
may also hint to them that when agentlcnuui writes 
• letter, it is usual to send an answer. If not, I 
■hall make them ' a speech,* which will comprise un 
eulogy on the deceased. 

" \Ve arc here full of war, and within two days of 
the seat of it, expecting intelllgonoc monientlv,— 
We shall now see if our ItaUan frieiulK are good for 
ftny tiling but ' shooting round a corner," like the 
'"irishman's gun. Excuse haste,— I write with my 
•purs putting on. Mv horses are at the door, and 
\u Italian Count waiting to acconxpanv me in my 
ride. ** Yours, Xc. 

" P. S. Pray, among my letters, did you get one 
detailing the donth of the commandant here ? Ho 
w»m killed near niv door, and died in my house, 
lid 



BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 



To the air of « How now, Madame Flirt,' in tie Beg 
gar's Opera. 

"Boole*. 
•* Why, how now, laucy Tom, 
If you tuua raun ramble, 
I will publish lome 
Ranoarks on Mr. CunpbeU. 

" OampbtU. 
•« Why, how now, Billy BowIm, 
*c, Ac., kc 



LETTER CCCCLXXXL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 
• " March 2, laiU 

" This was the beginning of a letter whicK J 
meant for Perry, but stopped short hoping that yoq 
would be able to prevent the theatres. Of course 
you need not send it ; but it explains to you my 
feelings on the subject. You say that ' there ia 
nothing to fear, let them do what they please,' that 
is to say, that you would see me damned with great 
tranquillity. You are a fine fellow " 



LETTER CCCCLXXAf 



TO MR. PERRY. 

"Rareana, Jui. 'ii, i8il. 

" Dear Sir, 

*' I have received a strange piece of news, which 
cannot be more disagreeable to your public than it 
is to me. Letters and the gazettes do me the honor 
to say, that it is the intention of some of the Londou 
managers to bring forward on tlieir stage the poi-m 
of ' Marino Faliero,' &c., which was never intondt-d 
for such an exhibition, and 1 trust will never under- 
go it. It is certainly unfit for it. I have never written 
but for the solitary reader, and require no experi 
ments for applause beyond his silent am)robation.— 
Since such an attempt to drag mo fortii as a gladia 
tor in the theatrical arena is a violation of all th< 
courtesies of literature, I trust that the impartiaJ 
part of the press will step between me and this pol- 
lution. I SUV polluticm, because every violation o! 
a ri(/h( is such, and I claim my right as an iiuthot 
to prevent what I have written from being turned 
into a stage-play. I have too much ro-«i)ect fo» 
the public to permit this of iny own free will Had 
I souglit their favor, it would navo boon by a p»n- 
tominc. 

*• I have said that I write only for the rr ndcr.- 
Bcyond this I cannot oonsci.t tt) any publication, oj 
to the abuse of any publication of mine to the pur- 
poses of histrionism. The applauses of an audi- 
ence would uive me no pleasure; their disapproba- 
tion might, however, give me pain. The wager il 
therefore not equal. You may, nerluipa, »ny, ' IloW 
can this be.' if their disapprol)ation gives pain, 
their praise might iilford pleasure ? ' By no means : 
the kick of an as8 or the sting of n wasp may be 
painful to those who would find nothing agre»j- 
uble in the braying of the one or the bulling oT tltr 
other. 

" This mnv not aocra a courteous rompariton, but 
I have no other ready ; and it occurs natur'UlT 



922 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETl-ER CCCCLXXXIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



4 , " Ravenna, Mano, 1821. 

'^ De 4r Moray, 

"In my packet of the 12th instant, in the last 
sheet, (not the half* sheet,) last page, omit the 
sentence which (defining, or attempting to define, 
what and who are gentlemen) begins ' I should say 
at least in life that most military men have it, and 
few naval ; that several m.en of rank have it, and 
few lawyers,' &c., &c. I say, omit the whole of tii^t 
sentence, because, like the ' cosmogony, or creation 
of the world,' in the * Vicar of Wakefield,' it is not 
Jiuch to the purpose. 

" In the sentence above, too, almost at the top of 
the same page, after the words ' that there ever was, 
or can be, an aristocracy of poets,' add and insert 
these words — ' I do not mean that they should write 
in the style of the song by a person of quality, or 
parle eupkms)ti ■ but thei-e is a nobility of thought 
and expression to be found no less in Shakspeare, 
Pope, and Burns, than in Dante, AWeri,' &c., &c., 
and so on. Or, if you please, perhaps you had bet- 
ter omit the whole of the latter digression on the 
vulgar poets, and insert only as far as the end of 
the sentence on Pope's Homer, where 1 prefer it to 
Cowper's and quote Dr. Clarke in favor of its accu- 
racy. 

" Upon all these points, take an opinion; take 
the sense (or nonsense) of your learned visitants, 
and act thereby. I am very tractable — in prose. 

" Whether I. have made out the case for Pope, I 
know not ; but I am very sure that I have been 
zealous in the attempt. If it comes to the proofs, 
we shall beat the blackguards. I will show more 
imagery in twenty lines of Pope than in any equal 
length of quotation in English poesy, and that in 
places where they least expect it. , For instance, in 
his lines on S^wrus, — now, do just read them over — 
the subject is of no consequence (whether it be sa- 
tire or epic) — we are talking of poetry and itnac/ery 
from nature and art. Now mark the images sepa- 
•■ately and arithmetically: — 

** 1. The thing of silk. 

2. Curd of ass's milk. 

3. The huUerfly. 

4. The wheel. • 

5. Bug mth gilded wings. 

6. Painted child of dirt. 

7. Whose buzz. 

8. Well-bred spaniels. 

9. Shalloio streams run dimpling. 

10. Florid impc^tence. 

11. Prompter. Puj^pet squeaks. 

12. The ear of Eve. 

13. Familiar toad. 

14. Half froth, half venom, j!/)}Vs himself abroad. 

15. Fop at the toilet. 

16. Flatterer at the hoard. 

17. A/yiphibictis thing. 

18 Now trips a lady. 

19 Now struts a lord. 

20. A cherub's face. 

21. A reptile all the rest. 
22 The Rabbi7is. 

23. Pride that licks the dust — 

■ Beauty thai »! iiki you, parts that none vi!l tnirt, 
Wit tliat can creep, and pride that lickt the dual.' 

* Now, is there a line of all the passage without 
fche most forcible imagery, (for his purpose ?) Look 
%t the variety— dit the poetry of the passage— at the 
Imagination: there is hardly a line from which a 
painting might not be made, and is. But this is 
Dothimg in comparison with his higher passages in 
the Essay on Man, and many of his other poems, 
»crious and comic. There never was such an unjust 

* Beconc letter in aunrer to Bowie*. 



outcry m this world as that which these fellcvrs at« 

trying against Pope. 

"Ask Mr. Giff'ord if, in the fifth act of *thfl 
Doge,' you could not contrive (where the sentence 
of the Veil is passed) to insert the folloiving lines in 
Marino Faliero's answer ? 

But let il be so. It will be in vain : 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name, 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineaments, 
Sh;.ll draw more gazers than the thousand portrttitf 
Which glitter round it in tbeir painted trappings, 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants.* 

" Yo irs truly, <Skc. , 
"P. S. Upon public matters here I say little; 
you will all hear soon enough of a general ro"» 
throughout Italy. There never was a move foolish 
step than the expedition to Naples by these fellows, 
" I wish to propose to Holmes, the miniature 
painter, to come out to me this spring. I will pay 
his expenses, and any sum in reason. I wish him 
to tal^e my daughter's picture, (who is in a con- 
vent), and the CounUess G.'s, and the head of a 
peasant girl, which latter would make a study for 
Raphael. It is a complete peasant face, but an 
Italian peasant's and quite in the Raphael Forna- 
rina style. Her figure is tall, but rather large, and 
not at all comparable with her face, which is really 
superb. She is not seventeen, and I am anxious to 
have her face while it lasts. Madame G. is also 
very handsome, but 'tis quite in a different style- 
completely blonde and fair — very uncommon in 
Italy ; yet not an English fairness, but more likely 
a Swede or a Norwegian. Her figure, too, particu- 
larly the bust, is uncommonly good. It must be 
Holmes : I like hjm because he takes such invete- 
rate likenesses. There is a war here ; but a solitary 
traveller, with but little baggage, and nothing to do 
with politics, has nothing to fear. Pack him up in 
the diligence. Don't forget " 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIV. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" Ravenna, April 3, 1821. 

" Thanks for the ti-anslation. I have sent you 
some books, which I do not know whether yoQ 
have read or no — you need not return them, in 
any case. I enclose you also a letter from Pisa. I 
have neither spared trouble nor expense in the care 
of the child; and as she was. now four years old 
complete, and quite above the control of the ser- 
vants — and as a man living without any woman at 
the head of his house cannot much attend lo a 
nursery — I had no resource but to place her for a 
time fat a high pension too) in the convent of Bagna- 
Cavalli, (twelve miles off,) Avhere the air is good, 
and where she will, at least, have her learning ad- 
vanced, and her morals and religion inculcated. 1 
had also another reason ; — things were and are ih 
such a state here, that I had no reason to look upon 
my own personal safety as particularly ensurablc; 
and I thought the infant best out of harm's way fir 
the present. 

" It is also fit that I should add that I by nd'v 
means intended, or intend, to give a nattiral child 
an English education, because with the disadvan- 
tages of her birth, her ^fter-settlement would be 
doubly difficult. Abroad, with a fair foreign educa- 
tion and a portion of five or six thousand pcAxnds, 
she might and may marry very respectably. In 
England such a dowry would be a pittance, while 
elsewhere it is a fortune. It is, besides, my wish 
that she should be a Roman Catholic, which I look 
upon as the best religion, as it is assuredly the old 

* Tbeae line* wen Mf er inwrted in ti« tngedy. 



LETTERS. 



923 



/ C8l of the various branches of Christianity. I have 
^~now explained my notions as to the place where she 
now is — it is the best I could find for the present ; 
but I have no prej udices in its favor. 

" I do not speak of politics, because it seems a 
hopeless subject, as long as those scjundi'els are 
to be permitted to bully states out of their inde- 
pendence Believe me 

" Yours ever and truly. 

** P. S. There is a report here of a change in 
France ; but with what truth is not yet kncwn. 
^ " P. S. My respects to Mrs. H. I have the ' best 
■opisiion ' of her countrywomen ; and at my time of 
Ufe, (three-and-thirty, 22d January, 1821,) that is 
to say, after the life I have led, a good opinion is 
the only rational one which a man sliould entertain 
of the whole sex : — up to thirty, the worst possible 
opinion a man can have of them in yeneral, the 
better for himself. Afterward, it is a laatter of 
no importance to them, nor to him either, ichat 
opinion he entertains — his day is over, or, at least 
ihould be. 

" You se«' how sober I am become. 



LETTER CCCCLXXXV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, April 21, 1821, 

• I enclose yoix another letter on Bowles. But I 
premise that it is not like the former, and that I am 
not at all sure how much, if any, of it should be pub- 
lished. Upon this point you can consult with Mr. 
Gifford, and think twice before you publish it at all. 
" Yours truly, 
"B. 

''P. S. You may make my subscription for Mr. 
Scott's widow, &c., thirty instead of the proposed 
ten pounds: but do not put down my name; put 
down N. N. only. The reason is, that, as I have 
mentioned him in the enclosed pamphlet, it would 
lOok indelicate. I would give more, but my disap- 
pointments last year about Rochdale and the trans- 
fer from the funds render me more economical for 
the present." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVI. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

" Ravenna, April 28, I82L 

' The child continues doing well, and the accounts 
M3 regular and favorable. It is gratifying to me 
that you and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the 
Btep which I have taken, wliich is merely tempo- 
rary.* 

" I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats — 
'' is it actually true ? I did not think criticism had 
been 80 killing. Thi/ugh 1 dilfcr from you essenti- 
ally iu your estimate of his pcrrormanccs, I so much 
fcbhor all unnecessary \y,n\\, that I would rather he 
had been seated on tlie higlu-st peak of ParuasHUH 
than have pcrislicd in such a manner. Poor tellow! 
though with such fnordinate self-love he would pro- 
bably have not been very happy. I read the review 
of • Endyiiilon ' in the Quarterly. It was »evcre,— 
but surely not ko severe as my reviews in that and 
other journals upon others. 

" I recollect i\w oif'i ct on me of the Edinburgh on 
/ my fii«t poem ; it was rage, and reHistance, and 
/ redress— l)ut not despojideney nor despair. 1 grant 
f that tliose arc not auii!il)le feelings ; but, in this 
' world of hustle and broil, and osijceially in the oa- 
> rrer of writing, a mm sliould calcula^e upon his 
pOT^rs of reaistance before he goes into the arena. 



' Expect not life f-i.i> pain nor dai -er free 
Nor deem the doom of man reverted for tli 



" You know my opinion of that second-hand si.nool 
of poetry. You also know my high opinion of youT 
own poetry, — because it is of no school. I read 
Cenci — but, besides that I think the subject essen- 
tially imdramatic, I am not an admirer of our old 
dramatists, 06' models. I deny that the English 
have hitherto had a drama at all. Your Ceiici, 
however, was a work of power and poetry. As to 
my drama, pray revenge yourself upon it', I y being 
as free as I have been with yours. 

" I have not yet got your Prometheus, which 1 
long to see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do 
not know that it is yet publi^hed. I have pul•li^>hed 
a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will 
not like. Had I known that Keats was d'cud — of 
that he was alive and so sensitive — I should have 
omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which 1 
was provoked by his attack upon Pope, and my dis- 
approbation of his own style of writing. 

" You want me to undertake a great poem, — 1 
ha^ not the inclination nor the power. As I grow 
older, the inditference — 7iot to life, for we love it by 
instinct — but to the stimuli of life, increases. Be- 
sides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly 
disappointed me for many reasons, — some pubUc, 
some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. 

" Yours ever. 

" P. S. Could not you and I contrive to meet 
this summer ? Could not you take a run heiw 
alone ^ " 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVIL 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, April 28, ISit. 

" I sent you by last postis a large packet, which 
will not do for publication, (I suspect,) being, aa 
the apprentices say, ' damned low.' I put otf also 
for a week or two sending the Italian scrawl which 
will form a note to it. The reason is, that lettem 
being opened, I wish to ' bide a wee.' 

" Well, have you published the tragedy ? and doen 
the letter take ? 

"Is it true what Shelley wTites me, that iiooi 
John Keats died at Rome of the Quarterly Review ? 
I am very sorry for it, though I think he took the 
wrong line as a poet, and was spoiled by Cockney 
fying, and suburbing, and versifying Tooke's Pan 
theon and Lempriere's Dictionary. I know, b) 
exi)erience, that a savage review is hemlock to • 
sucking author; and the one on me (whiih j)ro- 
duced the English 13ards. <S:c.) knocked me down- 
but I got up again. Instead of bursting a blood 
vessel, I drank tlnee bottles of elaret. and begtin utt 
answer, finding that there was nothing in the article 
for which I could lawfully kuoek Jellrey on the 
head, in an honorable way. However, I would net 
be the person who wrote the lioinicidal artiele foi 
all the honor and j^lory in the world, though I ut 
no means approve of that school of scribbling wh 
it treats upon. 

" You see the Italians have made a sad husint ?<» 
of it — all owing to treachery and distminn among 
tl-cmselves. It has given me great vexation. The 
exec~atioiis heaped upon the Neaptditans by the 
other Italians arc quite in unison with those of the 
rest of Hurope. " Yours, Ac. 

** P. S. Your latest packet of book* \» on its 
way hero, but not arrived. Kenilworth pxeelleuj,^^ 
Thanks for the pocket-hooks, of whieii I have nt.ide 
|>resents to ihoNe ladies who like cuts, and l.ind 
scapes, and all that. I have got iin Itilian hook of 
two which 1 should liko to send you if I hud au cp^ 
jiortunity. 



924 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1 am not at present in the very highest health 
—spring, probably ; so I have lowered my diet and 
taken to Epsom salts. 

" As you say my prose is good, why don't you 
treat with Moore for the reversion of the Memoirs ? 
—conditionally, recollect ; not to be published before 
decease. He has the permission to dispose of them, 
Kud I advised him to do so." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXVIII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, April 28, 1821. 

" You cannot have been more disappointed than 
aayself, nor so much deceived. I have been so at 
some personal risk also, which is not yet done away 
with. However, no time nor circumstances shall 
alter my tone nor my feelings of indignation against 
tyranny triumphant. The present business has 
been as much a work of treachery as of cowardice, 
—though both may have done their part. If ever 
you and I meet again, I will have a talk with you 
upon the subject. At present, for obvious reasons, 
I can write but little, as all letters are opened. In 
mine they shall always find my sentiments, but 
nothing that can lead to the oppression of others. 

" You wiU please to recollect that the Neapolitans 
are nowhere now more execrated than in Italy, and 
not blame a whole people for the vices of a province. 
That would be like condemning Great Britain be- 
cause they plunder wrecks in Cornwall. 

"And now let us be literary; — a sad falling off, 
but it is always a consolation. If ' Othello's occu- 
pation ' be gone, let us take to the next b*est ; and, 
if we cannot contribute to make mankind more free 
and wise, we may amuse ourselves and those who 
like it. What are you writing ? I have been scrib- 
bling at intervals, and Murray will be publishing 
about now. 

" Lady Noel has, as you say, been dangerously 
ill ; but it may console you to learn that she is dan- 
gerously well again. 

"I have written a sheet or two more of Memo- 
randa for you ; and I kept a little journal for about 
a month or two, till I had filled the paper-book. I 
then left it off, as things grew busy, and, afterward, 
too gloomy to set down without a painful feeling. 
This I should be glad to send you, if I had an op- 
portunity ; but a volume, however small, don't go 
well by such posts as exist in this inquisition of a 
country. 

" I have no news. As a very pretty woman said 
to me a few nights ago, with the tears in her eyes, 
as she sat at the harpsichord, ' Alas ! the Italians 
must now return to making operas.' I fear that 
and macaroni are their forte, and ' motley their 
only wear.' However, there are some high spirits 
among them still. Pray write, 

" And believe me, &c." 



LETTER CCCCLXXXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Ravenna, May 3, 1821. 

*« Though I wrote to you on the 28th ultimo, I 
must acknowledge yours of this day, with the 
lines.* They are sublime, as well as beautiful, 
and in your very best mood and manner. They are 
also but too true However, do not confound the 
ncoundrels at the heel of the boot with their betters 

« Ar, dov . to the duat with them, alavea aj they aie," ftc., •«. 



at the top of it. I assure you that there are voiLt 
loftier spirits. 

"Nothing, however, can better than your poem 
or more deserved by the lazzaroni. They are no\i 
abhorred and disclaimed nowhere more than here 
We will talk over these things (if we meet) som< 
day, and I will recount my own adventures, some o 
which have been a little hazardous, perhaps. 

*' So you have got the letter on Bowles ? I do 
not recollect to -have said any thing of you that 
could offend, — certainly, nothing intentionally. Aa 
for * *, I meant him a compliment. I wrote the 
whole off-hand, without copy or correction, and ex 
pecting then every day to be called into the field. 
What have I said of you ? I am sure I forget. II 
must be something of regret for your approbation 
of Bowles. Ar„d did you not approve, as he says ? 
Would I had known that before ! I would hav« 
given him some more gruel. My intention was to 
make fun of all these fellows ; but how I succee led, 
I don't know. 

"As to Pope, I have always regarded him as the 
greatest name in our poetry. Depend upon it, the 
rest are barbarians. He is a Greek Temple, with 
a Gothic Cathedral on one hand, and a Turkish 
Mosque and all sorts of fantastic pagodas and con 
veil tides about him. You may call Shakspeara 
and Milton pyramids, if you please, but I prefer the ^ 
Temple of Theseus or the Parthenon to a mountain ^ 
of burnt brick-work. 

" The Murray has written to me but once, the day 
of its publication, when it seemed prosperous. But 
I have heard of late from England but rarely. Oi 
Murray's other publications (of mine) I know 
nothing, — nor whether he has published. He waa 
to have done so a month ago. I wish you would df 
something, or that we were together. 

'• Ever yours and affectionately, 

•« B " 



LETTER CCCCXC. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Ravenna, May 10, 1821. 

" I have just got your packet. I am obliged to 
Mr. Bowles, and Mr. Bowles is obliged to me, foi 
having restored hini to good humor. He is to write, 
and you to publish, what you please, — m4)(to an^ 
subject. I desire nothing but fair play for all par 
ties. Of course, after the new tone of Mr. Bowles 
you will not publish my defence of Gilchrist : i< 
would be brutal to do so after his urbanity, for it is. 
rather too rough, like his own attack upon Gilchrist. 
You may tell him what I say there of his Missiona- 
ry, (it is praised, as it deserves.) However, and ii 
there are any passages ?iot personal to Bowles, and 
yet bearing upon the question, you may add ^em 
to the reprint (if it is reprinted) of my first letter 
to you. Upnn this consult Gifford ; and, above all, 
don't let any thing be added which can pers<ynally 
affect Mr. Bowles. 

" In the en3losed notes, of course, what T say of 
the democracy of portry cannot apply to Mr, Bowles, 
but to the Cockney and water washing-tub schools. 

" I hope and trust that Ellistoci woti't be permit- 
ted to act the irama ! Surely he might have the 
grace to wait fo. Kean's return before he attempted 
it ; though, even then, I should be as much against 
the attempt as ever. 

" I have got a small packet of books, but neither 
Waldegrave, Oxford, nor Scott's novel's among 
them. Why don't you republish Hodgson's Child* 
Harold s Monitor and Latino-mastix ? they are ex 
cellent. Think of this, — they are all for Pope. 

"Yours. See." 



i.ETTERa. 



92c 



f 



LETTER CCCCXCI. 

TO MR. HOPPNEB. 

" RaTenna, May 11, l«2l. 

• If I had but known your notion about Switzer- 
.and before, I should have adopted it at once. As 
It is, I shall let the child remain in her convent 
where she seems healthy and happy, for the present 
but I shall feel much obliged if you will inquire^ 
when you are in the cantons, about the usual and 
better modes of education there for females, and let 
me know the result of your opinions. It is some 
consolation that both Mr. and Mrs. Shelley have 
written to approve entirely my placing the child 
with the nuns for the present. I can refer to my 
whole conduct, as having neither spared care, kind- 
ness, nor expense, since the child was sent to me 
The people may say what they please, I must con- 
tent myself with not deserving (in this insta^^) 
that they should speak ill. 

" The place is a country town, in a good air, 
whore there is a large establishment for education 
and many children, some of considerable rank, 
plac/^d in it. As a country town, it is less liable 
to objections of every kind. It has always appeared 
to me, that the moral defect in Italy does not pro- 
ceed from a conventual education, — because, to ray 
certain knowledge, they came out of their convents 
mnocent even to igiiorance of moral evil, — but to 
the state of society into which they are directly 
plunged on coming out of It. It is like educating 
an infant on a mountain-top, and then taking him 
to the sea and throwing him into it and desiring 
him to swim. The evil, however, though still too 
general, is partly wearing away, as the women are 
more permitted to marry from attachment ; this is, 
I believe, the case also in France. And, after all, 
what is the higher society of En.^land "i According 
to my own experience, and to all that I have seen 
and heard, (and I have lived there in the very high- 
est and what is called the best,) no way of life can 
be more corrupt. In Italy, however, it is, or rather 
was, more systematized, but now, they themselves 
are asharaea of regular serventism. In England, 
the only homage which they pay to virtue is hypoc- 
risy. I speak of course, of the tone of high life, — 
the middle ranks may be very virtuous. 

" I have not got any copy (nor have yet had) of 
the letter on 'Bowles ; of course I should be dtlight- 
ed to send it to you. How is Mrs. H. } well again, 
I hope*. Let me know when you set out. I regret 
that I cannot meet you in the Bernese Alps this 
summer, as I once hoped and intended. With my 
best respects to madam, " I am ever, &c. 

" P. S. I gave to a musicianer a letter for you 
Bometime ago ; has he presented himself? Perhaps 

Sou could introduce him to the Ingrains and other 
ilcttanti. He is simple and unassuming — two 
strange things in his profession — and he fiddles 
like Orpheus himself or Amphion ; 'tis a pity that 
he can't make Venice dance away from the brutnl 
tyrant who tramples upon it." 



LETTER CCCCXCIL 

TO MR. MURRAT. 

"May U, 1831. 

" A Milan paper states that the play has been 
represented and universally condomnea. Ah re- 
monstrance has been vain, "complaint would bo use- 
less. I presume, however for your own sake, (if 
not for mine,) that you and my other friends will 
have at least published my ditforont protests against | vant.ij? 



not dejected, and I shall not take the usual resourct 
of blaming the public, (which was in the right,) oi 
my friends for not preventing — what they could not 
help, nor I neither — b- forced representation by « 
speculating manager. It is a pity, that you did not 
show them its unjitness for the stage before the play 
\ya.s published, and exact a promise from the mana- 
gers not to act it. In case of their refusal, we would 
not have published it at all. But this is too late. 

" Yours. 

"P. S. I enclose Mr. Bowles's letters; thank 
him in my name for their candor and kindness.— 
Also a letter for Hodgson, which pray forward. Ths 
Milan paper states that I '■ bromjht forucard the 
play ! ! ! ' This is pleasanter still. iSut don't let 
yourself be worried about it ; and if (as is likely^ 
the folly of Elliston checks the sale, I am ready to 
make any deduction, or the entire cancel of ycur 
agreement. 

" You will of course not publish my defence of 
Gilchrist, as after Bowles's good humor upon th* 
subject, it would be too savage. 

" Let me hear from you the particulars; for, as 
yet, I have only the simple fact. 

"If you knew what I have had to go through 
here, on account of the failure of these rascally 
Neapolitans, you would be amused : but it is no w 
apparently over. They seemed disposed to th'ow 
the whole project and plans of these parts* upor me 
chiefly." 



LETTER CCCCXCIIL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Miy M, lltn. 

** If any part of the letter to Bowles has (unin 
tentionally, as far as I remember the contents) 
vexed you, you are fully avenged ; for I see by an 
Italian paper, that, notwithstanding all my remon- 
strances through all my friends, (and' yourself 
among the rest,) the managers persisted in attempt 
ing the tragedy, and that it has been • nnanimouslj 
hissed ! ! ' This is the consolatory phrase of the 
Milan paper, (which detests me cordially, and 
abuses me, on all occasions, as a Liberal,) with the 
addition, that I ' brought the play out ' of my own 
good-will. 

All this is vexatious enough, and seems a sort 
of dramatic Calvinism — predestined damnati«)n, 
without a sinner's own fault. I took all the paina 
poor mortal could to prevent this ine\'ital)le cntiis 
trojjho — partly by appeals of all kinds up to th« 
Lord Chamberlain, and partly to the fellows thom 
selves. But, as remonstrance was vain, complaint 
is useless. I do not understand it — for Mtirray** 
letter of the 24th, ar.d all his ])reootling ones, gavt 
me the strongest hopes tliat tlu-n- wotUd he no re 
presentation. As yet, I know nothing but the fact, 
which I presume to be true, as the date is Paris, and 
the 30th. They must have btM'n in a hell of a hurry 
for this damnation, since I did not even knew that 
it was published ; and, without its being first pub- 
lished, the histrions could nut have got hold of it. 
Any one might have seen, at a glance, that it wu 
utterly im^jraoticable for the stage ; and this littl* 
accident will by no moans enhance its merit in ti»« 
closet. 

Well, patience is a virtue, and, T -lao 

tu'c will make it perfect. Since li ii^ 

that is,) I huvo lost a lawsuit, uf gii up, 

on Rochdale collieries — have oci'asiontd a dj voice— 
have had my poesy disparaged oy Murray and the 
riticH — my fortune refused to bo placed on an ad- 



its being brought upon the stage at all ; and ha^ 
shown that Elliston (in spite of the writer) /br, 
a upon the theatre. It would be nonsense to - 
that this has not vexed me a Kood deal, but 1 a 



sctthMuent (in Irelar.d) by t*.p trustpot 

life threatened last month — (thVy ]>»it n»>o«t • 

' excite anattempi tinn, 

nt)litic«, and a i\" 'st| 

1 that I was iu a k.^i^u .^ r-; ii.. lje^ 



926 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



mans)— and, finally, lay mother-in-law recovered 
last fortnight, and niy play was damned last week !* 
These are like ' the eight-and-twenty misfortunes of 
Harlequin.' But they must be jorne. If I give in, 
it shall be after keeping up a spirit at least. I should 
not have cared so much about it, if our southern 
neighbors had not bungled us all out of freedom for 
'hese five hundred years to come. 

" Did you know John Keats ? They say that he 
was killed by a review of him in the Quarterly — if 
I.e be dead, which I really don't know.f I don't 
understand that yieldinq sensitiveness. What I 
feel (as at this present^ is an immense rage for 
wiglit-and-fovty hours, and then, as usual — unless 
ihis time it should last longer. 1 must get on horse- 
back to qdiet me. " Yours, &c. 

'• Francis I. wrote, after the battle of Pavia, ' All 
Is lost except our honor.' A hissed author may re- 
verse it — ' Nothing is, \oiit e\Q.e\)t our honor.' But 
the horses are waiting, and the paper full. I wrote 
last week to you." 



LETTER CCCCXCIV. 



TO MR. MrRRAY, 



' Ravenna, May 19, 1821. 

"By the papers of Thursday, and two letters 
of Mr. Kinnaird, I-perceive that the Italian Gazette 
had lied most Italically, and that the drama had not 
Deen hissed, and that my friends had interfered to 
prevent the representation. So it seems they con- 
tinue to act it in spite of us all: for this we must 
'trouble them at 'size.' Let it by all means be 
brought to a plea : I am determined to try the right, 
and will meet the expenses. The reason of the 
Lombard lie was that the Austrians — who keep up 
an Inquisition throughout Italy, and a list of names 
of all who think or speak of any thing but in favor 
of their despotism — have for five years past abused 
me in every form in the Gazette of Milan, &c. I 
wiote to you a week ago on the subject. 

" Now% I should be glad to know whatcompensa 
tion Mr. Elliston would make me, not only for drag 
ging my writings on the stage in Jive days, but for 
being the cause that I was kept for four days (from 
Sunday to Thursday morning, the only post days) 
in the belief that the tragedy had been acted and 
' unanimously hissed ; ' and this with the addition 
that / ' had brought it upon the stage,' and conse- 
quently that none of my friends had attended to my 
request to the contrary. Suppose that I had burst 
a blood-vessel, like John Keats, or blown my brains 
out in a fit of rage. — neither of which would have 
been unlikely a few years ago. At present I am, 
luckily, calmer than I used to be, and yet I would 
not pass those four days over again for — I know not 
^hat. 

" I wrote to you to keep up your spirits, for re- 
proach is useless always, and irritating — but my 
feelings were very much hurt, to be dragged like a 
gjadiator to the fate of a gladiator by that ' retia- 
nws,' Mr. Elliston, As to his defence and offers of 
compensation, what is all this to the purpose ? It 
is like Louis the XIV. who insisted upon buying 
at any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his 
refusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his 
horse. I could not shoot my tragedy, but I would 
have flung it into the fire rather than have had it 
represented. 

" I have now written nearly thrae acts of another, 
intending to complete it in five,) and am more anx- 
ious than ever to be preserved from such a breach 
of all literary courtesy and gentlemanly considera- 

*' If we succeed, well; if not, previous to any fu- 



ture publication we will request di^-'for^nse not to "% 
acted, which I would even pay for, (as money ig 
their object,) or I will not publish — which, however 
you \v\\\ prooably not much regret. 

' The Chancellor has behaved nobly. You have 
also conducted yourself in the most satisfactory 
manner ; and I have no fault to find with any body 
but the stage-players, and their proprietors. I wag 
ahvays so civil to Elliston, personally, that he ought 
to have been the last to attempt to injure me. 

" There is a most rattling thunder-storm pelting 
away at this present writing ; so that I write neithei 
by day, nor by candle, nor torch light, but by ligM- 
niny light : the fiashes are as brilliant as the most 
gaseous glow of the gas-light company. Mychim-" 
ney board has just been thrown down by a gust oi 
wind : I thought it was the ' Bold Thunder ' and 
' Brisk Lightning ' in person. — Three of us wculd 
be too many. There it goes,— flash again ! but 

' 1 tax not you, ye elements, with uniiindness; 
1 never gave ye franks, nor caii'd upon you : ' 

as I have done by and upon Mr. Elliston. 

" Why do you not write ? You should at least 
send me a line of particulars : I know nothing yet 
but by Galignani and the Honorable Douglas. 

" Well, and how does our Pope controversy go 
on ? and the pamphlet ? It is impossible to write 
any news : the Austrian scoundrels rummage all let 
ters. 

" P. S. I could have sent you a good deal of gossip 
and some real information, were it not that all let- 
ters pass through the barbarians' inspection, and I 
have no wish to inform them of any thing but my 
utter abhorrence of them and theirs. They have 
only conquered by treachery, however." 



• See Letter ccccxcix. 

1 See Don Juan, canto xL via xxx. 



LETTER CCCCXCV. 

TO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

"You will see here confirmation of what I tola 
you the other day ! I am sacrificed in every way, 
without knowing the why or the wherefore. The 
tragedy in question is not (nor ever was) written 
for, or adapted to, the stage ; nevertheless, the plan 
is not romantic ; it is rather regular than other 
wise ; — in point of unity of time, indeed, perfectly 
regular, and failing but slightly in unity of place. — 
You well know whether it was ever my intention to 
have it acted, since it was written at your side, and at 
a period assuredly rather more tragical to me as a 
man than as an author ; for you were in affliction and 
peril. In the mean time, I learn from your Gazette 
that a cabal and party has been formed, while I my- 
self have never taken the slightest step in the busi- 
ness. It is said that the author read it aloud ! ! In- 
here, probably, at Ravenna r — and to whom ? per 
haps to Fletcher ! ! !— that illustrious literary char 
acter, &., &c. 



LETTER CCCCXCVl. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'< Kavenna, May 90, 1821. 

" Since I wrote to you last week I have received 
English leti.ers and papers, by which I perceive that 
what I took for an Italian truth is, after all, a French 
lie of the Gazette de France. It contains two ultra 
falsehoods in as many lines. In the first place, 
Lord B. did not bring forward his play, but opposed 
the same; and, secondly, it was no^ condemned, but 
is continued to be acted, in despite of publisher 
author, Lord Chancellor, aud (for aught I know to 
the contrary) of audience, up to the first of May, «t 
(least— the latest date of my letters 



LETTERS. 



QO-J 



*' You will oblige me, then, by causing Mr. Ga- 
eette of France to contradict himself, which, I sup- 
pose, he is used to. I never answer a foreign criti- 
cism ; bit this is a mere mat*er oi fact, and not of 
opinions. I presume that you have English and 
French interest enough to do this for me — though, 
to be sure, as it is nothing and the truth which we 
wish to state, the insertion may be more difficult. 

" As I have written to you often lately at some 
length, 1 won't bore you farther now, than by beg- 
ging you to comply with my request ; and I presume 
the ' esprit du corps,' (is it ' du ' or ' de ? ' for this is 
more than 1 know) will sufficiently urg:e you, as one 
of ' ours,' to set this afiair in its real aspect. Be- 
lieTC me always yours ever and most affectionately, 

*' Bykon." 



LETTER CCCCXCYII. 

TO MR. HOPPNER. 

" RaTenna, May 25, 1821. 

•' 1 am very much pleased with what you say of 
Switzerland, and will ponder upon it. I would 
rather she married there than here for that matter. 
For fortune, I shall make it all that I can spare, (if 
I live and she is co."rect in her conduct,) and if I die 
before she is settled, I have left her by will five 
thousand pounds, which is a fair provision out of 
England for a natural child. I shall increase 
it all I can, if circumstances permit me ; but, of 
course (like all other human things) this is very un- 
cevtian. 

" You will oblige me very much by interfering to 
have the facts of the play-acting stated, as these 
Bcoundrels appear to be organizing a system of abuse 
against me because I am in their ' list.' I care noth- 
ing for their criticism, but the matter of fact. I have 
written four acts of another tragedy, so you see 
whey can't bully me. 

y *' You know, I suppose, that they actually keep a 
/m« of all individuals in Italy who dislike them— it 
must be numerous. Their suspicions and actual 
alarms, abcMit my conduct and presumed intentions 
in the late rowj were triily ludicrous — though, not 
to bore you, I touched upon them lightly. They 
believed, and still believe here, or affect to believe 
it, that the whole plan and project of rising was 
Bettled by me, and the means furnished, &c., &c. 
All this was more fomented by thebarbaritin agents, 
who are numerous here, (one of them was stabbed 
yesterday, bv-the-wav, but not dangerously :) — and 
although, when the Commandant was shot liere be- 
fore my door in December, I took liim into my hotise, 
where "he had evei7 assistance till he died on Fletch- 
er's bed ; and although net one of them dared to 
receive him into their houst^ but myself, they leav- 
ing him to perish in the night in the streets, they 
put up a paper about three months ago, denouncing 
me as the Chief of the Liberals, and stirring up per- 
toxiA to assassinate me. But this shall \w\cx si- 
itnm nor bully my opinions. All this came from the 
Geriiiau barbilrians." 



LETTER CCCCXCVIII. 

TO MH. MiniKAY. 

•■ RuTenna, Mnjr 29, lUI. 

•» Ma Moray, 

'• Sin<3e I wrote the enclosed a week ago, and for 
dome weeks bef)re, I have not had a liiie fnmi ynu : 
now, 1 should be glad to know upon what |)rmeipU' 
of common or tmcommon fe<'ling, y<)n h-iive me 
without anv informiwtion but what I i\vT[\v from gar- 
bled gazettes in English, and abusive ones in Ital- 
ian, (the Ocrmans hatic? me, ai a ccal-hMV€fJ 



while all this kick-up has been g ing on about th« 
play ? You shabby fellow ! ! ! • Were it not for two 
letters from Douglas Kinnaird, I should have beer. 
as ignorant as yon are negligent. 

" So, 1 hear Bowles has been abusing Hobhouse / 
if that's the case, he has broken the truce, like 
Morillo's successor, and I will cut him out, as 
Cochraite did the Esmeralda. 

" Since I wrote the enclosed packet I have com- 
pleted (but not copied out) four acts of a new 
tragedy. .When I have finished the fifth I will 
copy it out. It is on the subject of ' Sard ant pal ug,' 
the last king of the Ass}Tians. The w )rds Qxteen 
and Pavilion occur, but it is not an allusfon to his 
Britannic Majesty, as you may tremulously ini8s;iQe 
This you will cne day sec, (if I finish it,)' as I have 
made Sardanapaluis brave, (though voluptuous as 
history represents him,) and also af amiable as my 
poor powers could render him : — so that it could 
neither be truth nor satire on any living monarch. 
I have strictly preserved all the unities hitherto, 
and mean to continue them in the fifth, if possible ; 
but not for the stag'!. Yours, in haste and hatred, 
you shabby corresy indent ! «< N " 



LETTER CCCCXCIX 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Rarenna, May 28, \WX. 

" Since my last of the 26th or 2oth, I have dashed 
oif my fifth act of the tragedy called ' Sardanap 
alus.'' But now comes the cbpyinp over, which 
may prove heavy work — heavy to thf writer as to 
1 he' reader. I have written to you at least six times 
•ians answer, which proves you to be a — bookseller. 
I pray you to send me a co'py of Mr. Wrniujhanin 
reformation of ^ Lamj home's Plutarch.' I have the 
Greek, which is somewhat small of print, and the 
Italian, which is too heavy in style, and as false aa 
a Neapolitan proclamation. I pray you also to send 
me a Life, published some years ago, of the M(i<//ri/%r% 
Apolloniu^ of Tvana. It is in J^ntrlis'i, atid I think 
edited or written by what Martin Marprelatp ealla 
"^ a hotmcimi priest .' I shall trouble you no farther 
with this sheet than with the postage 

•• You. 8, &c., 

"N. 
' P. S. Since I wrote this, I dt>^ermined to enclose 
it (as a half sheet) 1o Mr. Kinnaird, who will ha^c 
the goodness to forward it. Besides, il «aves sealing- 
wax." 



LETTER D. 



to mr, murray. 

•' Dear Moray, 

"You say vou have written often: I h»T» onlj 
rrceivcd voiirs of the elevcuth, which is vir; short. 
l{y this posUin/»r imekets, I send ynu the imgrdy 
of Sardaiiai^iis. whu'h is written in u rough hard: 
perhai)s Mrs. Leigh can help you to dfv.pher it. 
You will please to ackuo\vh-du:e tt by r<7f*r»» of poat. 
You will remark that the umtita are all .*/nVr/y 
observed. The scene passes in the same An/i 
always: the time, a summrr'n nitiht, about nme 
hour's, or It-ns, though it ln-gius brfore sunset and 
iMids before sunrise. In the third act, when S«r- 
danapalus « nils f««r a mirror to look at huntelf in 
his aruuir, recollect to quote thi" Latin pnsKag* 
from .htveiiiil \\\wx\ Otho, In similur eharactrr. who 
did tl\c same thing :—<iilford will hrlp vou to lU 
r»»e trait is pt rhaps too familiar, but it is luHt«»riiyil, 
Otho, at leist,) and natural if an •fremlnat* 



charaotor.' 



928 



BYEON'S "WORKS. 



LETTER DI. 



TO MB. HOPPNEB. 



'• Rarenna, May 81, 1821. 

••1 enclose you another letter, which will only 
confirm what I have said to you. 

" About Allegra — I will take some decisive step in 
the course of the year ; at present, she is s& happy 
where she is, that perhaps she had better have her 
alphabet imparted in her convent. 

" What you say of the Dante is the first I have 
neard of it — all seeming to be merged in the row 
about the tragedy. Continue it ! — Alas ! what could 
Dante himself now prophecy about Italy ? I am 
glad you like it, however, but doubt that you will 
be singular in your opinion. My new tragedy is 
completed. 

" The Benzoni is right, — I ought to have men- 
tioned her humor and amiability ^ but I thought at 
her sixty, beauty would be most agreeable or least 
likely. However, it shall be rectified in a new 
tdition ; and if any of the parties have either looks 
or qualities which they wish to be noticed, let me 
bave a minute of them. I have no private or per- 
sonal dislike to Venice^ rather the contrary, but I 
merely speak of what is the subject of all remarks 
and all writers upon her present state. Let me 
bear from you before you start. Believe me, 

" Ever, &c. 

'• P. S. Did you receive two letters of Douglas 
Kinnaird's in an endorse from me ? Remember me 
to Mengaldo, Soranzo, and all who care ,that I 
Bhould remember them. The letter alluded to in 
♦he enclosed, ' to the Cardinal,^ was in answer to 
somo queries of the government, about a poor devil 
of a Neap litan, arrested at Sinigaglia on suspicion, 
who came to beg of me here ; being without 
breeches, and consequently without pockets for 
1 alfpence, I relieved and forwarded him to his 
country, and they arrested him at Pesaro on sus- 
picion, and have since interrogated me (civilly and 
politely, however), about him. I sent them the 
poor man's petition, and such information as 1 had 
about him, which, I triist, will get him out again, 
that is to say, if thej' give him a fair hearing. 

" I am content with the article. Pray did you 
receive, some posts ago, Moore's lines, which I 
enclosed to you, written at Paris ? " 



LETTER DIL 

TO MR. MOOBE. 

" Rarenna, June 4, 1821. 

•' You have not written lately, as is the usual 
custom with literary gentlemen, to console their 
friends with their observations in cases of magni- 
tude. I do not know whether I sent you my ' Elegy 
3n the recovery of Lady Noel ; * — 

" Behold the blessing of a lucky lot— 
My play is damn'd, and Lady Noel t>oL 

" The papers (and perhaps your letters) will have 
put you in possession of Muster Elliston's dramatic 
behavior. It is to be presumed that the play was 
fitted fi.x the stage by Mr. Dibdin, who is the tailor 
upon such occasions, and will have taken measure 
with his usual accuracy. I hear that it is still con- 
ttnued to be performed — a piece of obstinacy for 
which it is some consolation to think that the 
discourteous histrio will be out of pocket. 

" You will be surprised to hear that I have 
finished another tragedy in Jive acts, observing all 
the unitiies strictly. It is called • Sardanapalus,' 
«jid was sent by last post to England. It is not for 
tfie staee, any more thau tbe other was intended 



for it, — and I shall take better care thts time tha 
they don't get hold on't. 

' I have also sent, two months ago, a farthei 
letter on Bowles, &c. ; but he seems to be so taken 
up with my ' respect ' (as he calls it) towards him 
in the former case, that I am not sure that it wiU 
be published, being somewhat too full of 'pastime 
and prodigality.' I learn from some private letters 
of Bowles's, that you were ' the gentleman in 
asterisks.' Who would have dreamed it? you see 
what mischief that clergyman has done by printing 
notes without names. How the deuse was I to 
suppose that the first four asterisks meant * Camp- 
bell ' and not ' Pope,' and that the blank signature 
meant Thomas Moore ? You see what comes ol 
being familiar with parsons. His answers have not 
yet reached me, but I understand from Hobhouse 
that he (H.) is attacked in them. If that be the 
case, Bowles has broken the truce, (which he him- 
self proclaimed, by-the-w&y,) and 1 must have at 
him again. 

" Did you receive my letters with the two or three 
concluding sheets of Memoranda ? 

"There are no news here to interest much. A 
German spy {boasting himself such) was stabbed 
last week, but not mortally. The moment I heard 
that he went about bullying and boasting, it was 
easy for me, or any one else, to foretell what wouIg 
occur to him, which I did, and it came to pass in 
two days after. He has got ofi", however, for a slighl 
incision. 

" A row the other night, about a lady of the 
place, between her various lovers, occasioned a 
midnight discharge of pistols, but nobody wounded. 
Great scandal, however — planted by her lover — to be 
thrashed by her husband ; for inconstancy to her 
regular servente, who is coming home post about it, 
and she herself retired in confusion into the coun- 
try, although it is the acme of the opera season. 
All the women furious against her (she herstH 
having been censorious) for being found out. She 
is a pretty woman — a Countess * * * * — a fine old 
Visigoth name, or Ostrogoth. 

'•The Greeks! what think you? They are my 
old acquaintances — but what to think I know act. 
Let us hope, howsomever. " Yours, 



LETTER DHL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, June 22, 1821. 

"Your dwarf of a letter came yesterday. Tlat 
is right ; — keep to your ' magnum opus ' — magno- 
perate away. Now, if we were but together a little 
to combine our ' Journal of Trevoux ! ' But it ia 
useless to sigh, and yet very natural, — for I think 
you and I draw better together, in the social line, 
than any two other living authors. 

" I forgot to ask you, if you had seen your own 
panegyric in the correspondence of Mrs. Water- 
house and Colonel Berkeley ? To be sure, thetr 
moral is not quite exact; hMt your passion\% iuW-^ 
effective; and all poetry of the Asiatic kind— 1 
mean Asiatic, as the Romans called ' Asiatic orato- 
ry,' and not because the scenery is Oriental — must 
be tried bv that test only. I am not quite sure that 
I shall allow the Miss Byrons (legitimate or illegit- 
imate) to read Lalla Rookh — in the first place, on 
account of this said passion ; and, in the second, 
that they may n't discover that there was a bettet 
poet than papa. 

" You sav nothing of politics — but alaa ' whii< 
can be said ? 

" The worid !■ a bundle of hay, 
Mankind are the tme* who poll. 
Each tag* it a different way,— 
And tho xieatMl of all k John BoU I 



LETTERS. 



929 



'*T\oTv do jou call your new project? 1 have 
rent to Murray a new tragedy, ycleped ' Sardanap- 
alus/ writ according to Aii^^totle — all, sare the 
chorus — I could not reconcile me to that. I have 
begun another, and am in the second act ; — so you 
gee I saunter on as usu.il. 

•' Bowles's answers have reached me ; but I can't 
go on disputing for ever, — particularly in a polite 
manner. I suppose he will take being silent for 
silenced. He has been so civil that I can't find it in 
my liver to be facetious with him, — else I had a 
savage joke or two at Ids service. 

* * * ♦ * ♦ 

" I can't send you the little journal, because it ia 
in boards, and I can't trust it per post. Don't sup- 
pose it is any thing particular ; but it will show the 
intentions of the natives at that time — and one or two 
other things, chiefly personal, like the former one. 

" So, Longman don't bite. — It was my wish to 
have made that work of use. Could you not raise a 
Bi^m upon it, (however small,) reserving the power 
of redeeming it on payment ? 

" Are you in Paris, or a villaging ? If you are 
tn the city, you will never resist the Anglo-invasion 
you speak of. I do not see an Englishman in half 
a^year ; and when I do, I turn my horse's head the 
//Other way. The fact, which you will find in the 
/ last note to the Doge, has given me a good excuse 
for quite dropping the least connexion with travel- 
lers. 

" I do not recollect the speech you speak of, but 
suspect it is not the Doge's, but one of Israel Ber- 
tuccio to Calendaro. I hope you think that Elliston 
Dehaved shamefully — it is my only consolation. I 
made the Milanese fellows contradict their lie, 
wh 'oh they did with the grace of people used to it. 

" Yours, &c., 
•«B." 



LETTER DIV. 



TO MR. M005». 



•' Ravenna, Julj 5, 1821. 

•• flow could you suppose that I ever would allow 
any thing that could be said on your account to 
weigh with me f 1 only regret that Bowles had not 
9aid that you were the writer of that note until 
afterward, when out he comes with it in a private 
letter to Murray, which Murray sends to me. D — n 
the controversy ! 

" D— n Twizzle, 
D— n the bell, 
And d— n the fool who rung it— Well I 
From all HUch plagues I'll quickly be delivered. 

' I have had a friend of your Mr. Irving's •— a very 
pi'.tty lad— a Mr. Coolidge, of Boston— only somo- 
wnat too full of poesy and ' entusymusy.' I was 
very ci>il to him during his few hours' stay, and 
tallied with him much of Irving^ whose writirigs are 
my delight. But I suspect that he did not take 
quite so much to me, from his having expected to 
meet a misanthroi)ical gentleman, in wolf-skin 
breeches, and answering in fierce monasyllablcs, 
instead of a man of this world. I can never pet 
people to understand that poetry is the exuression 
of excited passion, and that there is no such thing 
as a life of passion any more than a continuous 
earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who 
vould ever shave themselves in such a state. 

" I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl 
In Enghnid, (I never saw her,) who says she is given 
over of a decline, but could not go oiit of the world 
withotit thanking me for the delight whiclv my 
poesv for sevral vcara dtc, X'C.. V'' It i' Higned 
•impl> N. N. A., and has not a word cif 'canf or 



preachment in it upon any opinions. She merely 
savs that she is dying, and that as I hid contribu- 
ted so highly to her existing pleasure, she thought 
that she might say so, begging me to bum her letter 
— whch, by-the-way, I can 7iot do, as I look upon 
such a letter, in such circumstances, as better than 
a diploma from Gottingen. I once had a letter 
from Drontheim, in Norway, (but not from a dvLug 
woman,) in verse, on the same score of gratulation 
These are the things which make one at tiraoa 
b"Ueve one's self a poet.* But if I must belif/e 
that ***** ♦^ and such fellows, are poets also, it 
IS Jetter to be out of the corps. 

" I am now in the fifth act of ' Foscari,* being tl a 
third tragedy in twelve months, besides proses, n 
you perceive that I am not at all idle. And are j ou, 
too, busy ? I doubt that your life at Paris drawt 
too much upon your time, which is a pity. Can't 
you divide your day, so as to combine both ? 1 
have had plenty of all sorts of worldly business on 
nay hands last year, — and yet it is not so ditficult to 
give a few hours to the Muses. This sentence is so 
like * ♦ * * that " Ever, &c. 

" If we were together, I should publish both my 
plays (periodically) in our joint journal. It shot la 
be our plan to publish all our best things in tl at 
way." 



LETTER DV. 

TO MR. MXJRRAT. 

"Rarenna, July », Wl. 

" In agreement with a wish expressed by Mr. 
Hobhouse, it is my determination to omit the stan- 
za upon the horse of Semi ram is* in the fifth canto 
of Don Juan. I mention this, in case you are, or 
intend to be, the publisher of the remaining canto*. 

"At the particular request of the Contessa G., 1 
have promised not to continue Don Juan. You will 
therefore look upon these three cantos as the last 
of the poem. She had read the first two in the 
French translation, and never ceased beseeching 
me to write no more of it. The reason of this \* 
not at first obvious to a superficial observer of fob 
EION manners ; but it arises from the wish of all 
women to exalt the sentiment of the passions, and 
to keep up the illusion which is tneir empire. 
Now Don Juan strips otf this illusion, and hiiigha 
at that and most other things., I never knew a 
woman who did not protect Rousseau, nor one who 
did not dislike Do Grammont, Gil Bla-s, and all the 
comedy of the passions, when brought out naturilly. 
But 'kings' blood must keep word,' as Serjeant 
Bothwell says." 



LETTER DVI. 



TO ME. MURRAY. 



"I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistakes 
for a fx)titical play, which was so far from mv inten- 
tion, that I thought of nothing but Asiatic );i««toiT 
The Venetian play, too, is rigidly historical. My 
object has been to dramatize, lite the Greek, (a 
modest phrase,) striking passages of history, as thct 
did of iMHtory and mytliology. You wil\ find afl 
this very w^jlilte Shakspeare; and so much the bet- 
ter in one sense, for I lot)k upon him to be the 
worst of inodfls, though the most extraordinary ol 
writers. It has been my object to bo as simple and 
severe as Alfieri, and 1 have hrokon down thc/wefry 
as nearly as I could to conunon language. The 
hardship is, that in these time* one can ndthei 



• Sea MwnataiMluma, pap lOM 
1!7 



Sr« M*iiiot«iMluini 



930 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Bpeak of kings or queens without suspicion of poli- 
tics or personalities. I intended neither. 

" I am not very well, and I write in the midst of 
•inpleasant scenes here : they have, without trial or 
process, ban shed several of the first inhabitants of 
the cities — here and all around the Roman States — 
among them many of my personal friends — so that 
every thing is in confusion and grief : it is a kind of 
thing which cannot be described without an equal 
pain as in beholding it. 

" You are very niggardly in your letters. 

" "Voure truly, 



LETTER DVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Rarenna, July 22, 1821. 

"The printer has done wonders; — he has read 
wl.at I cannot — my own handwriting. 

•* I oppose the ' delay till winter ; ' I am particu- 
larly anxious to print while the wmter theatres are 
closed, to gain time, in case they try thoir former 
piece of politeness. Any loss shall be considered in 
our contract, whether occasioned by the season or 
ether causes ; but print away and publish. 

•' I think they must own that I have more styles 
than one. ' Sardaiiapalus ' is, however, alnwst a 
comic character : but for that matter, so is Richard 
the Third. Mind the unities, which are my great 
object of research. I am glad that GifFord likes it : 
as for ' the million,' you see I have carefully con- 
sulted any thing but the taste of the day for extrav- 
agant ' coups de threatre.' Any probable loss, as I 
said before, will be allowed for in our accompts. 
The reviews (except one or two, Blackwood's, for 
instance) are cold eiiough ; but never mind those 
fellows: I shall sond them to the right about, if I 
take it into my he. d. I always found the English 
baser in some things than any other nation. You 
stare, but it's true as to gratitude, — perhaps, be- 
cause they are prouder, and proud people hate obli- 
gations. 

" The tyranny of the government here is break- 
ing out. They have exiled about a thousand people 
of the best families all over the Roman States. As 
many of my friends are among them, ] think of 
moving too, but not till I have had your answers 
Continue your address to me here, as usual, and 
quickly. What yon will tiot be sorry to hear is, 
that the poor of the place, hearing that I meant to 
go, got together a petition to the Cardinal to re- 
quest that he would request me to remain. I only 
heard of it a day or two ago, and it is no dishonor 
to them nor to me ; but it \vill have displeased the 
higher powers, who look upon me as a chief of the 
coal-heavers. They arrested a servant of mine for a 
Etreet-quarrel with an officer, (they drew upon one 
another knives and pistols,) but as the officer was 
ovt of r.niform, and in the wrong besides, on my 
protesting stoutly, he was released. I was not 
present at the affray, which happened by night near 
ray stables. My man, (an Italian,) a very stout 
and net over-patient personage, would have taken a 
fatal revtnge afterwards, if I had not prevented 



LETTER DVIII. 



TO MR. HOPPNER. 



"Ra»en» 1, July i&, 1821. 

' This country being in a state of proscription 
and all my friends exiled or arrestedr— the whole 
family of Gamba obliged to go to Florence f-'.r the 
present — the father and son for politics — (and the 
Guiccioli because menaced with a convent, as bei 
father is not here,) I have determined to remove to 
Switzerland, and they also Indeed my life here is 
not supposed to be particularly safe — ^but that has 
been the case for this twelvemonth past aD^ is 
therefore not the primary consideration. 

" I have written by this post to Mr. Hentsch, 
junior, the banker of Geneva, to provide (if pos* 
sible) a house for me, another for Gamba's family, 
(the father, son, and daughter,) on the Jura side ol 
the lake of Geneva, furnished, and with stabling 
(for me at least) for eight horses. I shall bring 
Allegra with me. Could you assist me or Hentsch 
in his researches ? The Gambas are at Florence, 
but have authorized me to treat for them. You 
know, or do not know, that they are gi-eat patriots 
— and both — but the son in particular — very fine 
fellows. This I know, for I have seen them lately 
in very awkward situations — not pecuniary, but per- 
sonal — and the-y behaved like heroes, neither yield- 
ing nor retracting. 

" You have no idea what a state of oppression 
this country is in — they arrested above a thousand \ 
of high and low throughout Romagna — banished i 
some and confined others, withouj trial, jjrocess, or,'] 
even accusation ! ! Every body says they would | 
have done the same by me if they dared proceed j 
openly. My motive, however, for remaining, is hQ- 
canse eve7-y one of my acquaintance, to the amount 
of hundreds almost, have been exiled. 

•' Will you do what you can in looking out for a 
couple of houses furnished, and conferring with 
Hentsch for us ? We care nothing about society, 
and are only anxious for a temporary and tranquil 
asylum and individual freedom. 

" Believe me, &c. 

" P. S. Can you give me an idea of the compar- 
ative expenses of S%vitzerland and Italy ? which I 
have forgotten. I speak merely of those of decent 
living, horses, &c., and not of luxuries or high liv- 
ing. Do 7iot, however, decide any thing positively 
till I have your answer, as I can then know how to 
think upon these topics of transmigration, Ac, 
&c., &c." 



LETTER DIX. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna, July 30, 1821. 

" Enclosed is the best account of the Doge Full- 
ero, which was only sent to me from an old MS. the 
other day. Get it translated, and append it &b a 
note to the next edition. You will perhaps be 
pleased to see that my conceptions of his charactci 



him. As it was, he drew his stiletto, and, but fori were correct, though T legret not having met with 
passengers, would have carbonadoed the captain, | "-Us extract before, if ou will perceive that he him- 
who, I understand, made but a poor figure in the self said exactly what he is made to say about the 
quarrel, except by beginning it. He appUed to me, | Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that ' he spoke 
and I offered him any satisfaction, either by turning very little, and those only words of rage and dis- 
away the man, or otherwise, because he had drawn dain,' after his arrest, which is the case in the piay 

except when he breaks out at the close of act fifth. 



knife. He answered that a reproof would be 
sufficient. I reproved him ; and yet, after this, the 
shabby dog complained to the government, — after 
beinff quite satisfied, as he said. This roused me, 
and 1 gave them a remonstrance, which had some 
effect. The captain has been reprimanded, the ser- 
"ant releajsed, and the business at present rests there." 



But his speech to the conspirators is better in the 
MS.* than in the play. I wish that I had met with 
it in time. Do not forget this note, witk a transla- 
tion. 

" In a former note to the Juans, speaking of Vol 
taire, I have quoted his famous ' Zaire, tu pleures, 



LETTERS. 



9131 



wmt^h IS an error ; it should be ' Zaire,* votispleurez.' 
Recolle(;t this. 

" I am so busy here about those poor proscribed 
pjcfles, who are scattered about, and with trying to 
gtt some of them recalled, that I have hardly time 
or patience to write a short preface, which will be 
prcper for the two plays. However, I will make it 
out on receiving the next proofs. 

" Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. Please to append the letter about the 
Helhsp vit as a note to your next opportunity of the 
verses on Leander, &c., &c., &c., in Childe Harold. 
Don't forget it amid your multitudinous avocations, 
which I think of celebrating in a Dithyrambic Ode 
to Albemarle street. 

" Are you aware that Shelley has written an Ele- 
Bj OB KeatP^t and accuses the Quarterly of killing 
him f 

' W--.3 HII'cI Joh >. Kea-B ? ' 

' 1,' Rays the Q,uar:eAyj 

So s rage anfl 'I'artarly ; 
• 'Twa. one of my feats.' 

' Whc shot the arrow i ' 

' The pcet-priest Milman, 

(So re;i(l7 to kill man,) 
Or Soiuhey or Barrow.' 

" You know very well that I did not approve of 
Keats's poetry, or principles of poetry, or of his 
abuse of Pope ; but, as he is dead, omit all that is 
said about him in MSS. of mine, or publication. 
His Hyperion is a fine monument, .%nd will keep 
lAns name. I do not envy the man who wi-ote the 
, i/y article ; — you Review-people have no more right to 
'^ ' kill than any other foot-pads. However, he who 
would die of an article in a Review w6uld probably 
have died of something else equally trivial. The 
B<ame thing nearly happened to Kirke Wliite, who 
died afterward of a consumption " 



LETTER DX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, AntruBt 2, 1821. 

'• I had certainly answered your last letter, though 
but brieflv, to the part to wliich you refer, merely 
saying, ' (\ imn the controversy ; ' and quoting some 
verses of George Colman's, not as allusive to you, 
but to the disputants. Did you recoivo this letter .' 
It imports mc to know that our letters are not inter- 
cepted or mislaid. 

" Your Berlin dramaj is an honor, unknown since 
Vhe days of Elkanah Settle, whose • Emperor of 
Morocco' WIS represented by the court ladies, which 
was, as Johnson savs, ' the last blast of inflammn- 
tion ' to poor Dryden, who could not bear it, and 
fell foul of Settle without mvrry or moderation, on 
account of that and a fiontispiecc, which he dared 
to put before his play. 

" Was not your showing the Memoranda to * ♦ 
■omowhat perilous ? Is there not a facetious nllu- 
Bion or two which might as well be reserved for 
posterity .'' 

" I know Schlegel well— that is so say, I have met 
htm occasionally at C()j)ot. Is ho not also touded 
lightly in the Memoranda? In a review of Childe 
Haiold, canto fourth, three years ago, in Hlack- 
(irooi's Magazine, they quote some stanzas of un 
tlegy of S<hl(>gers on Rome, from which they say 
that"! mi(/ht have t:iken some ideas. I give vou my 
honor that I never saw it except in that critioinm, 



• Gee l/»(ler«xc«c. 

t This noin wnj omlttrrt. 

} Tln'W hml L)>fri, u nhort llinr Ix'fiir", furfiirin'-i) ■! iIh" C.Mirl of IVrilii, « 
l|)»tiielo (junilod on the jwin ofl.iilla Ui>ol.li, hi which thr |)^<•^^t Biniim.r 
</ R'.w'm wrtunuted Poninun, ■iiU tjio KmprvM LmIIb IU>kh. 



which gives, I think three or lour Unzas, sent 
them (they say) for the nonce by a cot respondent— 
perhaps himself. The fact is easily proved ; for 1 
don't understand German, and there was, I believe, 
no translation — at least, it was the first time that 1 
ever heard of, or saw, either translation or original. 

*' I remember having some talk with Schlegel 
abolit Alfieri, whose merit he denies. He was also 
wroth about the EdinlTurgh Review of Goethe, which 
was sharp enough, to be sure. He went about say- 
ing, too, of the French — ' I meditate a terrible ven- 
geance against the French — I will prove that Mo- 
liere is no poet.' * * * * • 

" I don't see why you should talk of ' declining/* 
When I saw you, you looked thinner, and yot 
younger, than you did when we parted several Neara 
before. You may rely upon this as fact. If it were 
not, I should say nothhuj, for I would rather not say 
unpleasant personal things to any one — but, as it 
was the pleasant truth, I tell it yoii. If you had led 
my tife, indeed, changing climates and connexions 
— thinninq yourself with fasting and purgatives— 
jesides the'wear and tear of the vulture passions, 
and a very bad temper, besides, you might talk in 
this way— but you ! I know no man who looks so 
well for his years, or who deserves to look better 
and to be better, in all respects. You are a * * *, 
and, what is perhaps better for your friends, a good 
fellow. So, don't talk of decay, but put in for 
eighty, as you well may. 

"I am, at present, occupied princip.ally about 
these unhappy proscriptions and exiles, which have 
taken place here on account of politics. It has 
been a miserable sight to see the general desolation 
in families. I am doing what I can for them, high 
and low, by such interest and means as I possess or 
can bring to bear. There have been thousands of 
these proscriptions within the last UKUith in the 
Exarchate, or (to speak modernly) the Legations 
Yesterday, too, a man got his back broken, in extri 
eating a dog of mine from under a mill-wheel. The 
dog was killed, and the man is in the greatest dan 
ger. I was not present — it haiij/oned befor.? I wiis 
up, owing to a stupid boy taking the dog to l).ithein 
a dangerous spot. I must, of couue, provme tor 
the poor fellow wliile ht- lives, and his family, if he 
dies. I would gladly have given a much greater 
sum than that will come to that he had never been 
hurt. Pray, let me hear from you, and excuse haste 
and hot weather. " Yours, Vc. 

" You may have probablj' seen all sorts of attacks 
upon me in some gazettes in England some moiiLha 
ago. I only saw them, bv Murray's bounty, the 
other dav. They call me * Plagiary,' and what not. 
I think 'I now, in my time, hiive "been accused ol 
every thing. 

••1 have not given you details of little eventa 
here; but they have been tryins^ to make me out to 
l)e chief of a conspiracy, and nothing but their 
want of proofs for an Etuilish investigation has 
stopped them. Had it l)eeu"a poor native the sus- 
picion were enough, us it has been for hun ireJs. 

" Wliy don't you write on Napoleon ? 1 have nc 
si)irits, Tior ' estro' to do so. Ills overthrow, from 
till' beirinning, was a blow on the head !• 
Since that perio«l, we have l)een the slaves ot 
Excuse this hmg letter. Ecro u translation l. 
of a French epigram. 



'Kid' 

aiMii 



hraiity ■nil port, hw 
vnket ht>r own Ixcr, i 



twn IUll« I 

■111 Aoe* nol irokkr Ikt rtiTmra. 



1 iim going to ride, having been warned »ot tu 
in a particular part of the forest^ on account ol 
ultra-politicians. 

Is there no chance of your return to Knglnnd. 
of our journal ? I would have publjxheii th< 
pbivM in it— two or three ircenes per nurnJ»f r— 
. in.h-rd,' all <f mine in it. If you weal to Fug 
1. 1 would d »o still." 



^32 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DXI. 



TO MR. MURHAT. 



«' Rfivenna, kngxrat 10, 1821. 

**Your cordnct to Mr. Moore is certainly very 
handsome ; and I would not say so if I could helf 
it, for you are not at present -by any means in mj 
good f^races. 

" 'V^ith regard to additions, &'C., there is a jour- 
nal which I kept in 1814, which you may ask him 
for; also a journal which you must get from Mrs. 
Leigh, of my journey in the Alps, which contains 
all the germ's of Manfred. I have also kept a small 
diary here for a few months last winter, which I 
would send you, and any continuation. You would 
find easy access to all my papers and letters, and do 
not neglect this (in case of accidents), on account of 
the mass of confusion in which they are ; for out of 
that chaos of papers you will find some curious ones 
of mine and others, if not lost or destroyed. If 
circumstances, however, (which is alvnost impos- 
sible,) made me ever consent to a publication in my 
lifetime, you would, in that case, I suppose, make 
Moore some advance, in proportion to the likelihood 
or non- likelihood of success. You are both sure to 
survive me, however. 

" You must also have from Mr. Moore the cor- 
respondence between me and Lady Byron, to whom 
t offered the sight of all which regards herself in 
these papers. This is important. He has her 
letter, and a copy of my answer. I would rather 
Moore edited me than another. 

" I sent you Valpy's letter to decide for yourself, 
and Stockdale's to amuse you. / am always loyal 
with you, as I was in Galignani's affair, and you 
with me — now and then. 

" I return you Moore's letter, which is very credit- 
able to him, and you, and me. " Yoxirs, ever." 



LETTER DXIL 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

I 

" Ravenna, Augvut 16, 1821. 

** 1 regret that Holmes can't or won't come : it is 
rather shabby, as I was always very civil and punc- 
tual with him. But he is but one * * more. One 
meets with none else among the English. 

"I wait the proofs of the MSS. with proper im- 
patience. 

" So you have published, or mean to publish, the 
new Juans ? Arn't you afraid of the Constitutional 
Assassination of Bridge street ? When first I saw 
the name of Murray I thought it had been yours ; 
but was solaced by seeing that your synonyme is an 
attorney and t\ at you are not one of that atrocious 
crew. 'Ai 

"I am in a great discomfort about /the probable 
war, and with my trustees not getting me out of the 
funis. If the funds break, it is my intention to go 
open t'Te highway. All the other English profes- 
•iona are at present so ungentlemanly by the con- 
duct of those who follow them, that open robbing is 
the only fair resource left to a man of any princi- 
pl23 ; it is even honest, in comparison, by being un- 
diaguised. 

•' I wrote to you by last post, to say that you had 
ione the handsome thing by Moore and the Memo- 
randa, You are very good as times go, and would 
probably be still better but for the * march of 
events,' (as Napoleon called it,) which won't permit 
iny body to be better than they should be 

" Love to GifTord. Believe me, &c. 

•* P S. 1 restore Smith's letter, whonc thank for 
•M good '>pinion. Is the bust by Thorwaldsen ar- 



LETTER DXIIl. 



to MR. MURRAY 



« Ravenna Aufu«t 29, 18Q1. 

"Enclosed art the two acts corrected, "With th 
gard to the charges* about the shipwrei s, 1 thini 
that I told both you and Mr. Hobhouse, years ago, 
that there was not a smgle circumstance of it ruA 
taken from fact ; i ot, indeed, from any single ship 
wreck, but all from actual facts of different wrecks 
Almost all Don Juan is real life, either of my own, 
or from people I knew. By-the-way, much of the 
description of the furniture, in canto third, is taken 
from Tulhfs Tripoli, (pray note this,) and the rest 
from my own observation. Remember, I never 
meant to conceal this at all, and ha^e only not 
stated it, because Don Juan had no preface nor 
name to it. If you think it worth while to make this 
statement, do so in your own way. / laugh at such 
charges, convinced that no writer ever borrowed 
less, or made his materials more his own.f Much 
is coincidence: for instance. Lady Morgan (in a 
really excellent book, I assure you on Italy,) calls 
Venice an ocean Rome : 1 have the very same expres- 
sion in Foscari, and yet ycni know that the play was 
written months ago, and sent to England : the 
' Italy' I received only on the 16th inst. 

*' Your friend, like the public, is not aware, tha; 
my dramatic simplicity is studiously Greek, and 
I must continue so ; no reform ever succeeded at 
first. I admire the old English dramatists ; bat 
this is quite another field, and has nothing to do 
with theirs. I want to make a regular English 
drama, no matter whether for the stage or not 
which is not my object, — but a mental theatre, 

" Yours. 

"P. S. Can't accept your courteous offer. 

" For Orfonl and for Waldegiave 
You gave much more than me you j;a»e 
Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murray, 

" Because if a live dog, 'tl» Mikl, 
Be worth a lion fairly aped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

" And if, as the opinion goes, 
Verse haih a better sale than pfose- 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

•• But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if you will, 1 shan't be shamm'd, 
'And, if you yton't, you may he damn'd, 
My Murray. 

" These matters must be arranged with Mr 
Douglas Kinn-iird. He is my trustee, and a man ol 
honor. To l^' n you can state all your mercantile 
reasons, whicVyou might not like to state to me 
personally, sucii as, ' heavy season' — ' flat public'— 
' don't go off' — ' lordship writes too much' — won't 
take advice' — ' declining popularity' — ' deduction 
for the trade' — ' make very little' — ' generally lose 
by him' — ' pirated edition' — ' foreign edition' — ' se- 
vere criticisms,' .^c, with other hints and howla 
for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an 
orator, to answer. 

" You can also state them more freely to a third 
person, as between you and me they could only pro- 
duce some smart postscripts, which woulo. not 
adorn our mutual archives. 

' I am sorry for the Queen, and that's more tnji.ii 
you are." 



• Som« crhici had accused him of p!r\giari»i» 
- See Appeiuliz to the " Two ii'uM»4 



LETTERS. 



933 



LETTER DXIV 

TO MK. MOORE. 

" Rarenna, Augurt 24, 1821. 

" Youra of the .5th only yesterday, while I had 
fetters of thi 8th from London. Doth the post 
iabble into jur letters ? Whatever agreement you 
mtvke with Murray, if satisfactory to you, must be 
so to me. There need be no scruple, because, 
though I used sometimes to buffoon to myself, 
loving a quibble as well as the barbarian himself, 
(Shakspeare, to wit)— ' that, like a Spartan, I would 
Bell my life as dearly as possible' — it never was my 
intention to turn it to personal, pecuniary account, 
but to bequeath it to a friend — yourself — in the 
event of survivorship. I anticipated that period, 
because we happened to meet, and I urged you to 
make what was possible now by it, for reasons 
whict are obvious. It has been no possible priva- 
tioti to me, and therefore does not require the ac- 
knowledgments you mention. So, for God's sake, 
don't consider it like ♦ ♦ * * 

(' •* By-the-way-, when you write to Lady Morgan, 
will you thank her for her handsome speeches in 
In her book about my books ? I do not know her 
address. Her work is fearless and excellent on the 
subject of Italy — pray tell her so — and I know the 
country. I wish she had fallen in with me, I could 
have told her a thing or two that would have con- 
firmed her positions. 

" I am glad that you are satisfied with Murray, 
who seems to value dead lords more than live ones. 
I have just sent him the following answer to a pro- 
position of his : — 

" For Orford and for Waldegrave, &c. 

The argument of the above is, that he wanted to 
stint me of my sizings,' as Lear says — that is to 
say, not to propose an extravagant price for an ex 
travagant poem, as is becoming. Pray take his gui- 
neas by all means — / taught him that. He made 
me a filthy offer of pounds once, but I told him that, 
like physicians, poets must be dealt with in guineas, 
as being the only advantage poets could have in the 
association with them, as votaries of Apollo. 1 
write to you in a hurry and bustle, which I will ex 
pound in my next. " Yours, ever, ike. 

" P. S, You mention something, of an attorney 
on his way to me on legal business. I have had 
no warning of such an apparition. What can the 
fellow want } I have some lawsuits and business, 
but have not heard of any thing to put me to the 
expense of a travelliny lawyer. They do enough, 
in that way at home. 

" Ah, poor Qiioen ! but perhaps it is for the best. 
If Herodbtus's anecdote is to be believed * * 

*' Remeinl)er me to any friendly Angles of our 
mutual acquaintance. What are you doing ? Here 
I have had my hands full of tyrants and their 
victims. There never was such oppression, even in 
Irelxnd, scarcely ' " 



the note on Bacon and Voltaire ? ar 1 r^ne of the 
concluding stanzas sent as an addition ?- because it 
ended, I suppose, with — 

" And do not link two vinuous louls for lif* 
Into that moral centaur, uian i.nd wj/e r 

" Now, I must say, once for all, that I will not 
psrmit any human being to take such libeities with 
my writings because I am absent. I desire the 
omission to be replaced (except the stanza on 
Semiramis), — particularly the stanza upon tha 
Turkish marriages ; and I request that the whcle 
be carefully gotie over with the MS. 

" I never saw such stuff as is printed ; — GuZ/eyai 
instead of Gu/beyaz, &:c. Are you aware that 
Gulbeyaz is a real name and the other nonsense r 
I copied the cantos out carefully, so that there is no 
excuse, as the printer read, or at least prints, the 
MS. of the plays without error. 

" If you have no feeling for your own reputation, 
pray have some little for mine. I have read over 
the poem carefully, and I tell you, it is poetry. 
Your little envious knot of parson-poets may say 
what they please : time will show that I am not in 
this instance mistaken.. 

" Desire my friend Hobhouse to correct the press, 
especially of the last canto, from the manuscript as 
it is. It is enough to drive o!ie out of one's reason 
to«8ee the infernal torture of words from the nri^r 
inal. For instance, the line — 

" And pair their riiyinet at Venui jokea her dim — • 

is printed — 



' And praite their rliyine*, Ac. 



for 



^precoctotu 



and this ii^ 



LETTER DXV. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



Also 
stanza 133, 

" And thia ttrong extreme ^ect to tire tto longf 

Now do turn to the manuscript, and sec if I evet 
wrote such a li7ie ; it is not verse. 

" No wonder the poem should fail, (whi.''h, how 
ever, it won't, you will see,) with such things allowed 
to creep about it. Replace what is omitted, and cor- 
rect what is so shamefully misprinted, and let the 
poem have fair play ; and I fear nothing. 

'* I see in the last two numbers of the Quarterly a 
strong itching to assail me, (see the review of ' '1 he 
Etonian;') let it, and see if they shan't have 
enough of it. I do not allude to Gilford, who haa 
alwiiys been my friend, and whom I do not consider 
as responsible for the articles written by others. 

•' You will publish the plays when ready. I uni 
in such a humor about this printing of l3on Juan 
so inaccurately that 1 must close this. 

" Yours. 

'* P. S. I presume that you have not lost the 
47rt/irrt to which 1 allude? ft was nent tflorw»iil: 
look over my letters and find it." 



" RnTPnna, Auftiit 31, Itfjl. 

••1 have received the Juans, which are printed so 
care/f.s.v///, especially the fifth canto, as to be dis-l 
graceliil" to me, and not crcditiiblc to you. It really { 
must 1)6 ffone over u/ain with the mniiuscrifit, the 
errors are so gross; — wordn added — chuiigcd — so an 
to make caco' liony and iioiiscuse. You have been 
oarelesrt of this poetn bccaum' some of your scniadp 
don't appi )\e of it; but I t.ll von that it will be] 
long bei'oro >ou see any thini; half so giu)d as poetry | 
or writing Upon what principle have you omitted ' 



LETTKR DXVIt 

TO MU. MIKRAT. 

" The enclosed letter is written in bud huraor, bnl 

not without provocation. However, let it (that is, 
the bad liiiuuu) go for little; but I must requml 
your serious attention to the Abuses of the luinter, 
which ought never to have been peinutted. You 
forget that all the fools in London (the chief pur- 
eh.isers of yotir publications) will condemn in imp 
the stupidity of your nrinter. For instance, in thf 
notes to canto fifth, * the Adriatic Hhore of the bon 



t WrittM la On mwIm I af tki pHMdta* I 



934 



LYKON'S WORKS. 



phoias' instead of the Asiatic'.' All this may 
Reem little to you, so fine a gentleman, with your 
ministerial connexions, but it is serious to me, who 
am thousands of itiiles off, and have no opportunity 
of not proving rnyself the fool your printer makes 
tne, except your pleasure and leisure, forsooth. 

-• The gods prosper you, and forgive you, for I 
can't." 

* ■ • * * * * 



LETTER DXVII. 

ro MR. M30RE. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 3, 1821. 

" By Mr. Mawman, (a paymaster in the corps, in 
vliich you and I are privates,) I yesterday expedited 
to your address, under cover one, two paper books, 
containing the Giaour-na\, and a thing or two. It 
won't do — even for the posthumous public — but ex- 
tracts from it may. It is a brief and faithful chroni- 
cle of a month or so — parts of it not very discreet, 
but sufficienv>)' sincere. Mi Mawman saith that he 
will, in person fir per friend have it delivered to you 
in your Elysian fields. 

" If you have got the now Juans, recollect thtt 
there are some very gr®ss printer's blunders, partic- 
ularly in the fifth canto, — such as ' praise ' for ' pair* 
— ' precarious ' for ' precocious ' — ' Adriatic ' for 
' Asiatic ' — ' case ' for ' chase ' — besides gifts of addi- 
tional words and syllables, which make but a ca- 
cophonous rhythmus. Put the pen through the said, 
as I would mine through Murray's ears if I were 
along side of him. As it is, I have sent him a rat- 
tling letter, as abusive as possible. Though he is 
pujMsher to the 'Board of Longitude,' he is in no 
daa^ er of discovering it. 

"1 unpacking for Pisa — ^but direct your letters 
here, till farther notice. 

*' Yoiirs ever, &c." 

[On? of the "paper books " mentioned in this let- 
te: iis intrusted to Mr. Mawman for me, contained 
a portion, to the amount of nearly a hundred pages, 
of a prose story, relating the adventures of a young 
Andalusian nobleman, which had been begun by him, 
at Venice, in 1817, of which the following is an ex- 
tract. — Moore.] 

'* A few hours afterward we were \-ery good friends, 
and a few days after she set out for Arragon, with 
my son, on a visit to her father and mother. I did 
not accompany her immediately, having been in 
Arragon before, but was to join the family in their 
Moorish chateau witnin a few weeks. 

"Duiing her journey I received a very affection- 
ate letter from Donna Josepha, apprizing me of the 
welfare of herself and my son. On her arrival at 
the chateau, I received another still more affection 
ate, pressing me, in very fond, and rather foolish 
terms, to join her immediately. As I was preparing 
to HB': out from Seville, I received a third — this was 
from her father, Don Josedi Cardozo, who requested 
me, in the politest manner, to dissolve my marriage 
I answered him with equal politeness, that I would 
if) no such thing. A fourth letter arrived — it was 
frum Donna Josepha, in which she informed me 
that her father's letter was written by her particular 
desire. I requested the reason by return of post — 
ehe replied, by express, that as reason had nothing 
to do with the matter, it was unnecessary to give 
iny — but that she was an injured and excellent 
woman. I then inquired why she had written to me 
the two preceding affectionate letters, requesting 
ne to come to .4rragon. She answered, that was 
because she believed me out of my senses — that, 
b«nng unfit Id take care of myself, I had only to set 
aut on this j >urney alone, and make my way with- 



out difiiculty to Don Jose di Cardozo's, I shoulil 
tlpere have found the tenderest of wives and— < 

strait waistcoat. 

' I had nothing to reply to this piece of affection 
but a reiteration of my request for some lights upon 
the subject. I was answered that they would only 
be related to the Inquisition. In the mean time, 
our domestic discrepancy had become a public topic 
of discussion 4 and the world, which always decides 
justly, not only in Arragon but in Andalusia, deter- 
mined that I was not only to blame, but that all 
Spain could produce nobody so blameable. My 
case was supposed to comprise all the crimes which 
coTild, and several which could not, be committed, 
and little less than an auto-da-fe was anticipated as 
the result. But let no man say that we are aban- 
doned by our friends in adversity — it was just the 
reverse. Mine thronged around me to condemn, 
advise, and console me with their disapprobation.— 
They told me all that was, would, or could be said 
on the subject. They shook their heads — they ex 
horted me — deplored me, with tears in theii eves 
and — went to dinner." 



LETTER DXVIII. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Rarenna, Sept. 4, 1821. 

"By Saturday's post, I sent you a fierce and 
furibund le'tter upon the subject of the printer's 
blunders in Don Juan. I must solicit your atten- 
tion to the topic, though my wrath hath subsided 
into sullenness. 

" Yesterday I received Mr. , a friend of 

yours, and because he is a friend of yours ; and that's 
more than I would do in an English case, except for 
those whom I honor. I was as civil as I could be 
among packages even to the very chairs and tables, 
for I am going to Pisa in a few weeks, and have 
sent and am sending off my chattels. It regretted 
me that, my books and every thing being packed, I 
could not send you a few things I meant for you ; 
but they were all sealed and baggaged, so as to have 
made it a month's work to get at them again. I 
gave him an envelope, with the Italian scrap in it,* 
alluded to in my Gilchrist defence. Hobhouse will 
make it out for you, and it will make you laugh, 
and him too, the spelling particularly. The ' Meri- 
cafii,' of whom they call me the ' Capo,' (or chief,) 
mean * Americans,' which is the name given in 
Ro7nagna to a part of the Cai-bonari ; that is to say, 
to t\ie popular yAxt, the troops of the Carbonari.— 
They are originally a society of hunters in the for- 
est, who took the^name of Americans, but at pres- 
ent comprise some thousands, &c. ; but I shan't let 
you farther into the secret, which may be partici- 
pated with the post masters. Why they thought 
me their chief, I know not : their chiefs are like 
'Legion, being many.' However, it is a pjst o? 
more honor than profit, for, now that they aie per 
secuted, it is fit that I should aid them; and so 1 
have done, as far as my means would permit. Tht^y 
will rise again some day, for these fools of thegOT- 
ernment are blundering : they actually seem to kuo^f 
nothing, for they have arrested and banished many 
of their own party, and let others escape who are nut 
their friends. 

" What think'st thou of Greece ? 

" Address to me here as usual, til] your hear far- 
ther from me. 

"By Mawman I have sent a Journal to Moore, 
but it won't do for the public, — at least j great deal 
of it won't ;— parts may. 

" I read over the Juans, which are excellent.— 
Your squad are quite wrong ; and so you will find 




LET'^T?RS 



935 



by-and-b/. I regiet that I do not go on with it, for 
I had all the plan for several cantos, and different 
CO mtries and climes. You say nothing of the tiote 
I ;jnclosed to you, which will explain why I agreed 
to discontinue it, (at Madame Guiccioli's request ;) 
but you are so grand, and sublime, and occupied 
that one would think, instead of publishing for 
• the Board of Longitude,' that you were trying to 
discover it. 

" Let me hear that Gifford is better. He can't be 
•pared either by you or me." 



LETTER DXIX, 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenna,.Sept. 12, 1821, 

.- «* By Tuesday's post, I forwarded, in three pack- 

f ftts, the drama of Cain in three acts, of which I re- 

-' quest the acknowledgment when arrived. To the 

last speech of Eve, in the last act, (i. e. where she 

curses Cain,) add these three lines to the conclud- 

big ones — 

•« May the grass wither from thy foot I the woods 
Deny thef shelter I earth a home I the dust 
A giave I the sun liis lijhl I and Heaven her God 1 

* There's as pretty apiece of imprecation for you, 
when joined to the lines already sent, as you may 
wish t.) meet with in the course of your business. — 
But don't forget the addition of the above three 
lines, which are clinchers to Eve's speech. 

" Let me know what Gifford thinks, (if the play 
arrives in safety;) for I have a good opinion of the 
piece, as poetry ; it is in my gay metaphysical style, 
and in the Manfred line. 

" You must at least commend my faculty and va- 
riety, when you consider what I have done within 
the 'ast fifteen months, with my head, too, full of 
othei and of mundane matters. But no doubt you 
m\\. avoid saying any good of it, for fear I should 
raise the i)rice upon you : that's right : stick to bu- 
siness. Let me know what your other ragamuffins 
are writing, for I suppose you don't like starting too 
many of your vagabonds at once. You may give 
them the start for any thing I care. 

" Why don't you publish my Pulci—t\\o. very best 
thing I ever wi-ote, — with the Italian to it ? 1 wish ^ 
^ 1 was alongside of you; nothing is ever done in a 
/ man's absence; every body runs counter, because 
they can. If ever I do return to England, (which 
I shan't, though ) I will write a poem to which 
'English Bards,' «ic., shall be new milk, in com-! 
parison. Yout present literary world of mounte- 
banks stand in need of such an Avatar. But I am 
not yet quite bilious, enough : a season or two more, | 
and a provocation or two, will wind me up to the 
point, and thou have at the wliole set ! 1 

" I have no patience with the sort of trash you 
■end me out by way of books ; except Scott's nov- 
eb, and three or four other things, I never saw such 
work, or works. Cainpl)ell is lecturing— Moore 
Jiling— Southoy nvaddling— Wordsworth drivelling 
': — <;olcridge nuuUlliiig— * * niddling— Bowh^s ^uib- 
, Witg, squ.ibbling, and snivelling. * * will do, if he^ 
don't cant too nuicli, nor imitate Southey ; the fel- 
low has po^^Hy in him; l»iit he is envious and unhap- 
py, as all the envious are. Still he is among the 
best of the day. Barry Cornwall will do better by- 
and-by, I dare say, if he don't get spoiled by green 
tea, and the j)raise8 of I'entonville and Taradise- 
/ row. The pity of these men is, that they never 
(. ^fived in hit/h life, nor in solitude : there in no medi-, 
am for the knl)\vl(Mli,'e of the busy or the «//// world. ' 
If adinitfpd into lugh life for a season, it is merely 
M spectators— they form no mirt of the mechanism 
thereof. Now, Moore and I, the ono by eircum- 
■tances, and the other by birth, happened to bo free 



of the corporation, and to have entered into ita 
pulses and passions, quarum partes fuimits. Both 
of us have learned by this much which nothing else 
could have taught us, " Yours. 

** P. S. I saw one of your brethren, another ol 
the allied sovereigns of Grub street, the other day, 
Mawman the Great, by whom I sent due homage to 
your imperial self. To-morrow's post may perhaps 
bring a letter from you, but you are the most un- 
grateful and ungracious of correspondents. But 
there is some excuse for you, with your perpetual 
levee of politicians, parsons, scribblers, and loun- 
gers. Some day I will give you a poetical catalogue 
of them." 



LETTER DXX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

"Rarenna, Sept. 17, 1821. 

" The enclosed lines,* as you will directly per- 
ceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. Bowl"- 01 
course it is for him to deny them if they are not. 

*' Believe me yours ever and most affectionately, 

"B. 

"P. S. Can you forgive this ? It is only a reply 
to your lines against my Italians. Of course I will 
staiid by my lines against all men ; but it is heart 
breaking to see such things in a people as the re- 
ception of that unredeemed ****** in an op- 
pressed country. Your apotheosis is now reduced to 
a level with his welcome, and their gratitude to 
Grattan is cancelled by theii' atrocious adulation of 
thiS; &c., &c., &c." 



LETTER DXXL 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Ravenna, Sept. 19, 1821. 

" I am in all the sweat, dust, and Inasphemy of a 
universal packing of all my things, furniture, X'C, 
for Pisa, whither I go for the winter. The cause 
has been the exile of all my fellow Carbonies, and, 
among them, of the whole family of Madame O. 
who, you know, was divorced from her husband last 
week, • on account of P. P. clerk of this uarish, 
and who is obliged to join her father and relatives, 
now in exile there, to "avoid being shut np in a mo- 
nastery, because the Pope's decree of separation re- 
quired her to reside in casa patcnui, or else, for 
aecorum's sake, in a convent. As 1 could not say, 
with Hamlet, ' Get thee to a nunnery,' I am prepar- 
ing to follow them. 

" It is awful work, tliis love, and prevents all • 
man's projects of good or glory, 1 wanted to go to 
Greece lately (as every thing seems ur here) with 
her brother, who is a very fine, brave fell «v, (I have \ 
seen him put to the pritof. ^ and wild about Ki>er»y. 
But the tears o\' u woman wlio has left a hi»»'<un<J I 
for a man, and the weakness of one's o^yn liKirt, 
are paramount to these projects, and I can haitiiy 
indulg*^" tlieni. 

" We were divided in choice between Swit?.prUaJ 
and T\;.scany, u.ul I give mv vote for Pisa, as ne.irai 
the Mediterranean, which i love for the sake of the 
shores which it washes and for my young rectdlec 
tions of 1809. Switrerland is a cursed, «elti»h, 
swinish country' of brutes, placed in tiie most n> 
mantic region of the world. I never could bear thf 



/ 



• " Tho IrUli Avnter," Pornit, p. 873. In lhl» 
IriMw (ukKii fniin r 'Mtir of Ciirrnn, hi lh«< Mio > 
by hia •uii) b prrdxpil m n iihMIo to th<- p«- ii' 
iM.I.M-,! .Lphnu, hiieclliif lo n-crivr thr i 
1^, vol. U., p. 838. Al i\v! oi(.l i.( llir v, 
W, L. U * *, M- A., ttiia wriueu with « vi «> 



9.36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



bhabitants, and still less their English visitors ; for 
ivhich reason, after writing for some information 
about houses, upon hearing that there was a colony 
of English all over the cantons of Geneva, &c., I 
immediately gave up the thought, and persuaded 
the Gambas to do the same. 

"By last post I sent you 'the Irish Avatar,' — 
what think you ? The last line — * a name never 
spoke but with curses or jeers ' — must run either 
a name only uttered with curses or jeers,' or ' a 
wretch never named but with curses or jeers.' Be- 
cose as how, * spoke ' is not grammar, except in the 
House of Commons ; and I doubt whether we can 
say ' a name sjjoken,' for mentioned. I have some 
doubts, too, about 'repay,' — 'and for murder repay 
with a shout and a smile.' Should it not be, ' and 
for murder repay him with shouts and a smile,' or 

• reward him with shouts and a smile ? ' 

" So, pray put your poetical pen through the MS. 
and take the least b^fl of the emendations. Also, 
if there be any farther breaking of Priscian's head, 
will you apply a plaster ? I wrote in the greatest 
tiuny and fury, and sent it to you the day after ; so, 
doubtless, there will be some awful constructions, 
and a rather lawless conception of rhythmus. 

" With respect to what Anna Seward calls ' the 
liberty of transcript,' — when complaining of Miss 
Matilda Muggleton, the accomplished daughter of 
a choral vicar of Worcester Cathedral, who bad 
abused the said ' liberty of transcript,' by inserting 
in the Malvern Mercury, Miss Seward's ' Elegy on 
the South Pole,' as her own production, with her 
ow?i signature, two years after having taken a copy, 
by permission of the authoress — with regard, I say, 
to the ' liberty of transc ipt,' I by no means oppose 
an occasional copy to the benevolent few, provided 
it does not degenerate into such licentiousness of 
verb and noun as may tend to ' disparage my parts 
of speech' by the careles ness of the transcribblers. 

'' I do not think that tl ere is much danger of the 

* King's Press being abu; ed ' upon the occasion, if 
the publishers of jourT-als have any regard for their 
remainiiig liberty of pers; n. It is as pretty a piece 
of invective as ever put publisher in the way to 
'Botany.' Therefore, if they meddle with it, it is 
at their peril. As for myself, I will answer any 
Toutleman — though I by no means recognize a 

' right of search ' into an unpublished production , 
md unavowed poem. The same applies to things 
published sans consent. I hope you like, at least, 
the concluding lines of the j.oem? 

" What are you doing, find where are you ? in 
England ? Nail Murray — nail him to his own coim- 
ter, till he shells out the thirteens. Since I wrote 
to you, I have sent him another tragedy — ' Cain ' 
by name — making three in MS. now in his hands, 
or in the printer's. It is in the Manfred, metaphys- 
ical style, and full of some Titanic declamation ; — 
Lucifer being one of the dram. pers. who takes 
Cain a voyage among the stars, and, afterwards, 
to ' Hades,' where he shows the phantoms of a 
former world, and its inhabitants. I have gone 
^ upon the notion of Cu\ ier, that the world has been 
"^destroyed three or four tiiuis, and was inhabited by, 
/mammoths, behemoths, and what not; but 7ioi by' 
Jicvn till the Mosaic period, as, indeed, is proved by! 
/• the strata of bones found ; — those of all unknown | 
'■' arimals, and known, being dug out, but none of i 
mankind. I have, tlierefoie, supposed Cain to be : 
shown, in the rational Preadamites, being endowed 
with a higher intelligence than man, but totally 
anlike him in form, and with much greater strength 
of mind and person. You may suppose the small 
talk which takes place beiween him and Lucifer 
upon these matters is not (juite canonical. 

"The consequence is, tliat Cain comes back and 
kills Abel in a fit of dissatisfaction, partly with the 
politics of Paradise, which had driven them all out 
of it, and partly because (as it is written in Genesis) 
A-lwl fc sacrifice was the more acceptable to the Dei- 
^r. I truat that the Rhapsody has arrived — it is in 



three acts, and entitled * A Mystery,' acccrcmg tt 
the former Christian custom, and in hjnor of wna* 
it probably will remain to the reader. 

" Yours. &c." 



LETTER DXXIL 

TO MB. MOORE. 

" September 20, 182i 

"After the stanza on Grattan, concluding wit! 
' His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied, 
will it please you to cause the printer to insert th€ 
following ' Addenda,' which I dreamed of during 
to-day's siesta : 

" Ever glorious Grattan I &c., &c., &c. 

I will tell you what to do. Get me twenty copies 
of the whole carefully and privately printed off, aa 
your lines were on the Naples affair. Send me six, 
and distribute the rest according to you own plea- 
sure. 

" I am in a fine vein, ' so full of pastime and prod- / 
igality ! ' — So, here's to your health in a glass, of ^ 
grog. Pray write, that I may know by return of 
post — address to me at Pisa. The gods give you 

joy! 

' Where are you ? in Paris ? Let us hear. You 
will take care that there be no printer's name, nor 
author's, as in the Naples stanzas, at least foi the 
present." 



LETTER DXXIIl- 

TO MB. MUBRAY. 

" Ravenna, Sept. 2(J, tSil 

' You need not send ' the Blues,' which is a mere 
buffoonery, never meant for publication.* 

" The papers to which I allude, in case of survi« 
vorship, are collections of letters, &c., since I waa 
sixteen years old, contained in the trunks in the 
care of Mr. Hobhouse. This collection is at least 
doubled by those I have now hei'e, all received since 
my last ostracism. To these I should wish the 
editor to have access, not for the purpose of ubusing 
conJid-eiic.es, nor of hurting the feelings of corre- 
spondents living, nor the memories of the dead ; 
but there are things which would do neither, that I 
have left unnoticed or unexplained, and which (like 
all such things) time only can permit to be noticed 
or explained, though some are to my credit. The 
task will of course require delicacy ; but that wiU 
not be wanting, if Moore and Hobhouse survive me, 
and, I may add, yourself; and that you may all 
three do so is, I a'ssure you, my very sincere wish. 
I am not sure that long life is desirable for one o. 
my temper and constitutional depressions of spirits, 
which of course I suppress in society ; but which 
breaks out when alone, and in my writings, ir spite 
of myself. It has been deepened, perhaps, by some 
long-past events, (I do not allude to my marriage, 
&c. — on the contrary, that raised them by the per- 
secution giving a fillip to my spirits;) but I call it 
constitutional, as I have reason to think it. You\ 
know, or you do not know, that my maternal grand \ 
father, (a very clever man, and amiable, I am told,"> / 
was strongly suspected of suicide, (he was founa ( 
drowned in the Avon at Bath,) and that another \ 
very near relative of the same branch took poison 
and was merely saved by antidotes. For the first oi 
these events there was no apparent cause, as he waa 
rich, respected, and of considerable intellectual re- 
sources, hardly forty years of age, and not at aU 
addicted to any unhinging vice. It was, however 

• SeePoeM. p-Sa* 



LETTERS. 



937 



./out a stroi.«< si spioiun, owing to the manner of kia 
/ death and his melancholy temper. The second had 
I R cause, but it do^s not become me to touch upon 
It: it happened when I was far too yoiinR to be 
aware of it, and I never heard of it till after the 
death of that relative, many years afterward. I 
think, then, that I may call this dejection constitu- 
tional. I had always been told that I resembled 
more my maternal grandfather than any of my 
father's family — that is, in the gloomier part of his 
temper, for he was what you call a good-natured 
"lan, and I am not. 

*' The journal here I sent to Moore the other day ; 
but as it is a mere diary, only parts of it would ever 
do for publication. The other journal of the tour 
In 1816, I should think Augusta might let you have 
a copy of. 

' I am much mortified that Gifford don't take to 
my new dramas. To be sure, they are as opposite 
. to the English drama as one thing can be to an- 
other ; but I have a notion that, if understood, they 
will in time find favor (though not on the stage) 
. with the reader. The ■simplicity of plot is inten- 
tional, and the avoidance of raiit also, as also the 
compression of the speeches in the more severe 
situations. What I seek to show in ' the Foscaris ' 
ij the suppressed passions, rather than the rant of 
;,he present day. For that matter — 

' Nay, if thou 'It muuth, 
I'll rant as well as thou '— 

uould not be difficult, as I think I have shown in 
my younger productions, — not dramatic ones, to be 
Bure. But, as I said before, I am mortified that 
Gifford don't like thom ; but I see no remedy, our 
notions on that subject being so different. Ilow is 
he ? — well, I hope ; — let me know. I regret his 
demur the more that he has been always my grand 
patron, and I know no praise which would compen- 
sate me in my own mind for his censure. I do not 
mind Reviews, as I can work them at their own 
weapons. " Yours, &c." 

"Address to me at Pisa, whither I am going. 
The reason is, that all my Italian friends here have 
henn exiled, and are m<^t there for the present, and 
I go to join thera, ap <.greed upon, for the winter." 



i^ETTER DXXIV. 

rO MR. MUURAY. 

" Ravenna, Sopt, W, IKl. 

•' I have been thinking over our late corrcspond- 
t-nce, and wish to propose to you the following 
articles for our future: 

" Istly. Tbat vou shall write to me of yourself, 
of the health, wealtli, and welfare of all friends ; but 
of inc (quoad me) little or nothing. 

* 2dly. That you sliall send me soda-powders, 
tooth-powder, tonth-bruslies, or any Huch anti- 
cdonlalgic or chemical articles, as heretofore, 'ad 

ibit'.im,' upon being reimbursed for the same. 

•' ;i(11y lliat y()\i sliall*not send me any mddt'rn, 
'or (as thtiv ar" called) new jjublications, in Emillsh 
tohatsueihr, save anil excepting any writing, pr()S(> or 
verse, 'of (or reasonably presumed to be of) Walter 
Scott. Crabhe, Moore, C;iinpl)ell, Rogers, (jilfortl, 
Joanna IJaillie, Irrinfl, (the Auu-riean,) Hogg, Wil- 
son, (the Isle of I'nlins man,) or ani/ ("special */m//ef 
Work of fancy whicli is th(uight to l)e of eonsidera- 
We merit; V'oi/tK/rs and Trawls, provided that they 
arc neither in Grcfcc, Spain, Asht Minor, Alhunia, 
nor iLaliJ, ^vill be welcome. Having travelled the 
countries rtientioned, I know that what is said of 
them can convev nothing farther which I desiro to 
know about them.— No other linglish works what- 

• 4l'.ly. That v »u send mo no ponodical works 



whatsoever — no Edinburgh, Quarterly, Monthly, 
nor any review, magazine, or newspaper, EngUsb 
or foreign, of any description. 

"5thly. That you send me no opinions whatso 
ever, either good, bad, or indiffei-ent, of yourself, or 
your friends, or others, concerning any work, oi 
works, of mine, past, present, or to come. 

" 6thly. That all negotiations in matters of busi- 
ness between you and me pass through the medium 
of the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, my friend and trus- 
tee, or Mr. Hobhouse, as 'Alter ego,' and tanta 
mount to myself during my absence — or presence. 

" Some of these propositions may at first seem 
strange, but they are founded. The quantity ol* 
trash I have received as books is incalculable, and 
neither amused nor instructed. Reviews and mag- 
azines are at the best but ephemeral and superficial 
reading : — who thinks of the (fraud article of last 
year in any given Review f In the next place, il 
they regard myself, they tend .to increase egotism. 
If favorable, I do not deny that the praise elates^ 
and if unfavorable, that the abuse irritates. The 
latter may conduct me to inflict a species of satire, 
which would neither do good to you nor to your 
friends : they may smile now, and so may you ; but 
if I took you all in hand, it would not be difficult to 
cut you up like gourds. I did as much by as pow- 
erful people at nineteen years old, and I know little 
as yet, in three-and-thirty, which should prevent 
me from making all your ribs gridirons for your 
hearts, if such were my propensity: but it is not; 
therefore let me hear none of your provocations. 
If any thing occurs so very gross as to require my 
notice, I shall hear of it from my legal friends. For 
the rest, I merely request to be left in ignorance. 
• "The same applies to opinions, good, bad, or in- 
different, of persoas in conversation or correspond 
ence. These do not interrupt, but they soil, the 
n/rrejit of my mind. I am sensitive enough, but 
not till I am troubled; and here I am beyond the 
touch of the short arms of hterary England, except 
the few feelers of the polypus that crawl over tho 
channels in the way of extract. 

" All these precautions in England would be use 
less ; the libeller or the flatterer would there reach 
me in spite of all ; but in Italy we know little of 
literary England, and think less, except what 
reaches us through some garbled and brief extract 
in some miserable gazette. For two years (except- 
ing- two or three articles cut out and sent to you by 
the post) 1 never read a newspaper which was not 
forced upon me by some accident, and know, upon 
the whole, as little of Ejigland as you do of Itily, 
and God knows that is little enough, witii all vour 
travels, X:c., <!<:c., itc. The English travellers ^note 
Italy as you kntyw (juernsey : how much is /hat f 

"If any thing occiirs so violently gn»ss or person- 
al as rc(iuires notice, Mr. Douglas Kinuaird will let 
me k7ww ; but of praise, I desire to hear nothing. 

" Y(ui will say, ' to what tends all this ? * I wi!l 
answer that;— to keej) my mind frre and M/i^>k;.v<fd 
by :ill jjallry and personal irrital)i"lities of praise or 
censure — to let my genius take its mitural diieeli»)n, 
while my feelings are like the dead, who kmw 
nothing and feel nothing of all or at ght that 'a 
said or done^in their regard. 

" If y<m can observe these conditions, you will 
spare yourself and others some pain ; let me not ba 
worked tipon U) rise up ; for if I do, it will not b« 
ftu- a little. If you cannot ob>erve those couditiont, 
we shall cease to be correspondents,— but not 
friends, for I shall always be yours and ev«t truly, 

" H\U«>N. 

" P. S. I have taken these resolutions, not froro 
any irritation against you or yours, luit simply upon 
reflection that all reading, either praise or censuriB, 
of myself has done me harn». When I was iK 
Switzerl.ind and Greece, I was out of the way of 
hearing either, iiud how I wrote thttt : — in Italy I 
am out of the VKuy of it too; but latterly, pnrlly 
through my fault, and partly »hro igh Vour kiudo(>«a 



d'Zii 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



in -Rishing to send me the newest and most periodi- 
cal j^ublications, I have had a crowi of Reviews, 
ire. thrust upon me, which have bored me with 
their jargon, of one kind or another, and taken off 
my attention from greater objects. You have also 
sent me a parcel of trash of poetry, for no reason 
that I can conceive, unless to provoke me to write 
a new ' English Bards.' Now this I wish to avoid : 
for if ever I do, it will be a sti-ong production ; and 
I desire peace as long as the fools will keep their 
nonsense out of my way." 



LETTER DXXV. 

TO MB. MOORE. 

" September 27, 1821. 

" It was not Murray's fault. I did not send the 
MS. overtxire, but I send it now,* and it may be 
restored ; — or, at any rate, you may keep the orig- 
inal, and give any copies you please. I send it, as 
written, and as Iread it to you — I have no other 
copy- 

" By last week's tico posts, in two packets, I sent 
to your address, at Paris, a longish poem upon the 
late Irishism of your countrj'men in their reception 
of * * *. Pray, have you received it ? It is in ' the 
high Roman fashion,' and full of ferocious fantasy. 
As you could not well take up the matter with 
Paddy, ("being of the same nest,) 1 have; — but I 
hope still that I have done justice to his great men 
and his good heart. As for * * *, you will find it 
laid on with a trowel. I delight in your ' fact his- 
torical ' — is it a fact ? " Yours, &c. 

•' P. S. You have not answered me about Schlegel 
— why not ? Address to me at Pisa, whither I am 
?oing, to join the exiles — a pretty numerous body, 
ftt present. Let me hear how you are, and what 
yen mean to do. Is there no chance of your re- 
'frossing the Alps ? If the G. Rex marrie's again, 
let him not want an Epithalamium — suppose a 
joint concern of you and me, like Sternhold and 
llopkins ! " 



LETTER DXXVI. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" September 28, 1821. 

'• I add another cover to request you to ask 
Rioore to obtain (if possible) my letters to the late 
Lady Melbourne from Lady Cowper. They arei 
very numerous, and ought to have been restored 
lorg ago, as I wa? ready to give back Lady Mel- 
bom ne's in exchange. These latter are in Mr. 
Hohhoase's cu«-t'dy with my other paperfi, and 
shall be punctually restored if required. I did not 
choose before to apply to Lady Cowper, as her 
mother's death naturally kept me from in ruding 
upor her feelings at the time of its occurrence. 
Bom 3 years have now elapsed, and it is ..ssential 
;that I should have my own epistles. 'I'ney are 
essential as confirming that part of tV'.- 'Mem- 
oranda' which refers to the two p-jrioJ > ^1812 and 
1314) when my marriage with her i7ei',f r as in con- 
templation, and will tend to shj-.v r u^.t my real 
views and feelings were upon th'.t sufjuct. 

" You need no*- be alarmed , tbe ' If . j leen years ' f 
Hill hardly elapse withrut scire mrr.t'ity among us : 



• The line* "Oh W .iiir.j^toii," O a Juan, y.vxt ix., itanza i., &c., 
rhjch 1 hail mimed in th'-.r orijTua' p)'.cc a' t) j ujjening of the third cunto, 
Uici tooli lor p^nte<l th* i tliey \\.A ' <* . i^'p^^fit.si' by his piiijlisher. — Moot: 

t He here alludes to a p^j«l /j -emarit oJ ' oe of Mr. Murray's letters, 
that, a* his lorlaliip's " JV*,m'.a/ A" ^e » bjI lo be publisheil in his life- 
line, the sum new pa 1 .or 'he ^ork, 'iV'jl., would, most probably, upon a 
KftjonaUe caleulattcn of •urrivonLip amount u.jroarily to no leM than 



it is a long lease of life to speculate upon. i5o jooj \ 
calculation will not be in so much prii'., as the • 
' argosie ' will sink before that time, and ' the pound \ 
of flesh ' be withered previously to your beinr so ', 
long out of a return. 

" I also wish to give you a hint or two, (as you 
have really behaved very handsomely to Moore in 
the business, and are a fine fellow in your line,) fot 
your advantage. If by your own management you 
can extract any of my epistles from Lady ——* 
jT* * * * * * *,) they might be of use in your 
collection, (sinking of course the names, and all 
such circumstances as might hurt living feelings, or 
those of survivors ;) they treat of more topics than 
love occasionally. 

****** 

" I will tell you who may happen to have seme 
letters of mine in their possession : Lord Powers- 
court, some to his late brother; Mr. Long of — (I 
forget his place) — but the father of Edward Long 
of the Guiu'ds, who was drowned in going to Lisbon 
early in 1809 ; Miss Elizabeth Pigot, of Southwell, 
Notts, (she may be Mistress by this time, for she 
had a year or two more than I :) they were not love- 
letters, so that you might have them without 
scruple. There are, or might be, some to the late 
Rev. J. C. Tuttersail, in the hands of his brother 
(half-brother) Mr. Wheatley, who resides near Can- 
terbury, I think. There are some of Charles Gordon, 
now at Uulwich ; and some few to Mrs. Cha^vorth; 
but these latter are probably destroyed or inacces- 
sible. 

****** 

" I mention these people and particulars merely'' 
as chanciis. Most of them liave probably destroyed 
the letters, which in fact are of little import, many 
of them written when very young, and several at 
school and college. 

" Peel (the second brother of the Secietary) was a 
correspondent of mine, and also Porter, the son ol 
the Bishop of Ciogher ; Lord Clare a very volum 
inous one ; William Harness (a friend of Milman's) 
another; Charles Drummond, (son of the banker) ■ 
William Bankes (the voyager) your friend ; R. C. 
Dallas, Esq. ; Plodgson ; Henry Drury ; Hobhouse 
you are already aware of. 

*' I have gone through this long list of 

rhe coid, the faithless, aud the dead,' 

because I know that, like ' the curious in fish- 
sauce,' you are a researcher of such things. * 

" Besides these, there aye other occasional ones 
to literary men and so forth, complimentary, &c. 
&c., &c., not worth much more than the rest. There 
are some hundreds, too, of Italian notes of mine, 
scribbled with a noble contempt of the grammar . 
and dictionary, in very English Etruscan ; for 1 
speak Italian very fluently, but write it carelesslj , 
and incorrectly to a degree." 



LETTER DXXVII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Septembtr », 1821. 

" I send you two rough things, prose and verse, 
not much in themselves, but which will show, one 
of them the state of the country, and the other ol 
your friend's mind, when they were written. Neither 
of them were sent to the person concerned, but 
you will see, by the style of them, that they were 
sincere, as I am in signing myself 

*' Yours e^er and trulv, 

"B." 

[Of the two enclosures, mentioned in the fcr© 
going note, one was a letter intended to be sent to 
Ladv Byron, relative to his money invested in .h< 
funds, of which the following aie extracts.] 



LETTERS. 



939 



^ KavetiLa, Maruu . rao, 1821. 

• i have received your messapje, through my 
-jijtor's letter, about English security, &c., &c. tt 
is considerate, (and true, even,) that such is to be 
found— but not that I shall find it. Mr. * *, for 
his own views and jjurposes, will thwart all such 
attempts till he has accoaiplished his own, viz., to 
make me lend my fortune to some client of his 
choosing. 

'• At this distance — after this absence, and with 
my utter ignorance of aifairs and business — with 
my temper and impatience, I have neither the 
means nor the mind to resist. * * ♦ 

• « * Th.nking of the funds as I 

dO; and wishing to secure a reversion to my sister 
one her children, I should jump at most expedients. 

'* What I told you is come to pass — the Neapol- 
itan war is declared. Your funds will fall, and I 
ghall be in conse(}uence ruined. That's nothing — 
but my blood-relalions will be so. You and your 
rhild are provided for. Live and prosper — I wish so 
•nuch to both. Live and prosper — you have the 
I means. I think but of my real kin and kindred, 
\ who may be the victims of this accursed bubble. 

" You neither know nor dream of the ' con- 
sequences of this war. It is a war of men with 
mouarchs, and will spread Jike a spark on the dry, 
rank grass of the vegetable desert. What it is 
with you and your English, you do not know, for 
ye sleep. What it is with us here, I know, for it is 
before, and around, and within us. 

" Judge of my detestation of England and of all 
that it inherits, when I avoid returning to your 
country at a time when not only my pecuniary 
interest, but, it may be, even my personal security 
lequir* it. I can say no more, for all letters are 
jpened. A snort time will decide upon wluit is to 
DC done here, and then you will learn it without 
behig more troubled with me or my correspondence. 
Whatever happens an individual is little, so that 
the cause is forwarded. 

" I have no more to say to you on the score of 
affairs or any other subject." 

[The second enclosure in the note consisted of 
some verses, written by him, December 10th, 1820, 
on seeing the following paragraph in a newspai)or. 
''Jjady IByron is tliis yeai the lady patroness at tlie 
annual Charity Ball, gi^ an at the Town Hall at 
Hinckly, Leicestershire, and Sir G. Crewe, Bart, 
the principal steward." These verses are full of 
strong and indignant feeling. — every stanza con- 
cluding poin'edly with the words "Charity Ball," — 
and the th- jght that predominates tlirough the 
whole may be collected from a few of the opening 
lines. — Moore.'] 

'• Whal rimltcr the panps of a hiiiband ami fullier, 

If lii« nor ."Own in exile be great or be •iiiiiM. 
,' 'Bo the Plmriiee's glories urouiul her ihe giilher, 

And the Suiiil piiiroiiiwi hi;r ' Charity B:ill.' 

What matter*— a heurl, which tliou^h faulty wiu feeling, 
B6 driven to exceiues wliicti onco cuulil appul— 

IVlt JO SiiuiKr alioiild miller ii only lUir dealing, 
Aa Uw Baiut lieepa tier churity huclc for ' the Ball,' *«., Ac 



LETTER DXXVIIL 



TO MK. MOOKB. 



•• Beplembcr— no— October I, IWl. 

" 1 have written to you lately, both in prose and 
Terse, at great length, to I'aris and London. 1 

S resume that Mrs. Moore, or whoever is your I'lina 
eputy, will forward my packets to you in Loiu'.tm. 
•• I am setting off for I'isa, if a slight incipitMit 
tntenniltt^nt fever do not prevent inc. 1 fear it in 
not strong enough to givi- Murray much cluinee of 
realizing his thirl xua again. I hurdly blu'.ild regret 



it, I think, provided you raised yryxx price upun 
him — as what Lady Holderness (my sister's grand- 
mother, a Dutch woman) usod to call Augusta, hei 
Residee Leyatou — so as to provide for us all ; my 
bones with a splendid and larmoyante edition, and 
you with double what is extractaole during aty life^ 
time. 

" I have a .«trong presentiment that (bating soma 
out-of-the-way accident) you will survive me. The' 
difference of eight years, or whatever it is between 
our ages, is nothing. I do not feel (nor am, indeed 
anxious to feel) the principles of lite in me tend to 
longevity. My father and mother died, the one at 
thirty-five or six, and the other at forty-tive ; and 
Doctor Rush, or somebody else, says that nobody 
lives long, without having one parent^ at least, an 
old stager. 

" I should, to be sure, like to see out my eternal 
mother-in-law, not so much for her heritage, but 
from my natural antipathy. But the uidulgonce of 
this natural desire is too much to expect from the 
Providence who presides over old woii;en. I bore 
you with all this about lives because it has been 
put in my way by a calculation of insurances which 
Murray has sent mo. I really think you snould 
have more, if I evaporate within a reasonable time. 

"I wonder if my 'Cain' has got safe to Eng- 
land. I have written since about sixty stanzas of a 
poem, in octave stanzas,* (in the Pnlci style, which 
the fools in Enghwid think was invented by WhisUe- 
craft — it is as old as the hills in Italy,) called 'The 
Vijion of Judgment, by Quevedo Redivivus.' with 
this motto — 

' A Daniel come to jwl^nient, yi'n, a Di^niel ; ^ 

1 lliniik thee, Jew, for lertciiiM;j ine tint word.' 

" In this it IS my intent to put the said George s 
Apotheosis in a \Vhig pt)int of view, not forgetting 
the Poet Laureate for his preface and his other 
demerits. 

" I am just got to the pass where Saint Peter, 
hearing that the royal defunct had opposed Catholic 
Emancipation, rises u]) and, interrupting Satan*P 
oration, declares he will change i)l.ices with Ccr 
berus sooner than let him into heaven, while he haa 
the keys thereof. 

" I must go and ride, though rather feverish and 
chilly. It is the ague season ; but the agues do me 
rather good ttian harm. The feel after tlie /•'( is ai 
if one iiad got rid of one's body for good ani all. 

" The gods go with you ! — Address to Pisa. 

*' Ever yours 

" P. S. Since I came back I feel better, though I 
stayed out too late for this niah'ria season, undi«r 
the" tliin crescent of a very young moon, and got otl 
my horse to walk in an avenue with a Siguora for 
an hour. I thought : f you and 

W her at ere Iheu n>ve»t 
l)y the auur (hou lovraL ' 

But it was not in a romantic mood, as I shotild hare 
been once ; and yet it was a ;«jr w<unan, (lltat is, 
new to mt',) and, of course, expected to bt' mud* 
love to. But I merely made a few eommjn-plao* 
sj)eeche8. I feel as your poor friend Cumin bald, 
before his death, 'a mountain of lead upcm mT 
heart,* wliich 1 belie\e to be c(m.stitutionul, and 
that nothing will remove it but the aamu rumciiir " 



LETTER DXXIX 

TO MR. MOOKK. 

"Bv this post I have sent my niKhtmare to bal- 
ance the incubus of Southey's impudent antioiiwitiPl 
of the Apotheuaia of Georgo the Third. I ahuuM 



^40 



BYRON'S WOUKS. 



like yov to take a Ice* over it, as I think there are 
two or 'hree things .n it which might please * our 
puir hill folk.' 

" By the last two or three posts I have written to 
J'ou at length. My ague bows to me every two or 
three days, but we are nol as yet upon intimate 
speaking terms. I have an intermittent generally 
every two years, when the climate is favorable, (as 
it is here,) but it does me no harm. What I find 
worse, and cannot get rid of, is the growing depres- 
sion of my spirits, without sufficient cause. I ride — I 
am not intemperate in eating or drinking — and my 
general health is as usual, except a slight ague, 
which rather does good than not. It must be con- 
Btitutional ; for I know nothing more than usual to 
depress me to that degree. 

" Plow do you manage ? I think you told me, at 
Venice, that" your spirits did not keep up without a 
little claret. I can drink and bear a good deal of 
wine, (as you may recollect in England ;) but it 
don't exilirate — it makes me savage and suspicious, 
and even quarrelsome. Laudunum has a similar 
effect ; but I can take much of it without any eiiect 
at all. The thing that gives me the highest spirits 
(it seems absurd, but true) is a dose of salts — I mean 
in the afternoon, after their effect. But one can't 
take them like champagne. 

" Excuse this old woman's letter ; but my leman- 
choly don't depend upon health, for it is just the 
same, well or ill, or here or there. 

" Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXXX. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ravenua, October 9, 1821. 

♦* You will please to present or convey the enclosed 
t> jem to Mr. Moore. I sent him another copy to 
I'aris ; but he has probably left that city. 

'• Don't forget to send me my first act of ' Wer- 
ner,' (\i Hobhouse can find it among my papers) — 
send it by the post to (Pisa); and also cut cut 
Sophia Lee's ' German's Tale ' from the ' Canterbury 
Tales,' and sendifrina letter also. I began that 
tragedy in 1815. 

" By-the-way, you have a good deal of my prose 
tracts in MS. ? Let me have proofs of them all 
again — I mean the controversial ones, including the 
last two or three years of time. Another question ! 
—The Epistle of St. Paul, which I translated from 
the Armenian, for what reason have you kept it back , 
though you published that stuff which gave rise to 
the ' Vampire } ' Is it because you are afraid to prii^t 
any thing in opposition to the cant of the Quarterly 
about Manicheism ? Let me have a proof of that 
epistle directly. I am abetter Christian than those 
parsons of yours, though not paid for being so. 
" Send — Faber's Treatise on the Cabiri. 
"Saint Croix's Mystercs du JPaganisme, (scarce, 
perhaps, but to be found, as Mitford refers to his 
work frequently.) 

^ "A common Bible, of good legible print, (bound 
'In Russia.) I have one; but as it was the last gift 
/ of my sister, (whom I shall probably never see 
again,) I can only use it carefully, and less fre- 
quently, because I like to keep it in good order. 
; Don't forget this, for I am a great reader and 
, admirer of those books, and had read them through 
! and through before I was eight years old, — that is to 
^ Bay, the Old Testament, for the New struck men as 
i a task, but the other as a pleasure. I speak as a 
• hoy from the recollected impression of that period 
,'»t Aberdeen in 1796. 

•' Any novels "kf Scott, oi poetry of the same. 
Ditto of Crabbe, Moore, and the Elect; but none of 
four cursed common-place trash, — unless something 
Itarts up of actual merit, which may very well be, 
Si 'tis time it should." 



LETTER DXXXl. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Oc «l>ej », ISl. 

y the errors are in the MS., write me down &.« 
asw they are not, and I am content to undergo aiij 
penalty if they be. Besides, the omitted stanza, 
(last but one or two,) sent afterward, was that la 
the MS. too ? 

"As to 'honor,' I will trust no man's honor in 
affairs of barter. I will tell you why : a state o. 
bargain is Hobbes's ' state of nature — a state ol 
war.' It is so with all men. If I come to a friend, 
and say, ' Friend, lend me five hundred pounds,'— 
he either does it, or says that he can't or won't ; but 
if I come to Ditto, and say, ' Ditto, I have an excel- 
lent house, or horse, or carriage, or MSS., or books, 
or pictures, or &c., &c., &c., &c., honestly wuth a 
thousand pounds, you shall have them for five 
hundred, what does Ditto say ? why, he looks at 
them, he hums, he haws, — he humbugs, if he can, to 
get a bargain as cheaply as he can, because it is a 
bargain. This is in the blood and bone of mankind ; 
and the same man who would lend another a thou- 
sand pounds without interest, would not buy a horse 
of him for half its value if he could help it. It is 
so : there's no denying it ; and therefore I will have 
as much as I can, and you will give as little ; and ' 
there's an end. All men are intrinsical rascals, and 
I am only sorry that, not being a dog, I can't bite 
them. 

" I am filling another book for you with little^ 
anecdotes, to my own knowledge, or'wfll authenti- 
cated, of Sheiidan, Cm-ran, &c., and such other 
prblic men as I recollect to have beeri acquainted 
with, for I knew most of them, more or less. I will 
do what I can to prevent your losing by my obse- 
quies. «' Yours, &c." 



ii 



LETTER DXXXII. 



TO MR. ROGERS. 



I " Ravenna, October 21, 1821. 

" I ?h.^U be (the gods willing) in Bologna on 
S-eturd^y nest. This is a curious answer to your 
letter ; but I have taken a house in Pisa for the win- 
ter, to wiiich all my chattels, furniture, horses, car- 
liages, and live stock are already removed, audi am 
pr?("«aring to follow. ' 

" The cause of this removal is, shortly, the exile 
or proscription of all my friends' relations and con- 
nexions here into Tuscany, on account of our late 
politics ; and where they go, I accompany them. I 
merely remained till now to settle some arrange- 
ments about my daughter, and to give time for my 
furniture. &c., to precede me, I have not Here a 
seat or a bed hardly, except some jury chairs, and 
tables, and a mattress, for the week to come. 

" If you will go on with me to Pisa, I can lodge 
you for as long as you like, (they write that the 
house, the Palazzo Lanfranchi, is spacious : it is on 
the Arno ;) and I have four carriages, and as many 
saddle horses, (such as they are in these parts,) with 
all other conveniences at your command, as also 
their owner. If you could do this, we may, at least, 
cross the Apennines together ; or if you are going 
by aiiotlier road, we shall meet at Bologna, I hope. 
I address this to the post-office, (as you desire,) and 
you will probably find me at the Albergo di-&'aM 
Marco. If you arrive first, wait till I come up, 
which will be (barring accidents) on Saturday o: 
Sunday at farthest. 

" I presume you are alone in your voyages. 
Moore is in London incog., according to my latest 
advices from those climates. 

" It is better than a lustre, (five years and si< 
mo*i''bs and some days, more or less,) since we met^ 
and, "jke the man from Tadcaster in the faroO' 



LETTERS. 



941 



/Love laughs at Locksmith's,') whose tcquaint- 
ances, including the cat and the terrier, ' who caught 
a halfpenny in his moutli,' were all ' gone dead,' but 
too many of our acquaintances have taken the same 
path. Lady Melbourne, Grattan, Sheridan, Curran, 
Ac, &c., almost every body of much name of the 
old school. But * so am not I, said the foolish fat 
BCulUon,' therefore let us make the most of our 
remainder. 

" Let me find two lines from you at * the hostel 
•»/• ian.' " Youi-8 ever, S:c., 

"B." 



LETTER DXXXIIl. 



TO MR. MOORE. 

" Ravenna, Oct. 28, 1821. 

'« ''Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,' 
and in three hours more I have to set out on 
my way to Pisa — sitting up all night to be sure of 
rising. I have just made them take oif my bed- 
clothes — blankets inclusive — in case of temptation 
from the apparel of sheets to my eyelids. 

" Samuel Rogers is — or is to be — at Bologna, as 
he writes from Venice. 

"I thought our Magnifico would 'pound you,' if 
possible. He is trying to ' pound ' me, too : but I'll 
specie the rogue — or, at least, I'll have the odd shil- 
lings out of him in keen iambics. 

"Your approbation of • Sardanapalus ' is agree- 
able, for more reasons than one. Hobhouse is 
pleased to think as you do of it, and so do some 
others — but the ' Arimaspian,' whom, like * a gry- 
phon in the wilderness,' I will ' follow for his gold,' 
(as I exorted you to do before,) did or doth dispa- 
rage it — ' stinting me in my sizings.' His notable 
opinions on the * Foscari ' and ' Cain ' he hath not 
as yet forwarded ; or, at least, I have not yet re- 
ceived them, nor the proofs thereof, thouah promised 
by last post. 

"I see the way that he and his Quarterly people 
fcre tending — they want a row with me, and they 
<hall have it. I only regret that I am not in Eng- 
land for the 7ionce ; as, here, it is hardly fair ground 
for me, isolated and out of the way of prompt re- 
joinder and information, as I am. But, though 
backed by all the corruption, and infamy, and pat- 
ronage of their master rogues and slave rencgadoes, 
if they do once rouse me up, 

' They had better gall the devil, Salisbury.' 

•*I have that for two or three of them, which 
they had better not move me to put in motion ;— 
and yet, after all, what a fool 1 am to disquiet my- 
•elf about such fellows ! It was all very well ten 
or twelve years ago, when I was a ' curled darling,' 
and minded such things. At present, I rate them 
at their true value ; but, from natural temper and 
bile, am not able to keep quiet. 

" Let me hear from you on your return from Ire- 
land, which ought to be ashamed to see you, after 
ber Brunswick blarney. I am of Longman's opinion, 
that you should allow your friends to liquidate the 
H'rmuda claim. Why should you throw away the 
two thousand /wmirf* (of the «o/t-guinea Murray) 
upon that cursed piece of treacherous inveiglement ? 
I think you carry the matter a little too far and 
scrupulously. When we see patriots begging 'ub- 
licly, and know that Grattan received a t rt\ine 
' from his country, I really do not see why a man, in 
110 whit inferior to any or all of them, should Hhrink 
•, from accepting that assistance from his private 
( / friends, which every tradesman receives fnun his 
Y connexions upon much loss occasions. For, after 
r all, it was not your debt — it was a piece of swindling 
ugaiiBt you. A/« to • • • ♦, and the ' what noble 
creatures!' &c., ftc, it is all very fine and very 
well, but till yo« can perituade me that there it no 



credit and no self-applause to be obtained by being 
of use to a celebrated man, I must retail th,e eamf 
opinion of the human species, which I do of our 
friend M»- Specie. 



LETTER DXXXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pi»a, November 3, 182L 

*• The two passages cannot be altered without 
making Lucifer talk like the Bishop of Lincoln, 
which would not be in the character of the former. 
The notion is from Cuvier, (that of the old woylds,j 
as I have explained in an additional note to the 
preface. The other passage is also in character • il / 
nonsense, so much the better, because then it can do 
no harm, and the sillier Sartan is made, the safer for 
every body. As to ' alarms,' &c., do you really 
think such things ever led any body astray ? Are 
these people more impious than Milton's Sutan ? oi 
the Prometheus of jEschylus ? or even than the Sad- 
ducees of Milman, the 'Fall of Jerusalem '♦♦ > 
Are not Adam, Eve, Adah, and Abel, as pious as 
the catechism ? 

" Gifford is too wise a man to think tnat such 
things can have any serious effect : who was ever 
altered by a poem ? I beg leave to observe, that 
there is no creed nor personal hypothesis of mine in 
all this ; but I was obliged to make Cain and Lucife' 
talk consistently, and surely this has always beei* 
permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud man : if Luci- 
fer promised him kingdom, &c., it would elate him : 
the object of the Demon is to depress him still far- 
ther in his own estimation than he was before, by 
showing him infinite things, and his own abase- 
ment, till he falls into the frame of miad that leads 
to the catastrophe, from mere intenuil uritation. 
7iot premeditation, or envy of Abel, (which would 
have made him contemptible,) but from rage and 
fury against the inadequacy of his state to his con- 
ceptions, and which discharges itself rathei igainst 
life, and the Author of life, than the mere hving. 

"His subsequent remorse is the natural elleet of 
looking on his sudden deed. Had the deed be«n 
premeditated, his repentance would have been tiU>lict. 

" Either dedicate it to Walter Scott, or, if you 
think he would like the dedication of • the Foscaris' 
bettor, put the dedication to * the Foscaris.' Ask 
him which. 

" Your first note was queer enough ; but your livn 
other letters, wth Moore's and Gilford's opinions, 
set all right again. I told you before that 1 can 
never recast any thing. 1 am like the tiger: if I 
luiss the first ipring, I go (grumbling back to my 
jungle a-^ain ; but if 1 do hit, it is crushing. • • 
* Vou disparaged the last three cantos to me, and 
kept them back above a year ; but 1 liave heard 
from England that (notwithstanding the errors o 
the press), they are well thought of; for insUnco, 
by American Irving, which last is u feather in mj 
(fool's) cap. 

" You have received my letter (open) through 
Mr. Kinnaird, and so, nray, send me n«) moire ro 
views of any kind. 1 will read no more of evil 01 
good in that line. Walter Scott has not read n 
review of hiinself for thirteen years. 

" The bust l* nut my propurty, but IIobhou*0e'$, 
I addressed it to you as an Admiralty man, great al 
the custom-houao. Pray deduct the expense of tbt 
same, and all others. " Yours, *«» 



LETTER DXXXV. 

TO MB. MURUAT. 

•• I iMMf r^ad the Moraolrs at all, not even aiabe 
ther wer« written ; and I neTtr will : Uie p«ia of 



942 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



wrriting them was enough ; you may spare me that 
of a perusal. Mr. Moore has (or may have) a dis- 
cretionary power to omit any repetition or expres- 
sions which do not seem good to him, who is a better 
judge than you or I. 

" Enclosed is a lyrical drama, (entitled * a Mys- 
tery,' from its subject,) which, perhaps, may arrive 
Ln time for the volume. You will find it pious 
enough, I trust — at least some of the chorus might 
have been written by Sternhold and Hopkins them- 
Belves for that, and perhaps for melody. As it..is 
longer, and more lyrical and Greek than I intended 
at first, I have not divided it into acts, but calle3. 
what I have sent Part FiPst, as there is a suspen- 
sion of the action, which may either close there 
without impropriety, or be coiUinued in a way that 
[ have in view. I wish the first part to be pub- 
lished before the second, because, if it don't suc- 
ceed, it is better to stop there than to go on in a 
fruitless experiment. 

" I desire you to acknowledge the arrival of this 
packet by return of post, if you can conveniently, 
with a proof. , " Your obedient, &c. 

"P. S. My wish is to have it published at the 
6ame time, and, if possible, in the same volume, 
with the others, because, whatever the merits or de- 
merits of these pieces may be, it will perhaps be 
allowed that each is of a diii'erent kind, and in a 
different style ; so that, including the prose and the 
Don Juans, &c., I have at least sent you variety 
during the last year or two." 



LETTER DXXXVI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, Nov. 16, 1821. 

" There is here Mr. Taafe, an Irish genius, with 
whom we are acquainted. He hath written a 
really excellent commentary on Dante, full of 
new and true information, and much ingenui- 
ty. But his verse is such as it hath pleased God to 
endue him withal. Nevertheless, he is so firmly 
piu-suaded of its equal excellence, that he won't di- 
vorce the commentary from the traduction, as I 
ventured delicately to hint, — and not having the fear 
of Ireland before my eyes, and upon the presump- 
tion of having shotten very well in his presence 
(with common pistols, too, not with my Manton's) 
the day before. 

" But he is eagfer to publish all, and must be grat- 
ified, though the reviewers will make him suffer 
more tortures than there are in his original. Indeed, 
the notes are well worth publication ; but he insists 
. upon the translation for company, so that they will 
come out together, like Lady C * * t chaperoning 
Miss * *. I read a letter of yours to him yesterday, 
and he begs me to write to you about his poeshie.— 
He is really a good fellow, apparently, and I dare 
say that his verse is very good Irish. 

"Now, what shall we do for him ? He says that 
he Trill risk part of the expense with the publisher. 
He will never rest till he is published and abused — 
fcr he has a high opinion of himself — and I see 
Bcthing left but to gratify him so as to have him 
ibused as little as possible ; for I think it would kill 
lAm. You must .write, then, to Jeffrey to beg him 
not to review him, and I will do the same to Gifford, 
through Murray. Perhaps they might notice the 
comment without touching the text. But I doubt 
the dogs — the text is too tempting, * * 

* « « 

" I have to thank you again, as I believe I did 
before, for your opinion of ' Cain,' &c. 

" You are right to allow to settle the claim ; 

but I do not see why you should repay him out of 
rour legacy — at least not yet. If you feel about it, 
fwi you arc ticklish on ?nch points,) pay him the 



interest now. and the principal -vvhen you art 
strong in cash ; -or pay him by instalments ; or pay 
him as I do my creditors — that is, not till they make 
me. 

" I address this to you at Paris, as you desu'©.--» 
Reply soon, and believe me ever, &c. 

" P. S. What I wrote to you about low spirits is 
however, very true. At present, owing to the cii 
mate, &c., (I can walk down into my garden, and 
pluck my own oranges, and, by-the-w'ay, have go» j 
diarrhoea in consequence of indulging in this ruv 
ridian luxury -^f proprietorship,) my spirits are 
much better. You seem to think that I could not 
have written the ' Vision,' &c., under the influence 
of low spirits ; — b'ut I think there you err. A man's 
poetry is a distinct faculty, or soul, and has no 
I more to do with the every-day individual than the 
Inspiration with the Pythoness when removed from 
her tripod." 

To Lord Byron. 

" Frome, Somereet, Not. 21, 1821, 

" My Lord, 

" More than two years since, a lovely and beloved 
wife was taken trom me, by lingering disease, after 
a very short union. She possessed unvarying gen- 
tleness and fortitude, an,d a piety so retiring as 
rarely to disclose itself in words, but so influential 
as to produce uniform benevolence of conduct. In 
the last hour of life, after a farewell look on a late 
ly born and only infant, for whom she had evinced 
inexpressible affection, her last whispers were, 
' God's happiness ! God's happiness ! ' Since the 
second anniversary of her decease, I have read some 
papers which no one had seen during her life, and 
which contain her most secret thoughts. I am in- 
duced to communicate to your lordship a passage 
from these papers, which, there is no doubt, refers 
to yourself; as I have more than once heard the 
writer mention your agility on the rocks at Has- 
tings. 

" ' Oh, my God, I take encouragement from the 
assurance of Thy Word, to pray to Thee in behalf 
of one for whom I have lately been much interested 
May the person to whom I allude (and who is now, 
we ft-ar, as much distingriished for his neglect of 
Thee as fcr the transcendent talents Thou hast be- 
stow'id on him) be awakened to a sense of his own 
danaer, and led to seek that peace of mind, in a 
proper iense of religion, which he has found this 
world's enjovTuents unable to procure ! Do Thou 
grant, that his future example may be productive of 
far more extensive benefit than his past conduct and 
■«Titing have been of evil ; and may the Sun of 
righteousness, which, we trust, will, at some future 
period, arise on him, be bright in proportion to the 
darkness of those clouds which guilt has raised 
around him, and the balm which it bestows, healing 
and soothing in proportion to the keenness of that 
agony which the punishment of his vices has in- 
flicted on him ! May the hope that the sincerity of 
my own efforts for the attainment of holiness, and 
the approval of my own love to the great Author of 
religion, will render this prayer, and every other for 
the welfare of mankind', more efficacious. — Cheer 
me in the path of duty ; — but let me not forget, 
that, while we are permitted to animate ourselves to 
exertion by every innocent motive, these are bul 
the lesser streams which may serve to increase the 
current, but which, deprived of the grand fountain 
of good, (a deep conviction of inborn sin, and firm 
belief in the efficacy of Christ's death for the salva- 
tion of those Mho trust in him, and really wish to 
serve him,) would soon dry up, and leave us barrpr 
of every virtue as before. 

" ' July 31st, 1814. 
" ' Hastings.' " 

'* Thert is nothing, my lord, in this extract, which. 
in a literary sense, can at all interest you ; but it 
may, perhaps, appear to you worthy of reflection 



LETTERS. 



943 



hoir deep and expansive a concern for the happi- 
ness of others the Christian faith can awaken in the 
midst of youth and prosperity. Here is nothing 
poetical and splendid, as in the expostulatory hom- 
age of M. Delaniartine ? b\it here is the sublime, 
jny lord ; for this intercession was offered, on your 
account, to the su])i-eme Source of happiness. It 
sprang from a faith more confirmed than that of the 
French poet ; and from a charity which, in combi- 
nation with faith, showed its power unimpaired 
amid the languors and pains of approaching disso- 
lution. I will hope that a prayer, vvhich I am 
sure, was deeply sincere, may notbe always unavail- 
ing. 

*' It would add nothing, my lord, to the fame with 
which your genius has surrounded you, for an un- 
kno'wn and obscure individual to express his admi- 
ration of it. I had rather be numbered with those 
who wish and pray, that • wisdom from above,' and 
•peace,' EXid * joy, 'may enter such a mind. 

'* John Sheppakd." 



upon a living head. Do me at least the nistice tc 
suppose, that 

' Video meliora proocqae, 

however the * deteriora sequor,' may have been ap 
plied to my conduct. 

" I have the honor to be 

" Your obliged and obedient cervant, 
" Byron. 
' P. S. I do not know that I am addressing t 
clergj'man ; but I presume that you will not be af« 
fronted by the mistake (if it is one) on the addrcra 
of this letter. One who has so well explained, and 
deeply felt the doctrines of religicn, will excuse the 
error which led me to believe him its minister." 



LETTER DXXXVII. 



TO MR, 8HEPPARD. 



" Pisa, December 8, 1821, 

•Sir, 

" I have received your letter. I need not say, 
that the extract which it contains has affected me, 
because it would imply a want of all feeling to have, 
read it with indifference. Though I am not quite 
sure that it was intended by the writer for me, yet 
the date, the place Avhere it was written, with some 
other circumstances that you mention, render the 
allusion probable. But for whomever it was meant, 
I have read it wth all the pleasure which can arise 
from so melancholy a topic. I say pleasure — be- 
cause your brief and simple picture of the life and 
demeanor of the excellent person whom I trust you 
will again meet, cannot be contemplated without 
the admiration due to her virtues and her pure and 
unpretending piety. He. last moments were par- 
ticularly striking ; and 7 Jo not know that, in the 
course of reading the story of mankind, and still 
less in my observations upon the existing portion, I 
ever met with any thing so unostentatiously beauti- 
ful. Indisputably, the firm believers in the gospel 
have a great advantage over all others, — for this 
aiiiple reason, that, if true, they will have their re- 
ward hereafter ; and if there be" no hereafter, Ihey 
Ccin be but vsith the infidel in his eternal sleep, hav- 
ing had;the assistance ^ an exaltnd hope, through 
life, without subset|ucnt disappointment, since (at 
thf> worst for them) ' out of nothing, nothing can 
arise,' not even sorrow. But a man'.s creed does tioI 
depend upon himself: who ran say, I will believe 
this, that, or the' other? and, least of all, that 
vphich ho least can comprehend. I have, however, 
,-bservefl, that those who have begun life with ex 
treme fiith, huve in the end greatly narrowed it, as 
Chillingworth, Cl.irke, (who ended as an .\rian,) 
Bayle, and Ciibbcm, ((mce a Catholic,) sind some 
alhers ; while, on the other hand, nothing is more 



LETTER DXXXYIIl. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



" Pisa, December 4, 18B1. 

" By extracts in the English papers, — in your 
holy ally, Galignani's 'Mess'enger,' — I perceive that 
' the two greatest examples of human vanity in the 
present age ' are firstly, ' the ex-emperor Napoleon, 
and, secondly, 'his lordship, &c., the noble poet,' 
meaning your humble servant, 'poor guiltless I.' 

" Poor Napoleon ! he little dreaqsed to what vile 
comparisons the turn of the wheel would reduc* 
him ! 

" I have got here into a famous old feudal palazzo, 
on. the Arno, large enough for a gardson, with dun- 
geons below and cells in the walls, and so full of 
(/hosts that the learned Fletcher (my valet) has 
begged leave to change his room, and then refused 
to occupy his ?iew room, because there were more 
ghosts there than in the other. It is quite true that 
there are most extraordinary noises, (as in all old 
buildings,) which have terrified the servants so as 
to incommode me extremely. There is one place 
where people were evidently walled up, for there is 
but one possible passage, broken through the wall, 
and then meant to be closed again upon the inmate. 
The house belonged to the Lanfranchi family, (the 
same mentioned by Ugolino in his dream, as his 
persecutor with Sismondi,) and has had a fierce 
owner or two in its time. The staircase, &c., is said 
to have been built by Michel Angelo. It is not yet 
cold enough for a fire. What a climate! 

" 1 am, however, bothered al)out these spectres, 
(as they say the last occupants were, too,) of whom 
I hav(' as yet seen nothing, nor, indeed, Ueurd 
(myself ) ; but all the other ears have been regaled 
liv all kinds of supernatural sounds. The first nirhl 
Ithought I head an odd noise, but it has not bw'ia 
repeated. 1 have now been here more than n nuTvtU 

•* Yours, \c.'' 



LETTER DXXXIX. 



TO MU. MritUAY. 



on 
fcremon than for the earlv skeptic to end in a firm 

bilief, like Maupertuis an^ Henry Kirk White. ..p^ p^mhrrio. i«a. 

" But mv business is to acknowlcd«/e your letter, ^, . , j .i ■ u / ' ,\ \ \. \^m 

and not to make a dissertation. I am obliged to you " Th.s day nnd this hour (one, on thr c lock.) inj 

d more than obliged by the 'taughtiT is mx vearH old. I wonder when 
cd object whose 



for your good wishes, an 
extract from the papers of the bel 
qualities you have so well described in a lew words. 1 
can assure vou. that all the fame which ever cheated 
humanity into higher notions of its own importance 
»rould never weigh in my mind against the pure 
nnd pious interest which a virtuous being may be 
iiiea-'c'l to take in mv welfare. In this point of 
.flew, I would not exchange the prayer of th» dft 
behalf for the unitM glory of Honier, 



;eafled in inv 
'Vsar 



and NaDolcon. could such be accumulated I hw Mcoud mjirruKo with an only cluid 



••hall 
nee her again, or if ever I shall see her at i»ll. 

•• I have remarked n curious coincidence, which 
almost looks like a fatality. 

" Mv mother, my w\ft\ my dnutjhtfr, my half- 
filter, "mv sistrr's inothW, my natural daughter, (M 
far at least as / am concojmrd,) and myse{f\ are »U 
only children. 

Mv father, by his first marriage with Lartyi;o» 
verh, (an <»nlv child,) hud tmlv mv siwtor ; and l»y 

ou)} 



P44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



shild again. Lady Byron, as you know, was one 
also, and so is my daughter, &c. 

" Is not this rather odd — such a complication of 
only children ? By-the-way, send me my daughter 
Ada's miniature. I have only the prmt, which 
gives little or no idea of her complexion. 

•' Yoiirs, &c., 
"B." 



LETTER T)XL. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Piea, December 12, 1821. 

"What you say about Galignani's two biogra- 
phies is very amusing ; and, if I were not lazy, I 
would certainly do what you desire. But I doubt 
my present stock of facetiousness — that is, of good 
serious humor, so as not to let the cat out of the 
bag.* I wish you would undertake it. I will for- 
give and indulge you (like a pope) beforehand, for 
any thing ludicrous, that might keep those fools 
in their own dear belief that a man is a loup garou. 

«' I suppose I told you that the Giaour storj' had 
actually some foundation on facts ; or, if I did not, 
you will one day find it in a letter of Lord Sligo's, 
written to me after the publication of the poem. I 
should not like marvels to rest upon any account of 
my own, and shall say nothing about it. However, 
the real incident is still remote enough from the 
poetical one, being just such as, happening to a 
man of any imagination, might suggest such a 
composition. The worst of any real adventures is, 

that they involve living people— else Mrs. s 

— -'s, &c., are as ' german to the matter' as Mr. 
Maturin could desire for his novels. 
n Hi m * * 

"The consummation you mentioned for poor 
Taafe was near taking place yesterday. Riding 
pretty sharply after Mr. Medwin and myself, in 
turning the corner of a lane between Pisa and the 
hills, he was spilt, — and, besides losing some claret 
on the spot, bruised himself a good deal, but is in 
no danger. He was bled, and keeps his room. As 
I was a-head of him some hundred yards, I did not 
see the accident ; but my servant, who was behind, 
did, and, says the horse did not fall — the usual ex- 
ruse of floored equestrians. As Taafe piques him- 
self upon his horsemanship, and his horse is really 
a pretty horse enough, I long for his personal nar- 
rative, — as I never yet met the man who would 
fairly claim a tu?nble as his own property. 

*' Could not you send me a printed copy of the 
'Irish Avatar?' — I do not know what has become 
of Rogers since we parted at Florence. 

" Don't let the Angles keep you from writing. 
Bam told me that you were somewhat dissipated in 
Paris, which I can easily believe. Let me hear 
firom you at your best leisure. 

'* Ever, and truly, &c. 

" p. S. December 13. 

** I enclose you some lines, written not long ago, 
which you may do what you like witfi, as they are 
very harmless.f Only, if copied or prhited, or set, 
I could wish it more correctly than in the usual 
way, in which one's ' nothings are monstered,' as, 
Coriolanus says. 

" You must really get Taafe published — he never 
will rest till he is so. He is just gone with his 



• Mr. Galignani haTbig eipreased a wteli to be furnUhed with a thort 
Memoir of Lord Byron, for the purpose of prefixing it to the French edition 
J his worki, 1 had laid jettingly in a preceding leUer to his lordship, that it 
irould be but a fidr satire on the dispoeition of the world to " benrionster his 
Matures," if he would write for the piiblic, English as well as French, a sort 
•f mock-heroic account of himself, outdoing, in horrors and wonders, all that 
Bad beeti ret related or beliered of him, and tearing eren Goeihe's story of 
In Uoobie murder at Florence far behind.- Moore. 

t MUiHM viitten on (be lowl betweeo Plotence and PUa page S7S. 



broken head to Lucca, at my desire, to try lo save 
a man from being bic7'nt. 'The Spaiish * » *, thai 
has her peticoats over Lucca, had actually con 
demned a poor devil to the stake, for stealing the 
wafer-box out of a church. Shelley and I, ol 
course, were up in arms against this piece of piety, 
and have been disturbing every body to get the sen- 
tence changed. Taafe is gone to see what can b« 
done. 

«B." 



LETTER DXLI. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

" December 12, 1»1. 

" My Dear Shelley, 

" Enclosed is a note for you from - . His rea- 
sons are all very true, I dare say, and it might and 
may be of personal inconvenience to us. But that 
does not appear to me to be a reason to allow a being 
to be burnt without trying to save him. To save hira 
by any means but remonstrance, is of course out of the 
question ; but I do not see why a temperate remon- 
strance should hurt any one. Lord Guilford is the 
man, if he would undertake it. He knows the 
Grand Duke personally, and might, perhaps, pre- 
vail upon him to interfere. But, as he goes to-mor- 
row, you must be quick or it will be useless. Make 
any use of my name that you please. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DXLII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" I send you the two notes, which -will tell you 
the story I allude to of the Auto da Fe. Shelley's 
allusion to his * fellow-serpent' is a buffoonery ol 
mine. Goethe's Mephistcfilus calls the serpent 
who tempted Eve ' my aunt, the renowned snake ;' 
and I always insist that Shelley is nothing but one 
of her nephews, walking about on the tip of hit 
tail." 

TO LORD BYRON. 

" 2 o'clock, Tuesday Morning. 

" My Dear Lord, 

•' Although strongly persuaded that rtie story 
must be either an entire fabrication, or so gross ac 
exaggeration as to be nearly so ; yet, in order t* ''e 
able to discover the truth beyond all doubt, and Co 
set your mind quite at rest, I have taken the deter- 
mination to go myself to Lucca this morning 
Should it prove less false than I am convinced it is, 
1 shall not fail to exert myself in every way that I 
can imagine may have any success. Be assured o. 
this. *• Your lordship's most truly, 

" P. S. To prevent havardage, I prefer going in 
person to sending my servant with a letter. It is 
better for you to mention nothing (except ol 
course, to Shelley) of my excursion. The person I 
visit there is one on whom I can have every depend- 
ence in every way, both as to authority and truth- 



TO LORD BYRON. 

" Thursday Momiiif . s„ 

" My Dear Lord Byron, 

" I hear this morning that the design, which r«r» 
tainly had been in contemplation, of burning my 
fellow-serpent, has been abandoned, and that h« 
has been condemned to the galleys. Lord Guilforo 



UBTFEKS. 



946 



a at Lef^hom ; and as your courier applied to me to 
«now whether he ought to leave your letter for him 
or not, I haA^e thought it best since this information 
t^ tell him to take it back 

elver faithfully yours, 
" P. B. Shelley. 



LETTER DXLIII. 



TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 



" Pha, Januaiy 12, 1822. 

' My Dear Sir Walter, 

" I need nqt say how grateful I am for your letter 
but I must own my ingratitude in not having writ- 
ten to you again long ago. Since I left England, 
(and it is not for all the usual term of transporta- 
tion,) I have scribbled to five hundred blockheads 
■)n business, &c., without difficulty, though with 
no great pleasure ; and yet, with the notion of ad- 
dressing you a hundred times, in my head and al- 
ways in my heart, I have not done what I ought to 
nave done. I can only account for it on the same 
principle of tremulous anxiety with which one 
sometimes makes love to a beautiful woman of our 
own degree, with whom one is enamored in good 
earnest ; whereas we attack a fresh colored house- 
maid without (I speak, of course, of earlier times) 
any sentimej.tal remorse or mitigation of our virtu- 
ous purpose. 

" I owe to you far more than the usual obligation 
for the courtesies of literature and common friend- 
ship, for you went out of your way in 1817 to do me 
a service, when it required not merely kindness, 
but courage to do so ; to have been recorded by you 
in such a manner would have been a proud memo- 
rial at any time, but at such a time when ' all the 
world and his wife,' as the proverb goes, were trying 
to trample upon me, was something still higher to 
my self-esteem, — I allude to the Quarterly Review 
of the third canto of Childe Harold, which Murray 
told me was written by you, — and indeed, I should 
have known it without his information, as there 
could not be two who could and loould have done 
this at the time. Had it been a co<jfimon criticism, 
however eloquent or panegyrical, I should have felt 
pleased, undoubtedly, and grateful, but not to the 
3xtent which the extraordinary good-heartedness of 
the whole proceeding must induce in any mind ca- 
pable of such sensations. The very tardiness of 
this acknowledgment will, at least show that I 
have not forgotten the obligation ; and I can assure 
you that my sense of it has been out at compound 
interest during the delay. I shall only add one 
word upon the subject, which is, that I think that 
you, and Jeffrey, and Leigh Hunt, were the only 
literary men, of numbers whom I know, (and some 
of whom I have served,) who dared venture even an 
anomymous word in my favor just then; and that 
of those three, I had never seen one at all — of the 
second much less than I desired — and that the third 
was under no kind of obligation to me whatever ; 
while the other two had been actually attacked by 
me on a former occasion ; one^ indeed, with some 
provocation, but the otlicr wantonly enough. So 
I you see you have been heaping 'coals of fire,' itc, 
in the true gospel manner, and I can assure you 
f /that they have burnt down to my very heart. 

" I am glad that you accepted the inscription. I 
meant to have inscribed ' the Foscarini' to vou in- 
stead ; but first, I heard that ' Cain' wa« thought 
the least bad of the two as a coraj)osition ; and, 
2dly, I have abused Southey like a pickpocket, in a 
note to the Foscarini, and I recollected that he is a 
friend of yours, (though not of mine,) and that it 
would not be the handsome thing to dedicate to one 
friend any thing containing such matters about uu- 
othcr. However, I'll work the Laureate before I 
have done W'*:h him, as soon as I can munter Bil- 
110 



''/ 



lingsgate therefor. I like a row, &nd always did 
from a boy, in the course of which propensity, I 
must needs say, that I have found it the most easy 
of all to be gratified, personally and poetically. You 
disclaim 'jealousies ;' but I would ask, as Boswell 
did of Johnson, ' of whom could you be jealous* 
of none of the living, certainly, and (taking all and 
all into consideration) of which of the dead ? I 
don't like to bore you about the Scotch novels, (as 
they call them, though two of them are wholly 
English, and the rest half so,) but nothing can or 
could ever persuade me, since I was the first ten 
minutes in your company, that you are not the man. 
To me those novels have so much of ' Aulc lana 
syne, (I was bred a canny Scott till ten years '^M,) 
that I never move without them ; and when 1 re- 
moved from Ravenna to Pisa, the other day, and 
sent 01. my library before, they were the only books 
that I kept by me, although I already have them by 
heart. 

" January 27, Iffa. 

"I delayed till now concluding, in the hope that 
I should have got ' the Pirate,' who is now undei 
way for me, but has not yet hove in sight. I heaj 
that your daughter is married, and I suppose hj 
this time you are half a grandfather — a y9ung one, 
by-the-way. I have heard great things of Mis. 
Lockhart's personal and mental charms, and much 
good of her lord : that you may live to see as many 
novel Scotts as there are Scots' novels, is ♦' «» very 
bad pun, but sincere wish of 

" Yours ever most affectionately, &o 

" P. S. Why don't you take a turn in Italy ? You 
would find yourself as well Known and as wel^ 
come as in the Highlands among the natives. A» 
for the English you would be with them as in Lon 
don ; and I need not add, that I should be de 
lighted to see you again, which is far more than I 
shall ever feel or say for England, or (wth a few 
exceptions 'of kith, kin, and allies') any thing 
that it contains. But my 'heart warms to the tar- 
tan,' or to any thing of Scotland, which reminds 
me of Aberdeen and other parts, not so far from 
the Highlands* as that town, about Invercauld and 
Braemar, where I was sent to drink goat's fey in 
1795-6, in consequence of a threatened decline after 
the scarlet fever. But I am gossipping ; so, good 
night — and the gods be with your dreams ! 

" Pray present my respects to Lady Scott, who 
may perhaps recollect having seen me in town in 
18Io. 

" I see that one your supporters (for, like Sir 
Hildebrand, I am foiid of Gullin) is a mt^maid • it 
is my crest too, and with precisely the same curl ol 
tail. There's concatenation for you ! — I am build 
ing a little cutter at Genoa, to go a cruising in the 
summer. I know you like the sea too." 



LETTER DXLIV. 



TO DOITQLAS KINNAI&D 



' ' Try back the deep lane,' till we flul a pnb 
lishor for ' the Vision ; ' and if none such .s to he 
found, i)rint fifty copies at my expense, di«*rit)ut(t 
them among my acquaintance, and you will sixm 
see that the booksellers xrill publish them, even il 
wo o|ipose thorn. That they are now afraid is natu 
rul ; but I do not see that 1 ought to give way on 
that account. I know nothiTig of Hivington's ' Re- 
monstranro' by the ' eminent Churchinnn ; ' but T 
suppose he wants a living. I om-e heard of n 
preacher at Kentish Town against ' Cain.' Th« 
samu outcry waa raised against Priestly, Hume, 



I»46 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Gihl on, Voltaire, and all the men who dared to put 
tithes to the question. 

" I have got Souther's pretended reply, to which I 
am surprised that you do not allude. What re- 
mains to be done is, to call him out. The question 
is, would he come ? for, if he would not, the whole 
thing would appear ridiculous, if I were to take a 
long and expensive journey to no purpose. 

" You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to 
consult you. 

** I apply to yon as one well versed in the duello, 
or monomachie. Of course I shall come to Eng- 
land as privately as possible, and leave it (sup- 
posing that I was the survivor) in the same manner ; 
naving no other object which could bring me to that 
country except to settle quarrels accumulated 
during my absence. 

"By the last post I transmitted to you a letter 
upon some Rochdale toll business, from which 
there are moneys in prospect. My agent says tico 
thousand pounds, but supposing it to be only one, 
or even one hundred, still they be moneys ; and I 
have lived long enough to have an exceeding re- 
spect for the smallest current coin of any realm, or 
the least sum, which, although I may not want it 
myself, mj.y do something for others who may need 
it more than I. 

" They say. that ' Knowledge is Powfer ; ' — I used 
to think so ; but 1 now know that they meant 
' money :' and when Socrates declared, ' that all he 
knew was, that he knew nothing,' he merely in- 
tended to declare, that he had not a drachm in the 
Athenian world. 

_ " The cb-culars arl arrived, and circulating like 
ni8 vortices (or vortexes) of Descartes. Still I 
have a due care of the needful, and keep a look-out 
ahead, as my notions upon the score of moneys co- 
incide witl^ yours, and with all men's who have 
lived to see that every guinea is a philosopher's 
stone, or at least his touch-stone. You will doubt 
me the less, when I pronounce my firm belief, that 
Cash is Virtue. 

"I cannot reproach myself with much expendi- 
ture : my only extra expense (and it is more than I 
nave spent upon myself) being a loan of two 
hundred and fifty pounds to Hunt ; and fifty 
pounds' worth of furniture which I have bought for 
him ; and a boat which I am building for myself 
at Genoa, which will cost about a hundred pounds 
more. 

** But to return. I am determined to have all 
the moneys I can, whether by my own funds, or 
succession, or lawsuit, or MSS., or any lawful 
means whatever. 

" I will pay (though with the sincerest reluctance) 
my remaining creditors, and every man of law, by 
instalments from the award of the arbitrators. 

" I recommend to you the notice in Mr. Han- 
son's letter, on the demand of moneys for the 
Rochdale tolls. 

•' Above all, I recommend my interests to your 
konorable worship. 

" Recollect, too, that I expect some moneys for 
Ihe various MSS., (no matter what;) and, in short, 
•Rem, ouocunque modo, Rem ! ' — the rusble feeling 
*■( cupidity grows upon us with our years. 

" Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DXLV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pisa, Feb. 8, 1822. 

" Attacks upon me were to be expected, but I 
perceive one upon youin the papers, which I confess 
that I did not expect. How, or in what manner, 
you can te considered responsible for what / pub- 
iuh, I am at a loss to conceive. 

'*If 'Cain' be blasphemous,' Paradise Lost is 



blasphemous ; and the very words of the Oxfoi^ 
gentleman, ' Evil, be thou my good,' are from that 
very poem, from the mouth of Satan ; and is ther« 
any thing more in that of Lucifer in the Mystery ? 
Cain is nothing more than a drama, not a piece A 
argument. If Lucifer and Cain speak as the first 
murderer and the first rebel may be supposed to 
speak, surely all the rest of the personages talk als' 
according to their characters — and the stronger paS' 
sions have ever been permitted to the drama. 

" I have even avoided introducing the Deity as in 
Scripture, (though Milton does, and not very Aviseiy 
either,) but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain 
instead, on purpose to avoid shocking any feeling* 
on the subject by falling short of what aJ unin- 
spired men ro.ust fall short in, viz., giving an 
adequate notion of the effect of the presence o{ 
Jehovah. The old Mysteries introduced him libe- 
rally enough, and all this is avoided in the new one. 

" The atterapt to bully you, because they think it 
won't succeed with me, seems to me as atrocious an 
attempt as ever disgraced the times. What ! when 
Gibbcn's, Hume's, Priestley's, and Drummond's 
publishers have been allowed to rest in peace for 
seventy years, are you to be singled out for a work 
of potion, not of history or argument } There must 
be something at the bottom of this — some private 
enemy of your own: it is otherwise incredible. 

" I can only say, * Me, me ; en adsum qui feci ; ' 
— that any proceedings dii-ected against you, I beg, 
may be transferred to me, who am willing, and 
ouffht, to endure them all ; that if you have lost 
money by the publication, I will refund any or all 
of the copyright; that I desire you will say that 
both you and Mr. Gifford remonstrated against the 
publication, as also Mr. Hobhouse; that / alone 
occasioned it, and I alone am the person who, 
either legally or otherwise, should bear the burden. 
If they prosecute, I will come to England — that is, 
if by meeting it in my own person, I can save 
yours. Let me know. You shan't suffer for me, if 
I can help it. Make any usu of this letter you 
please. " Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. I write to you about all this row of bad 
passions and absurdities, with the stci)imer moon 
(for here our winter is clearer than your dog-days) 
lighting the winding Arno, with all her buildiuga 
and oridges, — so quiet and still ! — What nothings 
are we before the least of these stars ! " 



LETTER DXLYI. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Pisa, Feb. 19, 18254. 

" I am rather surprised not to have hkd au 
answer to my letter and packets. Ladv Noel is 
dead, and it is not impossible that I may have to go 
to England to settle the division of the Wentworth 
property, and what portion Lady B. is to have of 
it ; all which was left undecided by the articles of 
separation. But I hope not, if it can be dona 
without, — and I have written to Sir Francis Bv*r- 
dett to be my referee, as he knows the property. 

" Continue to address here, as I shall not go if I 
can avoid it — at least, not on that account. But I 
may on another ; for I wrote to Douglas Kinnaird to 
convey a message of invitation to Mr. Southey to 
meet me, either in England, or (as less liable to inter- 
ruption) on the coast of France. This was about a 
fortnight ago, and I have not yet had time to have 
the answer. However, you shall have due notice 
therefore continue to address to Pisa. 

" My agents and trustees have written f) me to 
desire that I would take the name directly, so that 
1 am yours very truly and affectionately, 

*' Noel Byrox. 

*' P. S. I hav*> baa no news trom England except 



LETTERS 



947 



on cnsiness ; and merely know, from some abuse in 
that faithful ex and (ie-tractor, Galignani, that the 
clergy are up against 'Cain.' There is (if I am 
not mistaken) some good church preferment on the 
Wentworth estates ; and I will show them what a 
good Christian I am by patronising and preferring 
the most pious of their order, should opportunity 
occur, 

'* M. and I am but little in correspondence, and I 
know nothing of literary matters at preser.t; I 
have been writing on business only lately. What 
are you about ? Be assured that tnere is no such 
eoaiition as you apprehend." 



LETTER DXLVII. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



"Pisa, Feb. 20, IKS. • 

"Your. letter arrived since 1 w.ote the enclosed. 
It is not likely, as I have appointed agents and 
arbitrators for the Noel estates, that I should pro- 
ceed to England on that account, — though I may 
upon another, within stated. At any rate, ccntinue 
vou to address here till you hear further ft-om me. 
t could wish you still to arrange for me, either with 
a Loudon or Paris publisher, for the things, &c. I 
shall not quarrel ^vith any arrangement you may 
please to make. 

" I have appointed Sir Francis Burdett my arbi- 
trator to decide on Lady Byron's allowance out of 
the Noel estates, which are estimated at seven 
thousand a year, and rents very well paid, — a rare 
thing at this time. It is, however, owing to their 
W)isisting chiefly in pasture lands, and therefore 
less affected by corn bills, &c., than properties in 
tillage. 

* Believe me yours ever most affectionately, 

" Noel Byhon. 

" Between my own property in tlic funds, and my 
wife's in land, I do not know which side to cry out 
on in politics. 

" There is nothing against the immortality of the 
Boul in ' Cain ' that I recollect. I h^ld no such 
opinions ; — but, in a drama, the first rel)el and the 
first murderer must be made to talk according to 
their cV :racters. However, the parsons are all 
preaching at it, from Kentish Town and Oxford to 
Pisa ; — the scoundrels of priests, who do more harm 
to religion than all the infidels that ever forgot their 
catehism. 

*' I have not seen Lady Noel's death announced 
In Galignani. — How is that ? " 



LETTER DXLVIII. 



to MR. MOORE. 

" Pim, Feb. 28, 1828. 

• 1 begin to think that the packet (a heavy one) 
of five acts of • Werner,'- &c., can hardly have 
reached you, for your letter of lust week ^ which I 
answered) did not allude to it, and yet I insured it 
at the post-ofhce here. 

«• I have no direct news from Enu;land, except on 
the Noel business, which is proceeding (luictly, as I 
have appointed a gentlemai\ (Sir V. Burdett) for 



my arbitrator. They, too, have said that they wi 

?r whom they 
name a gentleman too. This is better, as the 



recall the lawyer whom they had chosen, and will 



MTangement of the estates and of Lady's B.'s 
allowance will thus be settled without (luibbling 



My lawyers are taking out a license for the namr 

and arms, which it seems I am to endue. 

" By another, and indirect quarter, I hear that 
* Cain ' has been pirated, and that the Chancelloi 
has refused to give Murray any redress. Also, that 
G. R* (yotir friend 'Ben'), has expressed great 
personal indignation at the said poem. All this ia 
curious enough, I think, — after allowing Priestly, 
Hume, and Gibbon, and Bolingbroke, and Voltairt 
to be published, without depriving the •bookselleii 
of their rights. I heard from Rome a day or two 
ago, and, with what truth I know not, that « • • 

" Yours, &c " 



LETTER DXLIX. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



'• Piia, Maith I, 1823. 

"As Ijstill have no news of my ' Werner,' &r., 
packet, sent to you on the 29th of January, I con- 
tinue to bore you, (for the fifth time, I beUeve, ) to 
know whether it has iwt miscarried. As it was 
fairly copied out, it will be vexatious if it be lost. 
Indee'd, I insured it at the post-office to make 
them take more care, and directed it regularly to 
you at l^aris. 

" In the impartial Galignani I perceive an extract 
from Blackwood's Magazine, in which it is said 
that there are people who have discovered that you 
and I are no poets. With regard to one of us, 1 
know that this north-west passage to tny magnetic 
pole had been long discovered by some sages and I 
leave them the lull benefit of iheir penetration. I 
think, as Gibbon says of his History, ' that, perr 
hapu a hundred years hence it may still continue tc 
be abused.' However, I am far from pretending to 
compete or compare with that illustrious literary 
character. 

" But, with regard to you, I thought that you 
had always been allowed to be a poet, even i,y rne 
stupid as well as the envious — a bad one, to be sure 
— immoral, florid, Asiatic, and diabolically popnhir, 
— but still always a poet, mc/n. con. This discovery, 
therefore, has to me all the grace of novelty, as 
well as of consolation (according to Rochefouc.iult) 
to find myself no-poetized in such good ciunpuny. 
lam content to ' err with Plato ; ' and can .i>-;;uo 
you very sincerely, that I would rather be reeiiM-il 
a non poet with you, than be crowned with all the 
bays of (the ye/-uncro\vued) Lakers in their society. 
I believe you think better of those worthies than I 
do. I know them ♦••••• 

" As for Southey, the answer to my proi^sition 
of a meeting is not yet come. I sent the message, 
with a short note to him, through Donglas Kin 
naird, and Douglas's response is not arri\ed. If ht; 
accepts, I shall have to go to Hn^land ; but if not, 
I do not think the Noel affairs will take ine there 
as the arbitrators can settle them without my 
presence, and there do not s«>em to be ' ' '- 

ties. The license for the new name . j 

bearings will be taken out l>y the regui i- 

tion, in such cases, to the Crown, and sent tu im . 

" Is there a Impc of seeing you in Italv a«ain 
ever? What are you doing ? — ho'reti by n>e, t know ; 
but I have explained w/it/ before. 1 have no cor« 
respondence n«)w with London, except tbrouKh 
rehitions and lawyers, and one or ; v ' 'Iv 

greatest friend, Lord Clare, is at I 
the road, and our meeting was (lu, 
/r«//y pathetic on both sides. I huw .tlvv.t\;> luvo4 
him bettor than any mah thing in the world. 

[The preceding was enclosed in that which Wr 
Iowa.) 



948 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DL. 



TO MR MOORE. 



" V\m. March 4, 1822. 

"Since I wrote the enclosed, I have waited 
another post, and now have your answer acknow- 
ledging the arrival of the packet — a troublesome 
one, I fear, to you in more ways than one, both 
from weight external and internal. 

" The unpublished things in your hands, in 
Dous:las K.'s, and Mr. John Murray's, are, 
' Heaven and Earth, a lyrical kind of Drama upon 
the Deluge, &c. ; ' — ' Werner,' now with yoti ; — a 
translaton of the first canto of the Morgante Mag- 
giore \-^ ditto of an Episode in Dante ; — some stan- 
zas to the Po, June 1st, 1819 ; — Hints from Horace, 
written in 1811, but a g/)od deal, since, to be omit- 
ted ; — several prose things, which may, perhaps, as 
well remain unpublished ; — ' The Vision, &c., of 
Quevedo Redivivus ' in verse. 

" Here you see is 'more matter for a May morn- 
ing ; ' but how much of this can be published is for 
consideration. The Quevedo (one of my best in 
that line) has appalled the Row already, and must 
take its chance at Paris, if at all. The new 
Mystery is less speculative than 'Cain,' and Very 
pious ; besides, it is chiefly lyrical. The Morgante 



IS the best translation that ever was or will be 
made; and the rest are — whatever you please to 
think them. 

" I am sorry you think "Werner even approaching 
to any fitness for the stage, which with my notions 
upon it. is very far from my present object. With 
regard to the publication, I have already explained 
that I have no exorbitant expectations of either 
fame or profit in the present instances ; but wish 
them published because they are written ; which is 
the common feeling of all scribblers. 

*' With respect to ' Religion,' can I never con- 
vince you that / have no such opinions as the 
characters in that drama, which seems to have 
frightened every body > Yet they are nothing to 
the expressions in Goethe's Faust, (which are ten 
times hardier,) and not a whit more bold than those 
of Milton's Satan. My ideas of a character m^y 
run away with me : like all imaginative men, I, of 
course, embody myself with the character while I 
draw it, but not a moment after the pen is from off 
the paper. 

" I am no enemy to religion, but the contrary. 
As a proof, I am educating my natural daughter a 
strict Catholic in a convent of Romagna, for I 
think people can never have enough of religion, if 
they are to have any. I incline, myself, very much 
to the .Catholic doctrines ; but if I am to write a 
drama, I must make my characters speak as I con- 
ceive them likely to argue. 

" As to poor Shelley, who is another bugbear to 
yau and the world, he is, to my knowledge, the 
Ua^t selfish and the mildest of men — a man who 
has made more sacrifices of his fortune and feelings 
for others than any I ever heard of. With his 
speculative opinions I have nothing in common, 
nor desire to have. 

•' The truth is, my dear Moore, you live near the 
ttoxie of society, where you are unavoidably influ- 
enced by its heat and its vapors. I did so once — 
and too much — and enough to give a color to my 
whole future existence. As my success in society 
was not inconsiderable, I am surely not a prejudiced 
judge upon the subject, unless in its favc: ; but I 
think it, as now constituted, fatal to all great 
original undertakings of every kind. I never courted 
it then, when I was young and high in blood, and 
•)ne of its ' curled darlings ; ' and do you think I 
would do so now, when I am living in a clearer at- 
mosphere ? One thfcig only might lead me back to 
\t, and that is, to try once more if I could do any 
good in politics ; but not in the petty politics I see 
^ow pieying upon our miserable country. 



•• Do not let -le be misunderstood, however. I 
you speak your own opinions, they ever had, and 
will have, the greatest weight with me. But if vov 
merely echo the 'monde,' (and it is difficult not to 
do so, being in its favor and its ferment,) I can 
only regret that you should ever repeat any thing to 
which I cannot pay attention. 

" But I am prosing. The gods go with you, and 
as much immortality of all kinds as may suit youi 
present and all other existence. 

«♦ YOUX8, &c." 



LETTER DLL 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Pua, Mai«h 6, 18^2. 

" The enclosed letter from Murray hath melted 
me ; though I think it is against his own interest to 
wish that I should continue his connexion. Y<K 
may, therefore, send him the packet of * Werner,' 
which will save you all further trouble. And pray, 
can you forgive me for the bore and expense I have 
already put upon you ? At least, say so — for I feel 
ashamed of having given you so much for such 
nonsense. 

" The fact is, 1 cannot keep my resentments, 
though violent enough in their onset. Besides, now 
that all the world are at Murray on my account, I 
neither can nor ought to leave him ; unless, as I 
really thought, it were better for him that I should. 

" I have had no other news from England except 
a letter from Barry Cornwall, the bard, and my old 
schoolfellow. Though I have sickened you with 
letters lately, believe me " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. In your last letter you say, speaking of 
She-ley, that you would almost prefer the ' damning 
bigot ' to the * annihilating infidel.' Shelley believes 
in immortality, however — but this by-the-way. Do 
you remember Frederick the Great's answer to the 
remonstrance of the villagers, whose curate preached 
against the eternity of hell's torments ? It was 
thus : — ' If my faithful subjects of Schrausenhaus-~r- , 
sen prefer being eternally iamned, let them ! ' \^_, 

" Of the two, I should thmk the long sleep bet- 
ter than the agonized vigil. But men, miserable as 
they are, cling so to any thing like life, that they 
probably would prefer damnation to quiet. Besides, 
they think themselves so important in the creation, 
that nothing less^can satisfy their pride — the in- 
sects ! " 



LETTER DLII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pisa, March 6, 1822. 

" You will long ago have received a letter from 
me, (or should,) declaring my opinion of the treat- 
ment you have met with about the recent publica- 
tion. I think it disgraceful to those who have per 
secuted you. I make peace with vou, though om 
war was for other reasons than this same contro- 
versy. I have written to Moore by this post to for- 
ward to you the tragedy of * Werner.' I shall not 
make or propose any present bargain about it or 
the new Mystery till we see if they succeed. If they 
don't sel.; (which is not unlikely,) you shan't pay"; 
and I suppose this is fair play, if you cheese to risk 
it. 

" Bartolini, the celebrated sculptor, wrote to m« 
to desire to take my bust : I consented, on oondi 
tion that he also took that of the Countess Guicci 
oli. He has taken both, and I think it will be 
allowed that hers is beautiful. I shall make you a 
present of them both, to show that I don't beai 
'malice, and as a compei; sation for the trouble au*i 



LETTERS. 



d4tJ 



ifQuabble you had about Thorwaldsen's. Of my o^vn 
1 can hardly speak, except that it is thought very 
like what I now am, which is different from what 
I was, of course, since you saw me. The sculptor 
is a famous one ; aud as it was done by his own 
particular request, will be done well, probably. 

" What is to be done about Taafe and his Com- 
mentary ? He will die, if he is not published ; he 
will be damned if he is ; but that he don't mind. 
We must publish him. 

" All the rmo about me has no otherwise affected 
me than by the attack upon yourself, which is un- 
generous in Church and State ; but as all violence 
must in time have its proportionate reaction, you 
will do better by-and-by. " Yours very truly, 
*« Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLIIL 



TO MB. MOORE. 

" Pisa, March 8, 1822. 

^' You will have had enough of my letters by this 
time — yet one word in answer to your present mis- 
sive . You are quite wrong in thinking that your 
* advice ' had offended me ; but 1 have already re- 
plied (if not answered) on that point. 

" With regard to Murray, as I really am the 
meekest and mildest of men since Moses, (though 
the public and mine ' excellent wife ' cannot find it 
out,) I had already pacified myself and subsided 
back to Alt)emarle street, as my "yesterday's ygpistle 
will have informed you. But I thought that I had 
explained my causes of bile — at least to you. 

'* Some instances of vacillation, occasional neg- 
lect, and troublesome sincerity, real or imagined, 
are sufficient to put your truly great author and man 
into a passion. But reflection, with some aid from 
hellebore, hath already cured me ' pro tempore ; ' 
and, if it had not, a request from you and Hobhouse 
would have come upon me like two out of the 'tribus 
Anticyris,' — with which, however, Horace despairs 
of purging a poet. I really feel ashamed of having 
bored you so frequently and fully of late. But what 
could I do ? You are a friend — an absent one, alas I 
—-and as I trust no one more, I trouble you in pro- 
portion. 

' " This war of • Uhurch and State ' has astonished 
me more than it disturbs ; for I really thought 'Cain' 
R speculative and hardy, but still a harmless pro- 
duction. As I said before, I am really a great ad- 
mirer of tangible religion ; and am breeding one of 
my daughters a Catholic, that she may bave her 
hands full. It is by far the most elegant worship, 
hardly excepting the Greek mythology. What with 
incense, pictures, statuos, altars, shrines, relics, and 
the real presence, confession, absolution — there is 
something sensible to grasp at, Bosidef, it leaves 
no possibilty of doubt ; for those who swallow tlicir 
Deity really and truly, in transubstantiation, can 
hardly find any thing else otherwise than easy of 
digestion. 

" I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I 
don't mean it to l)e so ; only my turn of mind is so 
given to taking tilings in the al)siird i)()ii)t of view, 
that it breaks out in spile of me every now and 
tn* n. Still, 1 do assure you that I am a very good 
Cliristian. Whether you' will believe me in tliis, I 
do not know ; but I trust you will take my word for 
being •' Very truly andalfVctionately yours. \c. 

•• P. S. Do tell Murrav that one of the conditions 
of peace is, that he j)ul)liHhcth (or ()l>taineth a pub- 
lisher for) Taalc's Commentary on Danto, agaiiiHt 
which there ai)i)cars in the trade an unaccomitiihlc 
rcimgnanee. It will make the mm so exul>erantlv 
ha])py. lie dines with me and half u d(./,pn English 
V)-day ; and I have not the heart to tell him how 
fche bibllopolar world shrink from his Coiumentary ; 
—and yet it a full of the most orthodox religion 
uxd in Jra ity lu short, I make it a point that ho 



shall be lu pnnt. He is such a good-natired. heavj 
* * Christian, that we must give him i shovt 
through the press. He naturally thirsts to be in 
author, and has been the happiest of men for t*»«^«j 
two months, printing, correcting, collating, dating 
anticipating, and adding to his treasures of learn» 
ing. Besides, he has had another fall from hifl 
horse into a ditch the other day, while riding ow» 
with me into the country. ' 



LETTER DLIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Ptaa, March 15 ISffl 

*' 1 am glad that you and your friends approve of 
my letter of the 8th ultimo. You may give it what 
publicity you think proper in the circumstances. I 
have since written to you twice or thrice. 

"As to 'a poem in the old wav,' I shall attempt 
of that kind nothing further. 1 follow the bias ol 
my own mind, without considering whether women 
or men are or are not to be pleased : but this is 
nothing to my publisher, who must judge and acl 
according to popularity. 

" Therefore let the things take their chance : if 
they pay, you will pay me in proportion ; and it 
they don't, I must. 

" The Noel affairs, I hope, will not take me to 
England. I have no desire to revisit that country, 
unless it be to keep you out o. i prison, (if this can 
be effected by my taking your place,) or perhaps to 
get myself into one, by exacting satisfaction from 
one or two persons who take adva^itage of my ab- 
sence to abuse me. Further th.,;: .is, I have no 
business nor connexion with Englaiiu, no'- desire to 
have, out of my own family and friends, ' whom I 
wish all prosperity. Indeed, I have lived upon the 
whole so little in England, (about five years since I 
was one-and-twenty,) that my habits are too con- 
tinental, and your climate would please me as little 
as the society. 

" I saw the Chancellor's Report in a French pa- 
per. Pray, why don't they prosecute the transla- 
tion of Lucretius f or the original with its 

* mniu» in oroe Deo« ft^it Timor, 
'Tanium Kdigio poiuii iuailrre maioniraf ' 

"You must really get something done for Mr 
Taafe's Commentary ; what can I say to him ? 

" Yours, &o 



LETTER DLV 



TO Mil. MURRAY. 



<• ptM, ApfY t>. lua. 

" Mr. Kinnaird writes that there has been an 'ex- 
cellent defence' of 'Cain,' against ' Uxoniensia :' 
you have sent me nothing but a not vcrv txe«lloct 
o/-fence of the same poem. If there W such f 
'Defender of the Faitii," you may send me hi> 
thirty-nine articles, uh a counterbalance to some ov 
your late communications. 

" Are YOU to publish, or not, what Moore and Mr. 
Kinnaird have in liand, and the 'Vision of .1 udg- 
ment?' If you publish the latter in a very cheap 
edititin, so as to hallle llie pirates by a low price, 
you will find that it will do. ^ The ' Mystery ' I look 
niion as good, and ' Werner' loo, ami I 'if 

you will publisli them speedily. Yoi, >it 

your name to Quriido', but publisli if i.'n 

edition, and let it make its way. Douglas ivu uair4 
has it still, with the preface, t believe. 

" 1 refer vim to him for doeumtuit* on the lit* 
row here. I sent them a week ago. 



Toun. Ao 



950 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER I;LV1. 



TO MK. MURRAY. 



" Pisa. April 18, 1822. 

'• I liave received the Defence of ' Cain.' Who is 
Diy Warburton ? — for ho has done for me what the 
bishop did for the poet against Crousaz. His reply 
seems to me conclusive : and if you understood your 
5wn interest, you would print it together with the 
poem. 

" It is very odd that I do not hear from you. I 
have forwarded to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird the docu- 
mt-nts on a squabble here, which occurred about a 
month ago. The affair is still going on ; but they 
make nothing of it hitherto. I think, what with 
home and abroad, there has been hot water enough 
for one while. Mr. Dawkins, the English minister, 
has behaved in the handsomest and most gentle- 
manly manner throughout the whole business. 

" Yours ever, &c. 

" P. S. I have got Lord Glenbervie's book, which 
is very amusing and able upon the topics which he 
touches upon, and part of the preface pathetic. 
Write soon." 



LETTER DLVII. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Pisa, April 22, 1822. 

/ "You will regret to hear that I have received 
intelligence of the death of my daughter Allegra 
of a fever, in the convent of Bagna Cavallo, where 
she was placed for the last year, to commence her 
education. It is a heavy blow for many reasons, 
Dut must be borne, with time. 

•'It is my present intention to send her remains 
to England for sepulture in Harrow church, (where 
I once hoped to have laid my OAvn,) and this is my 
reason for troubling you with this notice. I wish 
the funeral to be very private. The body is em- 
balmed, and in Jead. It will be embarked from 
Leghorn. Would you have any objection to give 
the proper directions on its anival ? 

" I am yours, &c. 

"N. B. 

"P. S. You are aware that Protestants are not 
allowed holy ground in Catholic countries." 



LETTER DLVin. 

TO MR. SHELLEY. 

" April 23, 182'i 

" The blow was stunning and unexpected ; for I 
khought the danger over, by the long interval be- 
l"?7een her stated amelioration and the an-ival of the 
^ipress. But I have borne up against it as I best 
civn, and so far successfully, that 1 can go about the 
usual business of life with the same appearance of 
composure, and even greater. There is nothing to 

S re tent your coming to-morrow; but, perhaps, to- 
ay, and yester-evening, it was better not to have 
met. 1 do not know that I have any thing to re- 

iiroach in my conduct, and certainly nothing in my 
'ee^lngs and intentions towards the dead. But it is 
a morn^nt when we are apt to think that, if this or 
that had been done, such event might have been 
prevented; though every day and hour shows us 
that they are the most natural and inevitable. I 
gupjtose that Time will do his usual work — Death 
b&l done his. " Yours ever, 

•N. B." 



LETTER DLIX. 



TO SIR TVALTER SCOTT. 



<<Hfta,Ma7(,iaS. 

"My Dear Sir Walter, 

"Your account of your family is very pleasiM 
would that I ' could answer this comfort with th€ 
like ! ' but I have just lost my natural daughter, Al- 
legra, by a fever. The only consolati^on, save time, 
is the reflection, that she is either at rest or happy ; 
for her few years (only five) prevented her from 
having incurred any sin, except what we inherit 
from Adam. 

' Whom the gods love, die jo-mg.'- 

" I need not say that your letters are particularly 
welcome, when they do not tax your time and pa« 
tience ; and now that our correspondence is resumed, 
1 trust it will continue. 

" I have lately had some anxiety, rather than 
trouble, about an awkward affair here, which you 
may perhaps have heard of: but om- minister has 
behaved very handsomely, and the Tuscan Govern- 
ment as well as it is possible for such a government 
to behave, which is not saying much for the latter. 
Some other English, and Scots, and myself, had a 
brawl with a dragoon, who insulted one of the party, 
and whom we mistook for an officer, as he was med- 
alled and well mounted, &c. ; but he turned out to 
be a sergeant-major. He called out the guard at 
the gates to arrest us, (we being unarmed;) upon 
Avhich I and another (an Italian) rode through the 
said guard ; but they succeeded in detaining others 
of the party. I rode to my house, and sent my 
secretary to give an account of the attempted and 
illegal arrest to the authorities, and then, without 
dismounting, rode back towards the gates, which 
are near my present mansion. Half way I met my 
man, vaporing away, and threatening to draw upon 
me, (who had a cane in my hand^ and no other 
arms.) I, still believing him an officer, demanded 
his name and address, and gave him my hand and 
glove thereupon. A servant of mine thrust in be 
tween us, (totally without orders,) but let him go 
on my command. He then rode off at full speed ; 
but about forty paces further was stabbed, and very 
dangerously, (so as to be in peril,) by some Calium 
Beg or other of my people, (for I have some rough- 
handed folks about me,) I need hardly say without 
my direction or approval. The said dragoon had 
been sabring our unarmed countrj-men, however, at 
the aate, after they were in arrest, and held by the 
guards, and wounded one. Captain Hay, very se- 
verely. However, he got his paiks, having acted 
like an assassin, and being treated like one. Who 
wounded him, though it was done before thousands 
of people, they have never been able to ascertain, or 
prove, nor even the weapon; some said b. pistol, ar 
air-(jun, a stiletto, a sword, a lance, a pitchfork, 
and whiat not. They have arrested and examine"! 
servants and people of all descriptions, but can 
make out nothing. Mr. Dawkins, our minister, 
assures me, that no suspicion is entertained of the 
man who wounded him having been instigated by 
me, or any of the party. I enclose you copies oi 
the depositions of those with us, and Dr. Craufu^ d, 
a canny Scot, (not an acquaintance,) who saw i ae 
latter part of the affair. They are in Italian. 

" These are the only literary matters in which 1 
have been engaged since the publication anl --Vi 
about ' Cain ; ' but Mr. Murray has several things 
of mine in his obstetrical hands. Another Mystery 
— a Vision — a Drama — and the like. But you won't 
tell me what you are doing ; however, I shall find 
you out, write what you will. You say that I should 
like your son-in-law; it would be ver ' difficult for 
me to dislike any one connected with you ; but I 
have no doubt that his own qualities are .all that 
you describe. 

" I am sorry you don't like Lord Oxford s neK 



LETTERS. 



90i 



work My aiii-cicracy, which is very fierce, makes 
him a favorite of mine. Recollect that those ' little 
factious ' comprised Lord Chatham and Fox, the 
father, and that loe live in gigantic and exaggerated 
times," which make all under Gog and Magog appear 
pigmean. After having seen Napolean begin lilfe 
Tamerlane and end like Bajazet in our own time, 
we have not the same interest in what would other- 
wise have appeared important history. But I must 
suaclude. 

" Believe me ever and most truly yours, 

" Noel Btkon." 



LETTER DLX. 

TO MR. MURRA.Y. 

" Pisa, May 17, 1822. 

"I hear that the Edinburgh has attacked the 
ftiree dramas, which is a bad business for yow; ani 
I don't wonder that it discourages you. However, 
that volume may be trusted to time, — depend upon 
it. I read it over with some attention since it was 
published, and I think the time will come when it 
will be preferred to my other Avritings, though not 
immediately. I say this without irritation against 
the critics or criticism, whatever they may be,^(for I 
have not seen them ;) and nothing that has or may 
appear in Jeffrey's Review can make me forget that 
he stood by me for ten good years without any mo- 
tive to do so but his own good-will. 

" 1 hear Moore is in town; remember me to him, 
and believe me " Yours trulv, 

" N. B. 

" P. S. If you think it necessary, you may send 
me the Edinburgh. Should there be any thing that 
requires an answer, I will reply, but temperately and 
technically; that is to say, merely with respect to 
the principles of the criticism, and not personally or 
offensively as to its literary merits." 



LETTER DLXI. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Pi»a, May 17, 1822. 

" I hear you are in London. You will have heard 
from Douglas Kinnaird (who tells me yon have diuod 
^•ith him) as much as you desire to know of my 
affairs at home and abroad. I have lately lost my 
little girl Allegra by a fever, which has been a seri- 
ous blow to me. 

" I did not write to you lately, (except one letter 
to Murray's,) not knowing exactly your 'where- 
abouts.' Douglas K. refused to forward my mos- 
lage to Mr. Southey — why, he himself can expl.iin. 

" You \nU ha /o seen the statement of a siiuab- 
blc, &c., Siv.* What are you about ? Lot me hear 
Irom you at your leisure, and believe me ever yours, 



LETTER DLXII. 

TO Mtt. MUKH\T. 

" MJiifi'iiem.t MuT 'X, \9ti, 
"Noar l,.-){l.oni. 

•♦The body is embarked, in what ship I know not, 
iieithcr could I enter into the details : but the Coun- 



• Hore followi a rrjifliUiun of t)»e dolilU given on thli •uhjert to BIr W»l»r 
gjDtt «na oihrr». 

t A hill, thn^ 01 four mWm from Logfc "m, muA rwwtsd to m • piaM rf 
Kaldanoa d tA%^ Ibn luiuuMr nkoauii. 



tess G. G. has had the goodness to give the neces- 
sary orders to Mr. Dunn, who superintends the 
embarkation, and will write to you. I wish it to 
buried in Harrow church. 

" There is a spot in the ehurchyarc?, near the foot- 
path, on the brow of the hill looking towards Wind- 
sor, and a tomb under a large tree, (bearing the 
name of Peachie, or Peachey,) where I used to sit 
for hours and hours when a boy. This was my 
favorite spot ; but as I wish to erect a tablet to her 
memory, the body had better be deposited in the 
church. Near the door, on the left hand as you 
enter, there is a monument with a tablet containing 
these words : — 

• When Soirow weeps o'er Virtue's sacred duj»,, 
Our teart besume us, and our grief is just : 
Such were the tears she shed, who grateful pays 
This last sad tribute of lier lore and praiae.' 

I recollect them, (after seventeen years,) not from 
any thing remarkable in them, but because from my 
seat in the gallery I had generally my eyes turned 
towards that monument. As near it as convenient 
I could wish Allegra to be buried, and on the wall 
a marble tablet placed, with these word : — 

"In Memory of 

Allegra, 

Daughter of G. G. Lord Byron, 

who died at Bagna Cavallo, 

in Italy, April 20th, 1822, 

aged five years and three months. 



1 shall go to her, but she i 



not retsirn to me.' 
2d Samuel, xU. 



*' The funeral I wish to be as private as is consis- 
tent vvith decency ; and 1 could hope that Henry 
Drury will, perhaps, read the service over her. H 
he should aecline it, it can be done by the usual 
minister for the time being. I do not know that I 
need add more just now. 

" Since I came here, I have been invited by the 
Americans on board their squadron, where I was 
received with all the kindness which I could wish, 
and with more ceremony than I am fond of. 1 
found them finer ships than your own of the saim- 
class, well manned and c-fneered. A number of 
American gentlemen also were on board at the 
time, and some ladies. As I was taking leave, an 
American lady asked me for a rose which 1 wore, 
for the purpose, she said, of sending to America 
something which I had about me, as a memorial. I 
need not add that I felt the compliment properly. 
Captain Chauncey showed me an AnuTii-an and 
very pretty edition of my pt)ems, and Dtfcrcd me a 
passage to tlie Unitinl States, if I would go there 
Commodore Jones was also not less kind and alteu 
tive. I have since reci'ivi-d the enclt)sed letter, de- 
siring me to sit for my picture for some .Vmericans. 
It is singular that, in the same year that Lady Noel 
leaves by \vill an interdiction for my daughter to see 
her father's portrait for many ye:irs, thr individuals 
of a nation not remarkable ior tlu-ir liking to the 
Knglish in particular, nor for fiattcriug men in gen- 
eral, request me to sit for my * pourtraioturi>, M 
Uaron Bradwardine calls it. I am also told o\ 
consideral)le literary honors in Oennanv. (iuithe, 
I am told, is my profcssi'd patron and protector. 
At Leivsic, this year, tlie highest prii.c was propimed 
for a translation of two cantos of Childe Harold. I 
am nt)t sure tliat this was at Lfijksir, hni Mr. Kow- 
croft was my auth»>ritv — a good (ii'rm;in -> li.'l.u. (• 
young American,) anil an acquaintanoi' 

"Goethe and the (icrmans are paii 

of Don Juan, wliit-h they jmlge of as a v. A 

I had heard smnetliing rf this before, througli baroo 
liUt/.erotle. The translations have been tcry fre 
(lucnt of several of the work>. and Uoetlio made M 
comparist>n between Kaust and Manfred. 

" All this id some compeubation for your BoilUiik 



^^.i^ 



952 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



native brutality, so fully displayed this year to its 
Highest extent. 

" I forgot to mention a little anecdote of a differ- 
ent kind. I went over the Constitution, (the Com- 
modore's flag-ship,) and saw, among other things 
worthy of remark, a little boy born on board of her 
by a sailor's wife. They had christened him ' Conr 
Btitution Jones.' I, of course, approved the name ; 
and the woman added, ' Ah, sir, if he turns out but 
half as good as his name ! ' 

"Yours ever, &c.' 



LETTER DLXIII, 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Montenero, near Leghorn, May 29, 1822. 

1 return you the proofs* revised. Your printer 
has made one odd mistake : — ' poor as a mouse,' 
instead of ' poor as a miser.' The expression may 
seem strange, but it is only a translation of ' sem- 
per avarus eget.' You will add the Mystery, and 
publish as soon as you can. I care nothing for your 
* season,' nor the blue approbations or disapproba- 
tions. All that is to be considered by you on the 
subject is as a matter of business ; and if I square 
that to your notions, (even to the running the risk 
entirely myself,) you may permit me to choose my 
own time and mode of publication. With regard 
to the late volume, the present run against it or me 
may impede it for a time, but it has the vital princi- 
ple of permanency within it, as you may perhaps 
one day discover. I wrote to you on another sub- 
ject a few days ago. " Yours, 

" N. B. 

** P. S. Please to send me the Dedication of 
Sardanapalus to Goethe. I shall prefix it to Wer- 
ner, unless you prefer my putting another, stating 
that the former had been omitted by the publisher. 

" On the title-page of the present volume, put 
' Published for the Author by J. M.' " 



LETTER DLXIV. 

TO MR. MURRAY. 

" Montenero, Leghorn, June 6, 1822. 

•• 1 return you the revise of Werner, and expect 
the rest. With regard to the lines to the Po, per- 
haps you had better put them quietly in a second 
edition (if you reach one, that is to say) than in 
the first ; because, though they have been reckoned 
fine, and I wish them to be preserved, I do not wish 
them to attract immediate observation, on account 
of the relationship of the lady to'whom they are ad- 
dressed with the first families in Romagna and the 
Marches. 

" The defender of ' Cain ' may or may not be, as 
fou term him, ' a tryo in literature : ' however, I 
think both you and I are under great obligation to 
him. I have read the Edinburgh Review in Galig- 
aa.ni's ^Magazine, and have not yet decided whether 
tc answer them or not; for, if I do, it will be diffi- 
cult for me not 'to make sport for the Philistines,' 
by pulling down a house or two ; since, when I once 
take pen in hand, I must say what comes upper- 
most, or fling it away. I have not the hypocrisy to 
pretend impartiality, nor the temper (as it is called) 
to keep always from saying what may not be pleas- 
ing to the hearer or reader. What do they mean 
by ' elaborate f Why, you know that they were 
written as fast as I could put pen to paper, and 
printed from the original MSS., and never revised 



but in the proofs : look at the d itea and the MSS 
themselves. Whatever faults they have must sprina 
from carelessness, and not from labor. They saia 
the same of * Lara,' which I wrote while undressing, 
after coming home from balls and masquei^des in 
the year of revelry, 1814. " Yours. 

"Junes, laaj. 
** You give me no explanation of your intention 
as to the ' Vision of Quevedo Redivivus,' one of my 
best things : indeed, you are altogether so abstruse 
and undecided lately, that I suppose you mean me 
to write ' John Murray, Esq., a Mystery,' — a conipo- 
sition which would not displease the clergy nor the 
trade. I by no means wish you to do what you don't 
like, but merely to say what you will do. The Vis- 
ion must be published by some one. As to ' clam- 
ors,' the die is cast ; and ' come one, come all ' we 
will fight it out — at least one of us." 



LETTER DLXV. 



TO MR. MOORE. 



" Montenero, Villa Dupoy, near Leghorn, June 8, 1822. 

" I have written to you twice through the medium 
of Mv.rray, and on one subject, trite enough, — the 
loss of poor little Allegra by a fever ; on which 
topic I shall say no more — there is nothing but 
time. 

" A few days ago, my earliest and dearest friend, 
Lord Clare, came over from. Geneva on purpose to 
see me before he returned to England. As I have 
always loved him (since I was thirteen, at Harrow) 
better than any (male) thing in the world, I need 
hardly say what a melancholy pleasure it was to see 
him for a day only ; for he was obliged to resume 
his journey immediately * * * 

* * * * * * 

I have heard, also, many other things of our ac- 
quaintances which I did not know ; among others, 
that ****** 

* * * * Do you recollect, 
in the year of revelry, 1814, the pleasantest parties 
and balls all over London ? and not the least so at 
* *'s. Do you recollect your singing duets with 
Lady * *, and my flirtation with Lady * *, and all 
the other fooleries of the time ? while * * was 
sighing, and Lady * * ogling him with her clear 
hazel eyes. Btit eight years have passed, and since 

that time, ** has ****** ; has rur 

away with *****; and mysen (as my Netting 
hamshire friends call themselves) might as well 
have thrown myself out of the window while you 
were singing, as intermarried where I did. You 
and ***** have come off the best of us. I 
speak merely of my marriage and its consequences, 
distresses, and calumnies; for I have been much 
more happy, on the whole, si7ice, than I ever could 
have been with ****«. 

" I have read the recent article of Jeffrey in a 
faithful transcription of the impartial Galignani.— 
I suppose the long and short of it is, that he wishes 
to provoke me to reply. But I won't, for I owehiw 
a good turn still for his kindness by-gone. Indeed 
I presume that the present opportunity of attack- 
ing me again was irresistible ; and I can't blame 
him, knowing what human nature is. I shall make 
but one remark : — what does he mean by elaborate ? 
The whole volume was written with the great<Bt 
rapidity, in the midst of evolutions and revolutions, 
and persecutions, and proscriptions of all who inte- 
rested me in Italy. They said the same of ' Lara,' 
which you know, was written amid balls and fool- 
eries, and after coming home from masquerades 
and routs, in the summer of the sovereigns. Of alj 
I have ever written, they are perhaps the most care 
lessly comrosed ; and their faults, whatever they maf 



LETTERS 



95i 



DB, are those of negligence, and not of labor. I do 
not think this a merit, but it is a fact. 

" Yours ever and truly, 
"N. B. 
•' P. S. You see the great advantage of my new 
gignature : it may either stand for ' Nota Bene ' or 
' Noel Byron,' and, as such, will save much repeti- 
tion, in writing either books or letters. Since I 
came here, I have been invited on board of the 
American squadron, and treated with all possible 
honor and ceremony. They have asked me to sit 
for my picture ; and, as I was going away, an Amer- 
ican lady took a rose from me, (which had been 
givwi to me by a very pretty Italian lady that very 
Rroni.ir.g,) because she said, * She was determined 
to pend or take something which I had about me to 
America.' There is a kind of Lalla Rookh incident 
for you ! However, all these American honors 
arise, perhaps, not so much from their enthusiasm 
for my ' poes^ie,' as their belief in my dislike to the 
English, — in which I have the satisfactign to coin- 
cide with them. I would rather, however, have a 
nod from ai American, than a snufi-box from an 
emperor." 



LETTEE DLXVI. 



TO MR. ELLICE. 

" Montenero, Leghorn, June 12, 1822. 

' MY Dear Ellice, 

*' It is a long time since I have written to you, but 
I have not forgotten your kindness, and I am now 
going to tax it — I hope not too highly — but don't 
be alarmed, it is not a loan, but information which 
I am about to solicit. By your extensive connex- 
ions, no one can liave better opportunities of hear- 
ing the real state of South America — I mean Boli- 
var's country. I have many vears had transatlantic 
projects of settlement, and what I could wish from 
you would be some information of the best course 
to pursue, and some lettei-s of recommendation in 
case I should sail for Angostura. I am told that 
land is very cheap there ; but though I have no 
great disposable funds to vest in such purchases, yet 
my income, such as it is, would be sufficient in anv 
country, (except England,) for all the comforts t 
life, and for most of its luxuries. The war there ih 
now over, and as I do not go there to speculate, but 
to settle without any views but those of independ- 
ence and the enjoyment of the common civil rights, 
I should presume "such an arrival would not be un- 
welcome. 

" All I request of you is, not to c?Jscourage nor 
encourage, but to give me such a statement as you 
think prudent and proper. I do not address my 
other friends upon this subject, who would only 
throw obstacles in my way, and bore me to return 
to England ; whicli I never will do, unless conipel- 
led by some iBsuperablu cause. I have a quantity of 
furniture, books, &c., &c., &c., which I could easily 
ship from Leghorn ; but I wish to ' look before I 
leap ' ovf*r tlie Atlantic. Is it true that for a few 
thou»,\nd dollars a large tract of land may be ob- 
tairc^d? I speak of Smith America, recollect. I 
have read some pul)lications on the subject, but they 
ieemed violtmt and vulgar party productions. — 
Please to address your answci to me at this place, 
And believe me ever and truly youru, &c." 



LETTER DLXVII. 

TO Mil. MUIUIAY. 



1 1 return you the ro 



I»ta., July e. IBM. 

■vise.* I have softom-d the 



part to which (iifford objected, and changed the 



name of Mic^iael to Raphael, who was an an^el ol 
gentler sympathies. By-the-way, recollect to altel 
Michael to Raphael in the scene itself throughout, 
for I have only had time to do so in the list of tha 
dramatis personae, and scratch out all the pencil 
marks, to avoid puzzling the printers. I have given 
the 'Vision of Quevedo Redivious' to John Hunt, 
which will relieve you from a dilemma. He must 
publish it at his own risk, as it is at bis own desire. 
Give him the corrected copy which Mr. Kinnaird 
had, as it is mitigated partly, and also the preface 

" Yours, &c " 



LETTER DLXVIII. 

TO ME. MURRAY. 

"Pi«a,.tuly 8, 18"i. 

*' Last week I returned you the packet of pi oofs. 
You had perhaps better not publish in the same vol- 
ume the Po and Ritnini translation. 

" I have consigned a letter to Mr. John Hunt iot 
the ' Vision of Judgment,' which you will hand over 
to him. Also the ' Pulci,' original and Italian, and 
any prose tracts of mine ; for Mr. Leigh Hunt is 
arrived here, and thinks of commencing a periodi- 
cal work, to which I shall contribute. I do not pro- 
pose to you to be the publisher, because I know 
that you are unfriends ; but all things in your care, 
except the volume now in the press, and the manu- 
script purchased of Mr. Moore, can be given for 
this purpose according as they are Avanted. 

" With regard to what you say about your * want 
of memory,' I can only remark that you inserted 
the note to Marino Faliero against my positive re- 
vocation, and that you omitted the Dedication of 
Sardanapalus to Goethe, (place it before the volume 
now in the press,) both of which were things not 
very agreeable to me, and which I could wish to be 
avoided in future, as they might be with a very 
little care, or a simple memorandum in your pocket- 
book. 

" It is not impossible that I may have three or 
four cantos of Don Juan ready by autumn, or a 
little later, as I obtained a permission from my dic- 
tatress to continue it, — provided always it was to be 
more guarded and decorous and sentimental in the 
continuation than in the commencement. How far 
these conditions have been fulfilled may be seen, 
perhaps, by-and-by ; but the embargo was only 
taken off upon these stipulations. You can answer 
at your leisui-e. ** Yours, Ac." 



LETTER DLXIX. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Hta*. July 19, lOa. 

" I have written to you lately, but not in nrs^er 
to your last letter of about a fortnight as^o. I wish 
to kno\» (and re(|uest an answer to //«f/< ^toint) whi.t 
became of the stanzas to Wellington,* (mtended to 
open a canto of Don Juan with,) which I sent vou 
several months ago ? If they have fallen into Mur- 
ray'H hands, he and the Tories will suppress them, 
as those lines rate that hero at his renl value. Pray 
be explieit on this, as I have no other copy, havinR 
sent you the original ; and if you have them, let nie 
have that a^ain, or a copt/ correi't. • • • 

•• I Hul)Heribed at Leghorn two hundred Tuscan 
crowns to your Irishism o«)inmittoe : it is about a 
thousand francs, more or less. As Sir C. S., who 
receives thirteen thousand a year of the puldio 
money, eonld not afford more than a tlwMis.uid hvet 
out of Ins em)rmou8 salary, it wcuild have uppeaied 
ostentatious in a private individual to pretend to 



(M " Iloaveii oiiJ Kurth." 



Don Jmu, mvio U 



120 



954 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



surpass bim : and therefore I have sent but the 
above sum, as you will see by the enclosed receipt. 

'* Leigh Hunt is here, after a voyage of eight 
moLths, during which he has, I presume, made the 
Periplus of Hanno the Carthaginian, and with 
much the same speed. He is setting up a Journal, 
to which 1 have promised to contribute ; and in the 
first number the ' Vision of Judgment, by Queve- 
do Rodivivus,' will probably appear with other ar- 
ticles. 

" Can you give us anything ? He seems sanguine 
about the matter, but (entre nous) I am not. I do 
not, however, like to put him out of spirits by say- 
ing so ; for he is bilious and unwell. Do, pray, an- 
swer this letter immediately. 

•' Do send Hunt any tiling, in prose or verse, of 
yours, to start him handsomely — any lyrical, meal, 
or what you please. 

*' Has "not your potato committee been blunder- 
ing ? Your advertisement says, that Mr. L. Calla- 
ghan (a queer name for a banker) hath been dispos- 
ing of money in Ireland • sans authority of the com- 
mittee.' I suppose it will end in Callaghan's calling 
out the committee, the chairman of which carries 
pistol's in his pocket, of course. 

" When you can spare time from duetting, co- 
quetting and clareting with your Hibernians of both 
sexes, let me have a line from you. I doubt whether 
Paris is a good place for the composition of your 
new poesy.' 



LETTER DLXX. 



TO MK. MOORE, 



" Pisa, Aug\m 8, 1822'. 

" You will have heard by this time that Shelley 
and another gentleman (Captain Williams) were 
drowned about a month ago, (a month yesterday,) 
in a squall off the Gulf of Spezia. There is thus 
another man gone, about whom the world was ill- 
naturedly, and ignorantly, and brutally mistaken. — 
It will, perhaps, do him justice 7iow, when he can 
be no better for it. ' You were all mistaken about 
Shelley, who was, without exception, the best and 
least selfish man I ever knew.' 

" I have not seen the thing you mention,* and 
only heard of it casually, nor have I any desire. — 
The price is, as I saw in some advertisements, four- 
teen shillings, whijch is too much to pay for a libel 
on one's self. Some one said in a letter, that it was 
a Doctor Watkins, who deals in the life and libel 
line. It must have diminished your natural pleas- 
ure, as a friend, (vide Rochefoucault,) to see your- 
self in it. 

" With regard to the Blackwood fellows, I never 
published any thing against them ; nor, indeed, have 
seen their Magazine (except in Galignani's extracts) 
for these three years past. I once wrote, a good 
while ago, some remarksf on their review of Don 
Juan, but saying very little about themselves, — and 
these were jwt published. If you think that I ought 
to follow your example^ (and I like to be in your 
company when I can) in contradicting their impu 
dence, you may shape this declaration of mine into 
a similar paragraph for me. It is possible that you 
may have r.een the little I did write (and never pub 
Ushed) at Murray's ; it contained much more about 
Southey than about the Blacks. 

•* If you think that I ought to do anything about 
Watkins's book, I should not care much about pub- 
lishing my /^jcmotrnoic, should it be necessary to 
ciunteract the fellow. But in that case, I should 



• A book which had just ap))eared, entitled " Memoin of the Right Hon 
usrd Byron." 

t Bf« I^'tten to the Editors of Blackwood's Magnzitie, page 1910. 

r It baa be«u aasertei'., in a late nu.nber of Blackwood, that both Lord 
•yrsD uid ro^felf were « iflo^ed Id writing satires against that MagazLse. 



like to look over the press myself. Lnt me knom 
what you think, cr whether I had beller not; — a 
least, not the second part, which touches on the 
actual confines of still existing matters. 

•' I have written three more cantos of Don Juan, 
and am hovering on the brink of another, (the 
ninth.) The reason I want the stanzas again which 
I sent you is, that as these cantos contain a full 
detail (like the storm in canto second) of the siege 
and assault of Ismael with much of sarcasm on 
those butchers* in large business, your mercenary 
soldiery, it is a good opportunity of gracing the 
poem Avith * * * * *. "With the3€ 
things and these fellows, it is necessary, in the pres- 
ent clash of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away 
the scabbard. I know it is against fearful odds; 
but the battle must be fought ; and it will be event 
ually for the good of mankind, whatever it may be 
for the individual who risks himself. - 

" What do you think of your Irish bishop ? Do 
you remember S-vvift's Line, ' Let me have a barracJt 

a fig for the clergy.' This seems to have been his 
reverence's motto. ****** 

*' Yoiirs, &c." 



LETTER DLXXI. 

.TO MR. MOORE. 

" Pisa, August 27, 1822. 

* It is boring to trouble you with * such small 
gear ; ' but it must be owned that I should be glad if 
you would inquire whether my Irish subscription 
ever reached the committee in Paris from Leghorn. 
My reasons, like Vellum's, ' are threefold : ' First, I 
doubt the accuracy of all almoners, or remitters of 
benevolent cash : second, I do suspect that the said 
committee having in part served its time to time- 
serving, may have kept back the acknowledgment 
of an obnoxious politician's name in their lists; 
and, third, I feel prettj' sure that I shall one day be 
twitted by the government scribes for having been 
a professor of love for Ireland, and not coming for- 
ward with the others in her distresses. 

" It is not, as you may opine, that I am ambitious 
of having my name in the papers, as I can have 
that any day in the week gratis. All I want is, to 
know if the Reverend Thomas Hall did or did not 
remit my subscription (two hundred scudi of Tus- 
cany, or about a thousand francs, more or less) to 
tne fonmiit..ee at Paris. 

"The other day at Viareggio, I thought proper 
to swim off to my schooner (the Bolivar) in the \ 
offing, and thence to shore again — about three miles, ^ 
or better, in all. As it was at midday, under a broil- ' 
ing sun, the consequence has been a feverish attacit, ; 
and my whole skin's coming off, after going through 
the process of one large continuous ilis ter, raised 
by the sun and sea together. I have sufi"t red much 
pain ; not being able to lie on my back, or even 
side ; for my shoulders and arms were equally St. 
Bartholomewed. But it is over, — and I have got a 
new skin, and am as glossy as a snake in its new 
suit. ' J 

"We have been burning the bodies of Shelley 
and Williams on the sea-shore, to render them fit 
for removal and regular interment. You can have 
no idea what an extraordinary eff'ect such a funeral 
pile has, on a desolate shore, A\-ith mountains in the 
background and the sea before, and the singular 
appearance the salt and frankincense gave to the 
flame. All of Shelley was consumed, except his 
Jieart, which would not take the flame, and is now 
preserved in spirits of AA-ine. 

"Your old acquaintance, Londonderry, has quietly 
died at North Cray ! and the \-irtuous De Witt was 
torn in pieces by the populace ! What a lucky • • 



Alluding to WeUingtob. See Uie beginning of oanto ix. 



LETTERS. 



96d 



A 



• * * the Irishman has been in his life and end.* 
In l-iiru your Irish Franklin est mort ! 

** Leigh Hunt is sweating articles fc his new 
Journal; and both he and I think it somewhat 
shabby in you not to contribute. Will you become 
one of the properrietors ? 'Do, and we go snacks.' 
I recommend you to think twice before you respond 
in the rjegative. 

" I have nearly {quite three) four new cantos ~ii 
Don Juan ready. I obtained permission from the 
female censor morum of my morals to continue it, 
provided it were immaculate; so I have been as 

/'decent as need be. There is a deal of war — a siege, 
*and all that, in the style, graphical and technical, 
of the shipwreck in canto second, which 'took,' as 
they say, in the Row. " Yours, &c. 

" P. S. That * * * Galignani has about ten lies 
in one paragraph. It was not a Bible that was 
found in Shelley's pocket, but John Keats's poems. 

; However, it would hot have been strange, for he 

; was a great admirer of scripture as a composition. 

I / did not send my bust to the academy of New- 
York ; but I sat for my picture to young West, an 

I American artist, at the request of some members of 

\ that academy to him that he would take my portrait, 

\ — for the academy^ I believe. 
'^ " I had, and still have, thoughts of South 
America, but am fluctuating between it and Greece. 
I should have gone, long ago, to one of them, but 
for my liaison with the Countess G'- ; for love, in 
these days, is little compatible with gfory. She 
would be delighted to go too, but I do not choose 
to expose her to a long voyage, and a residence in 
an unsettled country, where I shall probably take a 
part of some sort." 



LETTER DLXXII. 

TO MB. MURRAY. 

"Genoa, October 9, 1828. 

•*1 have received your letter, and as you explain 
it, I have no objection, on your account, to omit 
those passages in the new Mystery, (which were 
marked, in the half-sheet sent the other day to Pisa,) 
or the passage in Cain; — but why not be open, and 
.say so at Jirst? You should be more straight- 
forward on every account. 

"I hav(^ been very unwell — four days confined to 
my bed, in ' the worst inn's worst room,* at Lerici, 
with a violent rheumatic and bilious attack, cousitl- 
pation, and the devil knows what : — no physician, 
except a young fellow, who, however, was kind and 
cautious, and that's enough, 

•* At last I seized Thompson's book of prescrip- 
tions, (a donation of yours,) and physicked myself 
with the first dose 1 found in it ; and after under- 
going the ravages of all kinds of decoctions, sallied 
from bed on the lifth day to cross the (iulf to Sestri. 
The sea revived me instantly ; and I ate the sailors* 
cold hsh, and drank a gallon of country wine, and 
got to Gtuioa the same night after landing at Sestri, 
and have ever sin(!e been keeping well, but thiuuer, 
and with an occasional cough towards evening. 

" I am afraid the Journal ia a had business, and 
won't do ; but in it I am sacrificing myself for others 
— / can have no advantage in it. I "behcve the 
brothers limits U) he honest men; I uni sure that 
they are poor ones : they have not u nnj). Tho^ 

Krcssed me to engage in this work, and in an evil 
our 1 consented. Still 1 shall not repent, if I can 
do them the least service. 1 have done all 1 can for 
Leigh Hunt since he came here; but it is almost 
Qseless : — his wife is HI, his six children n )t vcrv 
tractable, and in the alfairs of this world he himsflf 
w a child. The death of Shelley loft them totally 



Tje purtiulun ul Uib rreul had, U ltevk«iit,D0t7M iMCbiKl bUn.— 



aground; and I ould no*, s' hem in fccch k state 
^thout using the common leelings cf humanity, 
and what means were in my power, to set then: 
afloat again. 

" So Douglas Kinnaird is out of the way } He 
was so the last time I sent him a parcel, and he 
gives no previous notice. When is he expected 
again? " Yours, ice. 

" P. S. "Will you say at once — do you publioh 
Werner ail the Mystery, or not ? You never or.cc 
allude to them. 

"That cursed advertisement of Mr. J. Hunt - 
out of the hmits. I did not lend him my naia-- 
be hawked about in this way. 

****** 

"However, I believe — at least, hope — that a ... 
ail you may be a good fellow at bottom, and it is on 
this presumption that I now write to you on the 
subject of a poor woman of the name of Yossy, who 
is, or was, an author of yours, as she says, and pub- 
lished a book on Switzerland, in 1816, patronized 
by the ' Court and Colonel M'Mahon.' I3ut it seems 
that neither the Court nor the Colonel could get 
over the portentous price of ' three pounds thirteen 
and sixpence,' which alarmed the too susceptible 
public ; and, in short, ' the book died away,' and 
what is worse, the poor soul's husband died too, 
and she WTites with the man a corpse before her ; 
but instead of addressing the bishop or Mr. Wilber- 
force, she hath recourse to that proscribed, atheisti- 
cal, syllogistical, pliilogistical person, myatn, as they 
say in Notts. It is strange enough, but the rascaillc 
English, who calumniate me in every direction and 
on every score, whenever they are in gic;it distress 
recur to me for assistance. If I have had one ex- 
ample of this, I have had letters from a thousand, 
and as far as is in my power have tried to repay good 
for evil, and purchase a shilling's worth of salvation 
as long as my pocket can hold out. 

" Now, 1 am willing to do what I can for this un- 
fortunate person ; but her situation and her wishes 
(not unreasonable, however) require more than can 
be advanced by one individual like myself; for 1 
have many claims of the same kind just at present, 
and also some remnants of ikbt to pay in England- 
God, he knows, the latter how reluctantly ! Can 
the Literary Fund do nothing for her ? By your 
interest, which is great among the pious, I dare say 
that something might be collected. Can you get 
any of her books published ^ Suppose you took hel 
as author in my place, now vacant among yo»r raga- 
muffins : she is a moral and pious person, and will 
shine upon your shelves. But, seriou»ly, dr '\hat 
you can for her." 



LETTER DLXXIli. 



TO MW MiitUAY. 



•'Ofoun, »cnr», Itt^ 

" I have to thank jou icr a i)arcel of bookf, which 
are very wclct)me, cspocially Sir Waltt r's gilt ol 
• Halidon Hill.' You nave sent me u co]>v of * NVtr- 
net,' but without the preface. If you "lia\o pub- 
lished it without, you will have plunged me into a 
very disagreeable dilemma, because 1 shall be ac- 
cused of uJagiarism from Miss Lee's German's 
Tales, whereas 1 have tnlly and freely acknowK-dged 
that the drama is entirely taken from the story. 

" I return you the Qiiarterly iveview, uncut and 
unopeui'd, not from disresn.i-t. or disregard. Of 
pique, bi.t it is a kind of reading which I liavi* some 
time disused, as I think the periodical stylo of 
writing hurtlultothe habits of the mind by piesent- 
ing the suiierlice* of too many things at once. I do 
not know tliat it contains any thing disiign-eable to 
mi — it may or it may not ; nor do l letuni it on ai*- 
count that' there may be an article which \ou hinted 
at iu uue of your lute lottetM. but bucuu^ti I Itaveleft 



956 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



off readmg these kind of works, and should equally 
have returned you any other number. 

"I am obliged to take in one or two abroad, be- 
cause solicited to do so. The Edinburgh came 
before me by mere chance in Galignani's picnic sort 
of gazette, where he had inserted a part of it. 

*' You will have received various letters from me 
lately, in a style which I used with reluctance ; but 
you left me no other choice by your absolute refusal 
to communicate with a man you did not like upon 
the mere simple matter of transfer of a few papers 
of little consequence, (except to their author,) and 
which could be of no moment to yourself. 

" I hope that Mr. Kinnaird is better. It is strange 
that you never alluded to his accident, if it be true 
as stated in the papers. 

"I am yours, &c., &c. 

*'I hope that you have a milder winter than we 
have had here. We have had inundations worthy 
of the Trent or Po, and the conductor (Franklin's) 
of my house was struck (or supposed to be stricken) 
by a thunderbolt. I was so near the window that I 
was dazzled, and my eyes hurt for several minute 
and every body in the house felt an electric shock at 
the moment. Madame Guiccioli was frightened, as 
you may suppose. 

*' I have thought since that your bigots would 
have ' saddled me with a judgment,' (as Thwackum 
did Square when he bit his tongue in talking meta- 
physics,) if any thing had happened of consequence. 
These fellows always forget Christ in their Christ- 
ianity, and what he'said when ' the tower of Siloam 
fell.' 

" To-day is the 9th, and the 10th is my surviving 
daughter's birth-day. I have ordered, as a regale, a 
mutton chop and a bottle of ale. She is seven years 
old, I IJelieve. Did I ever tell you that the day I 
came of age I dined on eggs and bacon and a bottle 
of ale ? For once in a way they are my favorite 
dish and drinkable, but as neither of them agree 
with me, I never use them but on great jubilees — 
once in four or five years or so. 

" I see somebody represents the Hunts and Mrs. 
Shelley as living in my house ; it is a falsehood. 
They reside at some distance, and I do not see them 
twice in a month. I have not met Mr. Hunt a 
dozen times since I came to Genoa, or near it. 

*' Yours ever, &c." 



LETTER DLXXIY. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



«' Genoa, lObre 25o, 1822. 

** I had sent you back the Quarterly without peru- 
sal, having resolved to read no more reviews, good, 
bad, or indifferent ; but ' who can control his fate ?' 
Galignani, to whom my English studies are con- 
fined, has forwarded a copy of at least one-half of 
it in his indefatigable catch-penny weekly compila- 
tion ; and as, ' like honor, it came unlooked for,' I 
have looked through it. I must say that, upon the 
whole, that is, the whole of the Aa/f which I have 
read, (for the other half is to be tlie segment of 
Galignani's next week's circular,) it is extremely 
handsome, and any thing but unkind or unfair. As 
I take the good in good part, I must •not, nor will 
not, quarrel with the bad. What the wTiter says of 
Don Juan is harsh, but it is inevitable. He must 
follow, or at least not directly oppose, the opinion 
of a prevailing and yet not very firmly seated party. 
A review may and will direct and ' turn awry ' the 
currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose 
them. Don Juan will be known, by-and-by, for 
what it is intended, a Satire on abuses of the present 
Biate of society, and not an eulogy of vice.* It 
oaay be now and then vuluptuous : — I can't help 



3ee Doi) J»\3, card 'v., lUuza r., xcviiL, &C. 



that. Ariosto is worse ; Smollett (see Loid Stmt 
well in vol. ii. of Roderick Random) ten timet 
worse ; and Fielding no better. No girl will evei 
be seduced by reading Don Juan : — no, no ; she 
will go to Little's poems and Rousseau's Romans 
for that, or even to the immaculate De Stael. They 
will encourage her, and not the Don, who laughs at 
that, and — and — most other things. But nevel 
mind — ca ira ! 

"Now, do you see what you and your friends do 
by your injudicious rudeness ? — actually cement a 
sort of connexion which you sti-ove to prevent, and 
which, had the Hunts prospered, would not in all 
probability have continued. As it is, I will not quit 
them in their adversity, though it should cost me 
character, fame, money, and the usual et cete^-a. 

" My original motives I already explained, (in the 
letter which you thought proper to show:) they 
are the true ones, and I "abide by them, as I tell you, 
and I told Leigh Hunt when he questioned me on 
the subject of that letter. He was violently hurt, 
and never will forgive me at bottom ; but I can't 
help that. I never meant to make a parade of it: 
but if he chose to question me, I could only answer 
the plain truth ; and I confess I did not see any 
thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he was 
' a hove,'' which I don't remember. Had their Journal 
gone on well, and I could have aided to make it 
better for them, I should then have left them, after 
my safe pilotage off a lee shore, to make a prosper- 
ous voyage by themselves. As it is, I can't, and 
would not if I could, leave them among the breakers. 

" As to any community of feeling, thought, or 
opinion between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little 
or none. We meet rarely, hardly ever ; but I think 
him a good-principled and able man, and must do 
as I would be done by. I do not know what world 
he has lived in, but I have lived in three or four, but 
none of them like his Keats and kangaroo terra 
incognita. Alas ! poor Shelley ! how we would 
have laughed had he lived, and how we used to 
laugh now and then at various things which are 
grave in the suburbs ! 

'You are all mistaken about Shelley. You do 
not know tiow mild, how tolerant, how good he was 
in society ; and as perfect a gentleman as ever 
crossed a drawing-room, when he liked, and where 
liked. 

" I have some thoughts of taking a run do%vn to 
Naples (solus, or, at most, cum sola) this spring, 
and writing, when I have studied the country, a 
fifth and sixth canto of Childe Harold : but this is 
iflerely an idea for the present, and I have other 
excursions and voyages in my mind. The busts* 
are finished : are you worthy of them ? 

"Yours, &c., 
«N. B. 

" P. S. Mrs. Shelley is residing with the Hunts 
at some distance from me. I see them very seldom, 
and generally on account of their business. Mrs. 
Shelley, I believe, will go to England in the spring. 

" Count Gambia's family, the father and mother 
and daughter, are residing with me by Mr. Hill (the 
minister's) recommendation, as a safer asylum from 
the political persecutions, than they could have in 
another residence ; but they occupy one part of a 
large house, and I the other, and our establishments 
are quite separate. 

' Since I have read the Quarterly, I shall erase 
two or three passages in the latter six or seven can- 
tos, in which I had lightly stroked over two or three 
of your authors ; but I will not return evil for good. 
I liked what I read of "he article much. 

' Mr. J. Hunt is most likely the publisher of the 



* Of the bust of himself by Bartollini hejsays, in one of liis letters to Mr 

Murray ; — " The bust does not turn out a good one, — though it may be like 

for aught I know, as it exactly resembles a superunoated Jesuit." Agaiu : 

1 assure you Bartollini's is dieaaful, though iny mind misgives me thai 

is hideously like. If it is, 1 cannot be )ix\g f -r tW j world, for it oTeriooh 



LETTERS. 



967 



neve cantos ; with what prospects of success I know 
not, nor does it very much matter, as far as 1 anj 
concerned ; but I hope it may be of use to him, for 
he is a stiff, sturd) , conscientious man, and I like 
him : he is such a one a Prynne or Pym might be. 
I bear you no ill-will for declining the Don Juans. 

" Have you aided Madame de Yossy, as I re- 
quested ? I sent her three hundred francs. Recom- 
mend her, will you, to the Literary Fund, or to 
«»nrae benevolence within your circles." 



LETTER DLXXV. 



" Albaro, Ncy. 10, 1822. 

" The Chevalier persisted in declaring himself an 
Ui-used gentleman, and describing you as a kind 
of cold 'jalypso, who lead astray people of an ama- 
tory disposition without giving them any sort of 
compensation, contenting yourself, it seems, with 
only making one fool instead of two, which is the 
more approved method of proceeding on such occa- 
eions. For my part, I think you are quite right ; 
and be assured from me that a woman (as society is 
constituted in England), who gives any advantage 
to a man may expect a lover, but will sooner or 
2ater find a tyrant ; and this is not the man's fault 
either, perhaps, but is the necessary and natural 
result of the circumstances of society which, in 
fact, tyrannize over the man equally with the woman, 
that is to say, if either of them have any feeling or 
honor. 

^ " You can write to me at your leisure and inclina- 
^on. I have always laid it down as a maxim, and 
'' found it justified by experience, that a man and a 
woman make far better friendships than can exist 
between two of the same sex ; but these with this 
condition, that they never have made, or are to 
make, love with each other. Lovers may, and, 
indeed, generally are enemies, but they never can 
be friends ; because there must always be a spice 
of jealousy and a something of self in all their 
speculatians. 

** Indeed, I rather look upon love altogether as a 
•ort of hostile transaction, very necessary to make 
or to break matches, and keep the world going, 
t>ut by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned. 

" Now, as my love-perils are, I believe, pretty 
well over, and yours, by all accounts, are never to 
fteg'n, we shall be the best friends imaginable as far 
ts both are concerned, and with this advantage, 
ihat we may both fall to loving right and left 
through all our acquaintance, without either sullen- 
iiess or sorrow from that amiable passion which are 
te inseparable attendants. 

*• Believe me, &c." 



LETTER DLXXVI. 



LETTER DLXXVn. 



TO MR. MOOKE. 



TO MR. I'llOCTOR. 



'PiM, Jan., 1828. 



" Had I been aware of your tragedy when I wrote 
«iy note to ' Marino Faliero,' although it is a mat- 
ter of no consequence to you, I should certainly not 
have omitted to insert your name with tliose of the 
other writers who still do honor to the drama. My 
own notions on the subject altogether are so differ- 
ent from the popular ideas of the day, that we dif- 
fer essentially, as indeed I do from our whole Eng- 
lish literati upon that topic. But I do not contend 
that I am right — I merely say that such is my 
opinion, and as it is a solitary one, i^ can do no 
great harm. But it does not prevent me from doing 
;.}fHtice to tLe powers of those who adopt a different 



" Geuoa, Fdb. 20, IGSS. 

"My Dear Tom, 

" I must again refer you to those two letters ad- 
dressed to you at Passy before I read your speed 
in Galignani, &c., and which you do not seem to 
have received. 

" Of Hunt I see little — once a month or so, and 
then on his own business, generally. You may 
easily suppose that I know too little of Hampstead 
and his satellites to have much communion or com- 
munity with him. My whole present relation to 
him arose from Shelley's unexpected wreck. You 
would not have had me leave him in the street with 
his family, would you ? and as to the other plan j-ou 
mention, you forget how it would huntiliate him— 
that his writings should be supposed to be dead 
weight ! Think a moment — he is perhaps the vain 
est man on earth, at least his own friends say so 
pretty loudly ; and if he were in other circumstances, 
I might be tempted to take him down a peg ; but 
not now, — it would be cruel. It is a cursed busi- 
ness ; but neither the motive nor the means rest 
upon my conscience, and it happens that he and his 
brother have been so far benefitted by the publica- 
tion in a pecuniary point of view. His brother is a 
steady, bold fellow, such as Pri/nne, for example, 
and full of moral, and, I hear, physical courage. 

"And you are really recanting, or softening tc 
th§ clergy ! It will do little good for you — it is you 
not the poem, they are at. They will say they 
frightened you — forbid it, Ireland ! 

"Yours ever, 
"N. B' 



LETTER DLXXVIII 

TO MRS. 1 . 



" I presume that you, at least, know enough o« 
me to be sure that I could have no intention to in- 
sult Hunt's poverty. On the CL*itrary, I honor him 
for it; for I know what it is, havng been as much 
embarrassed as ever he was, without perceiving 
aught in it to diminish an honorable man's self 
respect. If you mean to say that, had he been a 
wealthy man. I would have joined in tnis Journal, 
~ answer in the negative. • * * I engaged in the 
Journal from good-will towards him, added to re- 
spect for his character, literary and personal ; ano 
no less for his political courage, as well as regret for 
his present circumstances : 1 did this in the hope 
that he might, with the same aid from literaiy 
friends of literary contributions, (which is requisite 
for all journals of a mixed nature,) render himsell 
independent. 

« • • • « • 

' I have always treated him, in our personal in- 
tercourse, with such scrupiilous delicacy, that I hare 
forcborne intruding advice, which I thought n:ight 
be disagreeiilde, lest he should impute it t»> what is 
called *tak ng advantage of a lu.in's situation.* 

' As to friendship, it is a propensity in wliich my 
genius is very limited. I do not know the male 
human being," except Lord Clare, the friend of my 
infancy, for whom I feel any thing thit ' tVif 

name. All my others are men-of-tlu J- 

ships. I did not even feci it f«)r Sh. wt 

much I admired and esteemed him ; so tli.it you 
sec not even vanity could bribe me into it, for, of all 
men, Shelley thought highest of my talents, — and, 
perhaps, of my disposition. 

" I will do my duty by mr intimates, apon the 

inciple of doing ns you wiuud be done b> I hare 

lie HO, I trust, in most instanccH. \ may be 

pleased with their convorsatiou — rt^joice in t^*^ 



958 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



euccess — ^be glad to do them a service, or to receive 
their counsel and assistance in return. But, as for 
frienils and friendship, I have (as I already said) 
named the only remaining male for whom I feel any 
thing of the kind, excepting, perhaps, Thomas 
Moore. 1 have had, and may have still, a thousand 
friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's 
partners in the waltz of this world, not much re- 
membered when the ball is over, though very 
pleasant for the time. Habit, business, and com- 
panionship in pleasure or in pain, are links of a 
similar kind, and the same faith in politics is 
another." * * * 



LETTER DLXXIX. 

TO LADY * * * . 

" Genoa, March 28, 1823. 
****** 

** Mr. Hill is here : I dined with him on Saturday 
Defore last ; and on leaving his house at S. P. 
d' Arena, my carriage broke do-\vn. I walked home, 
about three miles, — no very great feat of pedestrian- 
isni ; but either the coming out of hot rooms into a 
bleak wind chilled me, or the walking up-hill to 
Albaro heated me, or something or other set me 
wrong, and next day I had an inflammatory attack 
in the face, to which I have been subject this win- 
ter for the first time, and I suffered a good deal of 
pain, but no peril. My health is now much as 
usual. Mr. Hill is, I believe, occupied with his 
diplomacy. I shall give him your message when I 
see him again.* 

" My name, I see in the papers, has been dragged 
into the unhappy Portsmouth business, of which 
all that I know is vfery succinct. Mr. Hanson is my 
solicitor. I found him so when I was ten years old 
— at my uncle's death — and he was continued in the 
management of my legal business. He asked me, 
by a civil epistle, as an old acquaintance of his 
family, to be present at the marriage of Miss Han- 
son. I went very reluctantly, one misty morning 
(for I had been up at two balls all night), to witness 
the ceremony, which I could not very well refuse 
without affronting a man who had never offended 
me. i saw nothing particular in the marriage. Of 
course I could not know the preliminaries, except 
from what he said, not having been present at the 
wooing, nor after it, for 1 walked home, and they 
went into the country as soon as they had promii^ed 
and vowed. Out of this simple fact I hear the 
Dv.'bats de Paris has quoted Miss H. as ' autrefois 
tres He avec le ceb^bre,' &c., &c. I am obliged to 
iim for the celebrity, but beg leave to decline the 
liaison, which is quite untrue ; my liaison was with 
the father, in the unsentimental shape of long law- 
yers' bills, through the medium of which I have 
had to pay him ten or twelve thousand pounds 
within these few years. She was not pretty, and I 

suspect that the indefatigable Mr. A was (like 

ail her people) more attracted by her title than her 
rharma. I regret very much that I was present at 
the prologue to the happy state of horsewhipping 
and black jobs, &c., &c., but I could not foresee that 
% man was to turn out mad, who had gone about 
the world for fifty years, as competent to vote, and 
walk at large ; nor did he seem to me more insane 
than any other person going to be married. 

"I have no objection to be acquainted with the 
Marquis Palavicmi, if he wishes it. Lately, I have 
gone little into society, English or foreign, fori had 
seen all that was worth seeing in the former before 
I left England, and at the time of life when I was 
more disposed to like it ; and of the latter I hud a 
Bufficiency in the first few years of my residence in 



The fciurl of Porumouth manrfed Miw Hanson. Attempts were made 
ul (hb Mat ill tbi Vjif\iih ctniito to profe him losaae 



Switzerland, chiefly at Madame de Stael's, -where I 
went sometimes, till I grew tired of conversazioa! 
asd carnivals, with their appendages ; and the bom 
is, that if you go once, you are expected to be there 
daily, or rather nightly. I went the round of the 
most noted soirees at Venice or elsewhere (where 1 
remained not any time) to the Benzona, and the 
Albrizzi, and the Michelli, Sec, S:c., and to the car- 
dinals and the various potentates of the Legation 
in Pcomagna (that is Ravenna), and only receded 
for the sake of quiet when I came into Tuscany. 
Besides, if I go into society, I generally get, in the 
long run, into some scrape of some kind or other, 
which don't occur in my solitude. However, I am 
pretty well settled now, by time and temper, which 
is so far lucky as it prevents restlessness ; but, as 1 
said before, as an acquaintance of yours, I will be 
ready and willing to know your friends. He may be 
a sort of connexion for aught I know ; for a Palavi- 
cini, of Bologiia, I believe, married a distant rela- 
tive of mine half a century ago. I happen to know 
the fact, as he and his spouse had an annuity of 
five hundred pounds on my uucie's property, which 
ceased at his demise, though I recnllect hearing they 
attempted, naturally enough, to make it svirvive 
him. If I can do any thing for you here, or else- 
where, pray order, and be obeyed " 



LETTER DLTXX. 



TO MR. WOORE. 



" Genoa, April 2, 1823. 

"I have just seen sowe friends of yours, who. 
paid me a visit yesterday, which, in honor of them 
and of you, I retuimed to-day; — as I reserve my 
bear-skin and teeth, and paws and claws, for our 
enemies. 

" I have also seen Henry Fox, Lord Holland's 
son, whom I had not looked upon since I left him a 
pretty mild boy without a neckcloth, in a jacket, 
and in delicate health, seven long years agone., a1 
the period of mine eclipse — the third, I believe, as 
I have generally one every- two or three years. I 
think that he has the softest and most amiable ex- 
pression of countenance I ever saw, and manners 
correspondent. If to those he can add hereditary 
talents, he will keep the name of Fox in all its 
freshness for half a century more, I hope. I speak 
from a transient glimpse — but I love still to yiel3^ 
to such impressions ; for I have ever found that iN 
those I liked longest and best, I took to at first A 
sight ; and I always liked that boy ; perhaps, in 
part, from some resemblance in the less fortunate 
part of our destinies ; I mean, to avoid mistakes 
his lameness. But there is this difference, that ht 
appears a halting angel, who has tripped against a 
star : while 1 am Le Diable Boiteux, — a soubriquet, 
which, I marvel that, among their various nominus 
lunbrce, the Orthodox have not hit upon. 

" Your other allies, whom I have found very 
agreeable personages, and Milor Blessington and 
"pouse, travelling with a very handsome companion 
in the shape of a 'French Count,' (to use Farquhor'g 
phrase in the» Beaux' Stratagem,) who has all the 
air of a Cupidon d'chaine, and is one of the fe\T 
specimens I have seen of our ideal of a, Frenchman 
before the Revolution — an old friend with a new 
face, upon whose like I never thought that wa 
should look again. Miladi seems highly literary *o 
which, and your honor's acquaintance with tne 
family: ^ attribute the pleasure of having seen them. 
She is also very pretty, even in a morning, — a spe- 
cies of beauty on which the sun of Italy does not 
shine so frequently as the chandelier. Certainly, 
Englishwomen wear better than their continental 
neighbors ofcthe same sex. M * * seems very good- 
natured, but is much tamed, since I recollect him in 
all the glory of gems and snuff-boxes, and uniforms 



I JITTERS. 



«^9 



and fheatricals, and speeches in our house — 'I 
mean, of peers' CI must refer you to Pope — Avhom 
you dnn't read, and won't aopreciate — for that 
quotation, which you must allow to be poetical), 
and sitting to Stroeling, the painter (do you remem- 
ber our visit with Leckie, to the German ?) to be 
depicted as one of the ' heroes of Agincourt,' with 
his long sword, saddle, bridle, whack fal de,' &c., 
&c. 

" I have been unwell — caught a cold and inflam- 
mation, which menaced a conflagration, after 
dining with our ambassado'-, Monsieur Hill, — hot 
owing to the dinner, but my carrias:e broke dowr* 
on the way home, and I had to ^atk some miles. 
np hill partly, after hot rooms, in a very bleak 
windy evening, and over-hotted, or over-colded my- 
self. I ha^e not been so robustious as formerly, 
ever since the last summer, when I fell ill after a 
long swim in the Mediterranean, and nave never 
been quite right up to this present writing. 1 am 
thin, — perhaps thinner than you saw me, when I 
was nearlv transparent, in lol2, — and am obliged 
to be moderate of my mouth, which nevertheless, 
won't prevent me ^the gods willing) from dining 
with your friends the day after to-morrow. 

"They give me a very good account of you, and 
)f your nearly ' Emprisoned Angels.' But why did 
fou change your title ? — you will regret this some 
lay. Tlie bigots are not to be conciliated ; and if 
ihey were, are they worth it ? Isuspect that I am a 
ffliore orthodox Christian than you are ; and, when- 
ever I see a real Christian, either in practice or in 
theory, (for I never yet found the man who could 
produce either, when put to the proof,) I am his 
disciple. But, till then, I cannot truckle to tithe- 
mongers, nor ci-n I imagine what has made you cir- 
'Himcise your Seraphs. 



LETTER DLXXXI. 

TO THE EARL OF BLES8INGT0N. 
jr- " April 5, 1823. 

/* My Dear Lord, 

/ " How is your gout ? or rather, how are you ? I 
' return the Count * *'s Journal, which is a very ex- 
traordinary production,* and of a most melan- 
choly truth in all that regards high life in England. 
1 know, or knew, personally most of the personages 
and societies, which he describes ; and after reading 
his remarks have the sensation fresh upon me as I 
had seen them yesterday. I would, however, plead 
in behalf of some few exceptions, which I will men- 
tion by-and-by. The most singular thing is, how 
he should have penetrated not the fart, but the 
mystvnj of the English eniiui at two-and-twenty. 
I was about the same age when I made the same 
discoveiy, in almost precisely the same circles— (for 
there is' scarcely a person mentioned whom I did 
not see nightly or daily, and was acquainted more 
or less inliinate'ly ■'vith most of thcmj— b>it I never 
coul i have descpbed it bO well. // faut >tre Fran- 
cats to ef ^ct this. 

" But ho ought ako to have been in the country 

liu.ng the hunting season, with 'a select party of 

dislinguisl cd guests,' as the papers term it. He 

ougit to h.ive seen the gentlemen after dinner, (on 

the luntiiig (Uvs,)and the soir< e ensuing thereupon 

I ■— r.nd the women looking as if thev had hunted, 

I or rather been hunted ; and I could have wished 

\thkt lie had l)een at a dinner in town, which 1 recol- 

;lert at Lord C * ♦'s— small, but select, and com- 

popei of the njost amusing people. The dessert 

p-KS hardly on the table, when, out of twelve I 

cci'jiU'il jive asleep i of that five, there were Tur- 



' in nr-Hlwr letter to l.crtl BleMlnKton, hf tayi of thli (r"'l'"»nan, " ha 
«irw to have nil tl J qi aJli^H iwjtiWin to h»»e flf uivl in hb U«ther.U..lnw'i 



ney. Lord * «, — I forge*, the other two, but the, 
were either wits or orators — perhaps poets. 

" My residence in the East and in "Italy has 
made me somewhat indulgent of the siesta — but 
then they set regularly about it in warm countries, 
and perform it in solitude, (or at most in a tete-^ 
tete with a proper companion,) and retire quietly 
to their rooms to get out of the sun's way for an 
hour or two. 

" Altogether, your friend's journal is a ver>- for- 
midable production. Alas ! our dearly-beloved 
countrymen have only discovered that tliej are 
tired, and not that they are tiresome ; and I sus- 
pect that t le communication of the latter unpleas- 
ant verity will not be better received than ti"utha 
usually are. I have read the whole with great at- 
tention and instruction. I am too good a patriot 
to nay pleasure — at least I won't say so, whatever I 
may think. I showed it (I hope no breach of con 
fidence,) to a young Italian lady of rank ir-r in- 
siruit" also ; and fvho passes, or passed, for being 
one of the three most celebrated belles in the dis- 
trict of Italy, where her families and connexions 
resided in less troublesome times as to politics, 
(which is not Genoa, by-the-way,) and she was de- 
lighted with it, and says that she has derived a bet- 
ter notion of English society from it tiian from all 
Madame de Stall's metaphysical disputations on 
the same subject, in her work on the Revolution. I 
beg that you will thank the young philosopher, and 
make my compliments to Lady B. and her sister 
" Believe me your very obliged and faithful 

" N. B. 

" P. S. There is a rumor in letters of some dis- 
turbance or complot in the French Pyrenean army 
— generals suspected or dismissed, and ministers of 
war travelling to see what's the matter. ' Marry, 
(as David says,) this hath an angry favor.' 

" Tell Count * * that some of the names are not 
quite intelligible, aspecially of the clubs ; he speaks 
of Watts — perhaps he is right, but in my time 
Waiters was the Dandy Club, of which (thoiigh no 
dandy) I was a member, at the time too of its 
greatest glory, when Brummell and Mildniay, 
Avanley and Pierrepoint, gave the <Jandy balls; 
and we (the club, that is,) got up the nmous mas- 
querade at Burlington House and Gardi n for Wei 
lington. He does not speak of the Alfred, which 
was the most recherch'^ and most tiresome of any, 
as I know by being a member of that too." 



LETTER DLXXXIl. 

TO THE EARL OF BLES8IN0TOV. 

" April 8, 199. 

" It would be worse than idle, knownir. as T do, 
the utter worthlessness of words on - ' U8, 

in me to attempt to express what 1 el 

and do feel for the loss yni have su-^; p-l 1 

must thus dismiss the subject, for I d.ire not trust 
myself fitrther with it for your sake, or for my own. 
I shall evdeiiror to see you as soon as it may not ap 
pear intrusive. Pray excuse the lenty of my yes 
terday's scrawl — I little th(u>ght under what cii- 
cuinstances it would find you. 

" I have receiyed a verv handsome and flattering 
note from Count • •. He must excuse my appa- 
rent rudeness and real ignorance in replying to it 
in English, through the medium of your kind inter- 
pretation. I would not on any account deprive him 
of a production, of which I really tlimk more thtin 
I havt> even said, tliough ytuj are ixoml enough no| 
to be dissatisfied even with that; but whemvei it ia 
completed, it would give me thi> greatest ple.i-ure to 
have a copi/ — but how to keep it jtecrrt ' htontfj 



960 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Becrets are like other*. By changing the names, or 
at least omitting several, and altering the circum- 
stances indicative of the writer's real station, the 
author would render it a most amusing publication. 
His countrymen have not been treated either in a 
literary or personal point of view with such defer- 
ence in English recent works, as to lay him 
under any very great national obligation of for- 
bearance ; and really the remarks are so true and so 
piquante that I cannot bring myself to wish their 
suppression ; though, as Dangle says, * He is my 
friend,' many of these personages 'were my 
fnends,' but much such friends as Dangle and his 
allies. 

" I return you Dr. Parr's letter — I have met him 
at Payne Knight's and elsewhere, and he did me 
the honor once to be a patron of mine, although a 
great friend of the other branch of the House of 
Atreus, and the Greek teacher (I believe) of my 
moral, Clytemnestra — I say moral, because it is 
true, and so useful to the virtuous, that it enables 
them to do any thing without the aid of an 
.^gisthus. 

" I beg my compliments to Lady B., Miss P., and 
to your Alfred. I think, since his Maiesty of the 
same name, there has not been such a learned sur- 
veyor of our Saxon society. 

" Ever yours most truly, 
"N. B.." 

"April, 9, 1823. 

•♦ My Dear Lord 

" P. S. I salute Miladi, Madamoiselle Mama, and 
the illustrious Chevalier Count * * who, I hope, will 
continue his history of * his own times.' There are 
some strange coincidences between a part of his 
remarks and a certain work of mine, now in MS. 
in England, (I do not mean the hermetically sealed 
Memoirs, but a continuation of certain cantos of a 
certain poem,) especially in what a,-man may do in 
London with impunity where he is ' a la mode;' 
which I think it well to state, that he may not sus- 
pect me of taking advantage of his confidence. 
The observations are very general " 



LETTER DLXXXIIL 



TO THE EARL OF BLESSINGTON. 

" April 14, 1823. 

•♦ 1 am truly sony that I cannot accompany you 
in your ride this morning, owing to a violent pain 
in my face, arising from a wart to which I by medi- 
cal advice applied a caustic. "Whether I put too 
much, I do not know, but the consequence is, not 
only I have been put to some pain but the peccant 
part and its immediate environ are as black as if 
the printer's devil had marked me for an author. — 
As I do not wish to frighten your horses, or their 
riders, I shall postpone waiting upon you until six 
o'clock, when I hope to have subsided into a more 
Christianlike resemblance to my fellow-creatures. 
My infliction has partially extended even to my fin- 
gers for on trying to get the black from off my 
upper lip at least, I have only transfused a portion 
thereof to my right hand, and neither lemon-juice 
nor eau de cologne, nor any other eau, have been 
able as yet to redeem it also from a more inky ap- 
pearance than is either proper or pleasant. But 
* out damn'd spot ' — you may have perceived some- 
thing of the kind yesterday, for on my return, I 
saw that during my visit it had increased, was in- 
creasing, and ought to be diminished ; and I could 
not help laughing at the figure I must have cut 
before you. At any rate, I shall be with you at six, 
^ta the adrantage of twilight. 

" Ever most truly, &c. 



" P. S. I wrote the above at three this morning 
I regret to say that the whole of the skin of abou* 
an inch square above my upj>er lip has come off, so 
that 1 cannot even shave or masticate, and I am 
equally unfit to appear at your table, and to partake 
of its hospitality. Will you therefore pardon me, 
and not mistake this rueful exc\ise for a '■make, 
oelieve,' as you will soon recognise whenever I have 
the pleasure of meeting you again, and I will call 
the moment I am, in the nursery phrase, 'ft to be 
seen.' Tell Lady B. with my compliments, that I 
am rummaging my, papers for a MS. worthy of her 
acceptation. I have just seen the younger Count 
Gamba, and as I cannot prevail on his infiniti mod 
esty to take the field without me, I must tal 5 thic 
piece of diffidence on myself also, and beg yo.v in 
dulgence for both." 



LETTER DLXXXIV. 

TO THE COUNT * *. 

•« April 22, 1823. 

" My dear Count * *, (if you will permit me to 
address you so familiarly,) you should be content 
with writing in your own language, like Gram- 
mont, and succeeding in London as nobody has 
succeeded since the days of Charles the Secc/nd and 
the records of Antonio Hamilton, without deviating 
into our barbarous language, — which you under- 
stand and write, however much better than it de- 
serves. 

" My ' approbation,' as you are pleased to term it, 
was very sincere, but perhaps not very impartial ; 
for though I love my country, I do not love my 
countrymen, at least, such as they now are. And be- 
sides the seduction of talent and wit in your work, 
I fear that to me there was the attraction of ven 
geance. I have seen and felt much of what you 
have described so well. I have known the persons, 
and the reunions so described — (many of them that 
is to say,) — and the portraits are so like that I can 
not bu-t admire the painter no less than his per- 
formance. 

" But I am sorry for you ; for if you are so well 
acquainted with life at your age, what will become 
of you when the illusion is still more dissipated ? 
but never mind — en avant ! — live while you can ; 
and that you may have the full enjoyment of the 
many advantages of youth, talent, and figure, which 
you possess, is the wish of an — Englishman, — 1 
suppose, — but it is no treason ; for my mother was 
Scotch, and my name and my family are both Nor- 
man : and as for myself, 1 am of no country. As 
for my * Works,' which you are pleased to mention, 
let them go to the devil, from whence (if you believe 
many persons) they came. 

" I have the honor to be your obliged, &c., &c." 



LETTER DLXXXV. 

TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSING ION. 

«' May 3, 1823. 

"Dear Lady * *, 

" My request would be for a copy of the miniaturb 
of Lady B., which I have seen in possession of the 
late Lady Noel, as I have no picture, or indeed 
memorial of any kind of Lady B., as all her letters 
were in her own possession before I left England, 
and we have had no correspondence since — at least 
on her part. 

** My message, with regard to the infant, is sim- 
ply to this effect— that in the event of any accident 
occiirring to the mother, and my remaining the 
survivor, it would be my wish to have her plan* 



LETTERS. 



961 



; earned inf. effect, both witz regard to the education 
of the child, and the person or persons under whose 
care Lady B. might be deeirous that she should be 
placed. It is not my intention to interfere with her 
lu any way pn the subject during her life; and I 
presume that it would be some consolation to her to 
know, (if she is ih ill health, as I am given to un- 
derstand,) that in no case would any thing be done, 
as far as I am concerned, but in strict conformity 
with Lady B.'s own wishes and intentions — left in 
what manner she thought proper. 

* Believe me, dear Lady B., your obliged, &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVL 

TO THE COUNTESS OF « * *. 

" Albaro, May 6, 1823. 

• Mr Dear Lady * * *, 

" I send you the letter which I had forgotten, and 
the book,* which I ought to have remembered. It 
contains (the book, I mean) some melancholy 
truths ; though I believe that it is too triste a work 
ever to have been popular. The first time I ever 
read it, (not the edition I send you, — for I got it 
Bince,) was at the desire of Madame de Stafil, who 
was supposed by the good-natured world to be the 
heroine ; — which she was not, however, and was 
furious at the supposition. This occurred in Swit- 
zerland, in the summer of 1816, and the last season 
• in which I ever saw that celebrated person. 

" I have a request to make to my friend Alfred, 
(since he has not' disdained the title,) viz., that he 
would condescend to add a cap to the gentleman in 
the jacket, — it would complete his costume, — and 
smooth his brow, which is somewhat too inveterate 
a likeness of the original, God help me ! 

" I did well to avoid the water-party, — why, is a 
mystery, which is not less to be wondered at than 
all my other mysteries. Tell Milor tnat I am deep 
In his MSS., and will do him justice by a diligent 
perusal. 

'* The letter which I enclose I was prevented from 
Bending, by my despair of its doing any good. I 
was perfectly sincere when I wrote it, and am so 
still. But it is difficult for me to withstand the 
thousand provocations on that subject, which both 
friends and foes have for seven years been throwing 
in the way of a man whose feelings were once 
quick, and whose temper was never patient. But 
'returning were as tedious as go o'er.' I feel this 
as much as ever Macbeth did ; and it is a dreary 
sensation, which at least avenges the real or imagi- 
nary wrongs of one of the two unfortunate persons 
whom it concerns. 

" But I am going to be gloomy ; — so ' to bed, to 
bed.' Good night, — or rather morning. One of 
the reasons why I Avish to avoid society is, that I 
can never sleep after it, and the pleasanter it has 
been, the less 1 rest. 

»' Ever most truly, «S:c., &c." 



LETTER DLXXXVII.t 

TO LADY BYRON. 

[To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London.] 

•• PIm. Not. 17, IMl. 

" I have to acknowledge the receipt of ' Ada's 
hair,' which is very soft and pretty, and nearljr aH 
dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I 
■nay judge from what I recollect of some in Augus- 



• Adolpha, by M. Brn)unla ConMMik 
t KneloMil In UUM iIUebI. 

121 



ta's possessiop taken at that age. But it ion't 
curl, — perhaps from its being let grow. 

" I also thank you for the inscription of the data 
and name, and I will tell you why ; — I believe that 
they are the only two or three words of your hand- 
writing in my possession. For your letters I re- 
turned, and except the two words, or rather the one 
word, ' Household,' written twice in an old accouni- 
book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for 
two reasons : — Istly, it was written in a styiC not 
very agreeable ; and, 2dly, I wished to take yo»u 
word without documents, which are the wordly re 
sources of suspicious people. 

" I suppose that this note will reach von some- 
where about Ada's birthday — the 10th of December, 
I believe. She will then be six, so that in about 
twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting 
her ; — perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to Eng- 
land by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, 
one thing, either in distance or nearness ;-— eve^^ 
day which keeps us asunder should, after so Icng a 
period, rathe? soften our mutual feelings, which 
must always have one rallying-point as long as our 
child exists, which I presume we both hope will be 
long after either of her parents. 

"The time which has elapsed since the separa- 
tion, has been considerably more than the whole 
brief period of our union, and the not much longei 
one of our prior acquaintance. We I oth made a 
bitter mistake ; but now it is over, and irrevocably 
so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and a few 
years less on yours, though it is no verv extended 
period of life, still it is one when the habits and 
thought are generally so formed as to admit o^ no 
modification ; and as we could not agree when 
younger, we should with difficulty do so now. 

" I say all this, because I own to you that, not- 
withstanding every thing, I considered our reunion 
as not impossible for more than a year after the 
separation; — but then I gave up the hope entirely 
and for ever. But this very impossibility of reunion 
seems to me at least a reason why, on all the few 
points of discussion which can arise between us, we 
should preserve the .courtesies of life, and as much 
of its kindness as people who are never to meet may 
preserve, perhaps more easily than nearer connex- 
ions. For my o\vx\ part I arn >4olcnt, but not ma- 
lignant ; for only fresh provocations can awaken my 
resentments. "To you, who are colder and more 
concentrated, I would jus^ hint, that you may some- 
times mistake the depth of a cold anger for oignity, 
and a worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I 
bear you noio (whatever I may have done) no re- 
sentment whatever. Remember, that (/' you haw 
injured me in aught, this forgiveness is 'something » 
and that, if I have injured you, it is something mow 
still, if it be true, as tlie moralists say, that the most 
offending are the least forgiving. 

" Whether the offence has been solely on my side, 
or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to 
reflect upon any but two things, — viz., tha' you ar« 
the mother of my child, and that we shw.l never 
meet again. I flunk if you also consider the two 
corresponding points with reference to myself, it 
will be better for all three. *' Yours over, 

•• NoBL Bthov •• 



LETTER DLXXXVIU. 

TO MR. BLAQUIRRl. 

•• Albuv, Arril I, i«a 

«' Dear Sir, 

•• I shall be delighteu :o tee you and your Ore«iL 
friend ; and the sooner the better. I hare been 
exi><Tting vou for Mome time, — you will find mc at 
honif. I cannot express to you how much I feel 
interested in the cause; and nothing but the hopM 
I •ntertaiucd of wituessing the liberation of Italf 



962 



BYR 



m' 



S WORKS. 



Itself, prevented me long ago from returning to do 
what little I cuuld, as an individual, in that land 
which it is an honor even to have visited. 

•' Ever yours, truly, 

"Noel Byron." 



LETTER DLXXXIX. 



TO MR. BOWRINa, 



"Genoa, May 12, 1823 

" Sir, 

♦'1 have great pleasure in acknowledging your 
letter, and the honor which the committee have 
done me ; — I shall endeavor to deserve their confi- 
dence by every means in my power. My first wish 
is to go up "into the Levant in person, where I 
misrht be enabled to advance, if not the cause, at 
least the means of obtaining information which the 
committee might be desirous of acting upon ; and 
my former residence in the country, my familiarity 
with the Italian language, (which is there univer- 
sally spoken, or at least to the same extent as 
French in the more polished parts of the conti- 
nent,^ and my not total ignorance of the Romaic, 
woula afford me some advantages of experience. 
To this project the only objection is of a domestic 
nature, and I shall try to get over it — if I fail in 
this, I must do what I can where I am ; but it will 
be always a source of regret to me, to think that I 
might perhaps have done more for the cause on the 
spot. 

" Our last information of Captain Blaquiere is 
from Ancona, where he embarked with a fair wind 
for Corfu, on the loth ult. ; he is now probably at 
his destination. My last letter /row him personally 
was dated Rome ; he had been refused a passport 
through the Neapolitan territory, and returned to 
strike up through Romagna for Ancona : little time, 
however, appears to have been lost by the delay. 

'* The principal material Avanted by the Greeks 
appears to be, first, a park of field artillery — light, 
and fit for mountain-service ; secondly, gunpowder ; 
thirdly, hospital or medical stores. The readiest 
mode of transmission is, I hear, by Idra, addressed 
to Mr. Negri, the minister. I meant to send up a 
certain quantity of the t\vo latter — no great deal- 
but enough for an individual to show his good 
wishes for the Greek success ; but am pausing, be- 
cause, is case I should go myself, I can take them 
with me. I do not want to limit my own contribu- 
tion to this merely, but more especially, if I can get 
to Greece myself, I should devote whatever re- 
sources I can muster of my own, to adva.ncing the 
great object. I am in correspondence with Signor 
Nicolas Karrellas, (well known to Mr. Hobhouse,) 
who is now at Pisa ; but his latest advice merely 
stated, that the Greeks are at present employed in 
organizing their internal government, and the de- 
tails of its administration ; this would seem to indi- 
cate security, but the war is however far from being 
terminated. 

" The Turks are an obstinate race, as all former 
wars have proved them, anid will return to the 
charge for vears to come, even if beaten, as it is 
to be hoped they will be. But in no case can the 
labors of the committee be said to be in vain, for in 
the event even of the Greeks being subdued and 
dispersed, the funds which could be employed in 
succoring and gathering together the remnant, so 
as to alleviate in part their distresses, and enable 
them to find or make a country, (as so many emi- 
grants of other nations have been compelled to do,) 
would bless * both those who gave and those who 
took,* as the bounty both of justice and of mercy. 

*' With regard to the formation of a brigade, 
(which Mr. Hobhouse hints at in his short letter 
if this day's receipt, enclosing the one to which I 
4Aye the honor to rtply,) I would presume to sug- 



gest — ^but merely as an opinion, resulting rathei 
from the melancholy experience of the brigades 
embarked in the Columbian service, than from any 
experiment yet fairly tried in Greece — that the 
attention of the committee had better perhaps be 
directed to the employment of officers -oi experi- 
ence than the enrolment of raw British soldiers, 
which latter are apt to be unruly, and not very 
serviceable, in irregular warfare, by the side of for- 
eigners. A small body of good officers especially 
artillery ; an engineer, with a quantity (such as the 
committee might deem requisite) of stores, of the 
nature which Captain Blaquiere indicated aS most 
wanted, would, I should conceive, be a highly use- 
ful accession. Officers, also, who had previously 
served in the Mediterranean, would be preferablCj 
as some knowledge of Italian is nearly indisj^fea- 
sable. 

"It would also be as well that they should be 
aware that they are not going * to rough it on a 
beef- steak and bottle of port,' — but that Greece— • 
never, of late years, very plentifully stocked for a mess 
— is at present the country of all kinds of pi'ivations. 
This remark may seem superfluous ; but I have 
been led to it, by observing that many foreign offi- 
cers, Italians, French, and even Germans, (but 
fewer of the latter,) have returned in disgust, im* 
agining either that they were going up to make a 
party of pleasure, or to enjoy full pay, speedy pro- 
motion, and a very moderate degree of duty. They 
complain, too, of having been ill received by the 
government or inhabitants ; but numbers of these 
complainants were mere adventurers, attracted by 
the hope of command and plunder, and disappointed 
of both. Those Greeks I have seen strenuously 
deny the charge of inhospitality, and declare that 
they shared tlieir pittance to the last crumb with 
their foreign vojunteers. 

"I need not suggest to the committee the very 
great advantage which must accrue to Great Bri- 
tain from the success of the Greeks, and then 
probable commercial relations with England in 
consequence; because I feel persuaded that the first 
object of the committee is their emancipation, 
without any interested views. But the consideration' 
might weigh with the English people in general, 
in their their present passion for every kind ol ., 
speculation, — they need not cross the American/,' 
seas, for one much better worth their while, andl» 
nearer home. The recources, even for an emigrant 
population in the Greek island alone, ai-e rarely to 
be paralleled ; and the cheapness of every kind., of 
not only necessary^ but luxury, (that is to say, 
luxury of nature,) fruits, ^wine, oil, &c.; in a state 
of peace, are far beyond those of the Cape, and 
Van Dieman's Land, and the other places of ref- 
uge, which the English population are searching 
for over the waters. 

" I beg that the Committee will command me in 
any and every way. If I am favored with any 
instructions, I shall endeavor to obey them to the 
letter, whether conformable to my own private 
opinion or not. I beg leave to add, personally, my 
respect for the gentleman whom I have the honor 
of addressing. 

" And am, sir, your obliged, 4c, 

" P. S. The best refutation of Gell will be tlu 
active exertions of the Committee ; — I am too warru 
a controversialist ; and I suspect that if Mr. Hob- 
house have taken him in hand, there will be little 
occasion for me to ' encumber him with help.' If ' 
go up into the country, I will endeavor to transmit 
as accurate and impartial an account as circum- 
stances will permit. 

" I shall write to Mr. Karrellas. I expect intel- 
ligence from Captain Blaquiere, who has promised 
me some early intimation from the seat of the 
Provisional Government. I gave him a letter oj 
introduction to Lord Sidney Osborne, at Corfu ; but 
j as Lord S. is in the government service, of courst? 
his reception could only be a caviiom one." 



LETTERS. 



9o3 



LETTER DXC. 



TO MR. BOWRING. 



Sib, 



•'Genoa, May 21, 18S23. 



** I received yesterday the letter of the Commit- 
tee, dated the 14th of March. What has occasioned 
the delay, I know not. It was forwarded by Mr. Ga- 
lismani, from Paris, who stated that he had only had 
it in his charge four days, and that it was delivered 
to him by a Mr. Grattan. I need hardly say that I 
gladly accede to the proposition «f the Committee, 
and hold myself hij^hly honored by being deemed 
worthy to be a member. I have also to return my 
thanks, particularly to yourself, for the accompany- 
ing letter, which is extremely flattering. 

♦' Since I last WTOte to you, through the medium 
of Mr. Hobhouse, I have received and forwarded a 
letter from Captain Blaquiere to me, from Corfu, 
which will show how he gets on. Yesterday I fell 
in with two young Gemnans, survivors of General 
Normann's band. They arrived at Genoa in a most 
deplorable state — without food — 'without a sou — 
without shoes. The Austrians had sent them out of 
their territory on their landing at Trieste : and they 
had been forced to come down to Florence, and had 
travelled from Leghorn here, with four Tuscan 
livres (about three francs) in their pockets. I have 
given them twenty Genoese scudi, (about a hundred 
and thirty-three "livres, French money,) and new 
»hoes, which will enable them to get to Switzerland, 
where they say that they have friends. All that tliey 
could raise in Genoa, besides, was thirty sous. They 
do not complain of the Greeks, but sny that they 
have suffered more since their landing in Italy. 

" I tried their veracity, firstly, by their pass- 
ports and papers ; secondly, by topography, cross- 
questioning them about Arta, Argos, Athens, 
Missolonghi, Corinth, &c. ; and, thirdly, in Romaic, 
of which I found (one of them at least) knew more 
than I do. One of them (they are both of good 
families) is a fine, handsome young fellow of three- 
and-twenty — a Wirtembergher, and has a look of 
Sandt about him — the other a Bavarian, older, and 
flat-faced, and less ideal, but a great, sturdy, soldier- 
like personage. The Wirtembergher was in the 
action at Arta, where the Philhellenists were cut to 
1 pieces after killing six hundred Turks, they them- 
I selves being only a hundred and fifty in number, 
' opposed to six or seven thousand ; only eight 
' escaped, and of them about three only survived ; so 
that General Normann ' posted his ragamuffins 
where they were well peppercn — not three of the 
Hundred and fifty left alive — and they are for the 
town's end for life.' 

, " These two left Greece by the direction of the 
Greeks. When Churschid Pacha overrun the Morea, 
the Greeks seem to have behaved well, in wishing 
to save their allies, when thoy thought that the 
game was up with themselves. This was in Sep- 
tember last, (1822;) they wandered from island to 
island, and got from Milo to Smyrna, where the 
French consul gave them a passport, and a charita- 
ble captain a passage to Ancona, whence thoy got to 
Trieste, and were turned hack by the Austrians. 
They complain only of the minister, (who has 
always been an indilferent character;) say that the 
Greeks fight well in their own way, but were at 
first a.U-ti't(i to ^re their own cannon— but mended, ,^^ 
with practice. 

" Adolphe (the younger) commanded at Navanno 
for a short time ; the other, a nu)re material p(>rson, 
' the bold Bavarian in a luckless hour,' seems chicHy 



themselves, narticularly tne French with the Ger 
mans, which produced duels. 

'* The Greeks accept muskets, but throw away 
bayonets, and will 7iot be disciplined. When thesp 
lads saw two Piedmontese regiments yesterday 
they said, * Ah, if we had had but these two, w« 
should have cleared the Morea : ' in that case th« 
Piedmontese must have behaved better than they 
did %ainst the Austrians. They seem to lay greal 
stress upon a few regular troops — say that the 
Greeks have arms and powder in plenty, but want 
victuals, hospital stores, and lint and linen, &c., and 
money very much. Altogether, it would be difficult 
to show more practical philosophy than this remnant 
of our * puir hill folk ' have done ; they do not 
seem the least cast do^vn, and their way of present- 
ing themselves was as simple ^nd natural xs cnuld 
be. They said, a Dane here had told them that au 
Englishman, friendly to the Greek cause, was here, 
and that, as they were reduced to beg their way 
home, they thought they might as well begin with 
me. I write in haste to snatch the post. — Believe 
me, and truly, "Your obliged, &c. 

" P. S. I have, since I •<vrote this, seen them 
again. Count P. Gamba asked them to breakfast. 
One of them means to publish his Journal of the 
campaign. The Bavarian wonders a little that the 
Greeks are not quite the same with them of the 
time of Themistocles, (they were not then very 
tractable, by-the-by), and at the difficulty of dis- 
ciplining them; but he is a ' bon hommo' and a 
I'acticia, and a little like Dugald Dalgetty, who 
would insist upon the erection of ' a sconce on the 
hill of Drumsnab,' or whatever it was; the othe* 
seems to wonder at nothing." 



LETTER DXOI. 

TO MR. CHURCH, AMERICAN «ONSTTL AT OEKOA. 
" GeiHM, M&jr, 1821 

" The accounts are so contradictory, as to what 
mode will be best for supplying the Greeks, that I 
have deemed it betcer to take up, (with the excep- 
tion of a few supplies,) what cash and credit I can 
muster, rather than lay them out in articles that 
might be deemed superfluous or unnecessary. Here 
we can learn nothing but from some of the refugees, 
who appear chiefly interested for themsj Ives. M| 
accounts from an agent of the Committee, an Enffr 
lish gentleman lately gone up to (ireece, are hitliert* 
favorable, but he had not yet reached the seat of 
the Provisional Government, and I am anxiousl/ 
expecting further advice. 

" An American has a better right than any othei, 
to suggest to other nati(»ns the tnodo of obtaining 
that liberty which is the glory of his own." 



LETTER DXCIL 



Sir, 



TO M. H. RBTLB, 

Rue de Richelieu, Paris. 

••Oma. Mayn, IML 



" At present, that 1 kninv to whtun I am indebud 
for a flattering menti.m iti the * Knn»e, Niiph-s, iiui 
Florence, in 1817, by Mdus. Stendhal.' it is fit that 



to lament a fast of three days at Argos, and the 1 1 should return my thanks (hmvovor undr>ir««d OT 
loss of twenty-five paras a day' of pay in arrear, and und«'sirable) to Mons. Hevle. with whom 1 had th« 
lorae bauKane at Tripolitza; but takes his wounds, 



lorae naggage at Inp 

and marches, and battles in very good part, lioth 

we very simple, full of naTvete, and quite unpre- 



hoiii>r of being acquainted at Milan in 1816. Yo'j 
1)11 ly did mo too much honor in what yon wore 
pUiised to sny in that work; but it litt^ h »rdh 



/fading : they say the foreigner* quarrelled amougi given me less pleaaure than the i>raiae itself. 



ii64 



BYIlO^"'S WORKS. 



become at length aware (which I h&v3 done byi 
mere accident) that I am indebted for it to one of 
whose good opinion I was really ambitious. So 
many changes have taken place since that period in 
the Milan circle, that I hardly dare recur to it; — 
some dead, some banished, a'nd some in the Austrian 
dungeons. Poor Pellico I I trust that, in his iron 
Bohttide, his Muse, is consoUng him in part — one 
day to delight us again, when both she and her pget 
are restored to freedom. 

''Of your works I hare only seen 'Rome, &c.,' 
the Lives of Haydn and Mozart, and the brochtire 
on Racine and "Shakspeare. The ' Historie de la 
Peinture,' I have not yet the good fortune to pos- 
sess. 

•' There is one part of your observations in the 
pamphlet which I shall venture to remark upon ; it 
regards Walter Scott. You say that ' his character 
\ is little worthy of enthusiasm,' at the same time 
V that you mention his productions in the manner 
they deserve. I have known Walter Scott long 
and well, and in occasional situations which call 
forth the real character — and I can assure you, that 
his character is worthy of admiration ; — that of all 
men he is the most open, the most honorable, the 
most amtahie. With his politics, I have nothing to 
do ; they ditfer from mine, which renders it difficult 
for me to speak of them. But he is perfectly sin- 
■ cere in them ; and sincerity may be humble, but she 
cannot be servile. I pray you, therefore, to correct 
or soften that passage. You may, perhaps, attri- 
bute this officiousness of mine to a false affectation 
' of candor, as I happen to be a writer also. At- 
tribute it to what motive you please, but believe the 
tnith. I sav that Walter Scott is as nearly a 
thorough good man as man can be, because I knoic 
it by experience to be the case. 

" If you do me the honor of an answer, may I 
request a speedv one ? because it is possible (though 
not yet decided.) that circumstances may conduct 
pae once more to Greece. My present address is 
Genoa, where an answer will reach me in a short 
time, or be forwarded to me'wherever I may be. 

" I beg you to believe me, with a lively recollec- 
tion of our brief acquaintance, and the hope of one 
day renewing it, 

" Your ever obliged, 

" And obedient humble servant, 

" NoKL Btkon." 



LETTER DXCin. 

TO LADY ♦ « * *. 

" May IT, 1823. 

' My voyage to Greece will depend upon the 
Greek Committee (in England) partly, and partly 
on the instructions which some persons now in 
Greece on a private mission may be pleased to send 
me. I am a member, lately elected, of the said 
Committee ; and my object in going up would be to 
io any little good in my power ; but as there some 
vrxis and coyis on the subject, with regard to how far 
the irtervention of strangers may be advisable, I 
«now no more than I tell you ; but we shall prob- 
ably hear something soon from England and Greece, 
which may be more decisive. 

" With regard to the late person (Lord London- 
derry) whom you hear that I have attacked, I can 
only say that a bad minister's memory is as much 
an object of investigation as his conduct while 
ilive, — for his measures do not die with him like a 
private individual's notions. He is matter of history ; 
. and, wherever I find a tyr-xnt or a villain, I icill 
/ mark him. I attacked him no more than I had 
^^ tTeen wont to do. As to the Liberal, — it was a 
publication set up for the advantage of a persecuted 
luthor and a very worthy man. But it was foolish 
n me l? engage in it ; and so it haa turned out — for 



I have hurt myself without doir.g much good ic 
those for whose benefit it was intended. 

" Do not defend me — ^it will never do — ^yon wiL 
only make yourself enemies. 

" Mine are neither to be diminished nor softened 
but they may be overthrown ; and there are events 
which may occur less improbable than those which 
have happened in our time, that may reverse the 
present state of things — nous verrons. ' * « 

♦ ♦ » 

" I send you this gossip that you may laugh at 
it, which is all it is good for, if it is even good for 
so much. I shall be delighted to see you again ; 
but it will be melancholy, should it be only for t 
momect- " Ever yours. 



LETTER DXCIY. 

TO THE COr>-TESS OF BLESSIXGTOJf. 

" Albaro, June 2, ISS. 

"My Deah Lady B * ♦, 

" I am superstitious, and have recollected that 
memorials with a point are of less fortunate augury : 
I will, therefore request you to accept, instead ol 
the pin,* the enclosed chain, which is of so slight a 
value that you need not hesitate. As you wished 
for something icom, I can only say, that it has been 
worn oftener and longer than the other. It is ol 
Venetian manufacture ; and the only peculiarity 
about it is, that it could only be obtained at, or 
from, Venice. At Genoa they have none of the 
same kind. I also enclose a ring, wh*ch I would 
^vish Alfred to keep ; it is too large to tcear ; but is 
formed of lava, and so far adapted to the fire of his 
years and character. You will perhaps have the , 
goodness to acknowledge the receipt of this note, / 
and send back the pin, (for good luck's sake,) 
which I shall value much more for having been a 
night in your custody, 

•• Ever and faithfully your obliged, &c. 

" P. S. I hope yovir nerves are well to-day, ani 
will continue to flourish." 



LETTER DXCY. 

TO MB. BOWRING. 

"JwlyT, ia». 

"We sail on the 12th for Greece. — I have had a 
letter from Mr. Blaquiere, too long for present 
transcription, but very satisfactory. The Greek 
government expects me without delay. 

" In conformity to the desires of Mr. B. and other 
correspondents in Greece, I have to suggest, with aU 
deference to the committee, that a remittance ol 
even ' ten tJunisand pounds only' (Mr. B.'s expres- 
sion) would be of the greatest service to the Greek 
Government at present. I have also to recommend 
strongly the attempt of a loan, for which there will 
be offered a suflScient security by deputies now on 
their way to England. In the mean time, I hope 
that the'committee will be Enabled to do something 
effectual. 

," For my own part, I mean to carry up, in cash 
or credits, above eight, and nearly nine thousand 

founds sterling, which I am enabled to do by funds 
have in Italy, and credits in England. Of this 
sum I must necessarily reserve a portion for ths 
subsistence of myself and suite ; the rest I am wil- 
ling to apply in the manner which seems most likely 
to be useful to the cause — having, of course, some 



* He had previouilj 
cuDeo of Nauuieeo. 



LETTERS. 



96 



i 



ruarantce or assurance, that it will not be misap- 
plied to any individual speculation. 

If I remain in Greece, which will mainly depend 
opon the presumed probable utility of my presence 
there, and of the opinion of the Greeks themselves 
as to its propriety — in short, if I am welcome to 
.hem, I shall continue, durinoc my residence at least, 
.o apply such portions of my income, present and 
mture, as may forward the object — that is to say, 
what I can spare for that purpose. Privations I can, 
or at least could once, bear — abstinence I am accus- 
^tomed to — and, as to fatigue, I was once a tolerable 
//traveller. What I may be now, I cannot tell — but I 
will try. 

" I await the commands of the committee. — 
Address to Genoa — the letters will be forwarded to 
mo, wherever I may be, by my bankers, Messrs. 
Webb and and Barry. It would have given me 
pleasure to have had some more defined instructions 
before I went, but these, of .course, rest at the 
option of the committee. 

*' I have the honor to be 

" Your obedient, &c, 

•*P. S. Great anxiety is expressed for a printing 
press and types, &;c. I have not the time to provide 
them, but recommend this to the notice of the 
3oramittee. I presume the types must, partly at 
least, be Greek : they wish to publish papers, and 
perhaps a journal, probably in Romaic with Italian 
tranalationa." 



LETTER DXCVL 



TO GOETHE. 

" Leghorn, July 24, ItBi. 

Illustrious Sir, 

" I cannot thank you as you ought to be thanked 
foi the lines which mv young friend, Mr. Sterling, 
•ent me of 3'ours ; and it would but ill become me 
to pretend to exchange verses with him who, for 
fifty years, has been the undisputed sovereign of 
European literature You must therefore accept 
my most sincere acknowledgements in prose — and in 
hasty prose too ; for I am at present on my voyage 
to Greece once more, and surrounded by hurry and 
bustle, which hardly allow a moment even to grati- 
tude and admiration to express themselves, 

" I sailed from Genoa some days ago, and was 
driven back by a gale of wind, and have since sailed 
again and arrived here, ' Leghorn,' this morning, to 
receive on board some Greek passengers for their 
strugL'ling country. 

" Heic also I found your lines and Mr. Sterling's 
letter, and 1 could not have had a more favorable 
omen, a more agreeable surprise, than a word of 
Goethe written by his own hand. 

" I am returning to Greece, to see if I can be 
of any little use there : if ever I come hack, I will 
pay a visit to Weimar, to offer the sincere homage 
of one of the many millions of your admirers. 1 
Lave the bonor to be, ever and most, 

•* Your obliged, 

"Noel Byron." 



NOTES TO THE C0UNTEH8 OUICCIOLI. 

<• Oeloinr T. 

*' Pietro has told you all the j^ossip of the iHhind, 
-<'ir earth(iuakcH, our politics, and pre>*pnt ab<ide 
n a pretty village. Ah liis opinions and niiiir on 
the (irei'ks are nearly similar, I ni-ed say little on 
that subject. I was a fool to cotne here; but, being 
Here, I inubt see what is to be done." 



and division in the reports of the s'nte of irit Gieeks 
I shall fulfil the object of my mission from the com- 
mittee, and then return into Italy. For it does no; 
seem likely that, as an individual, I can be of us« 
to them ; — at least no other foreigner has yet ap- 
peared to be so, nor does it seem likely that any will 
be at present. 

" Pray be as cheerful and tranquil as you can; 
and be assured tnat there is nothing here that can 
excite any thing but a wish to be with you again,— 
though we are very kindly treated by the English 
here of all descriptions. Of the Greeks, I can't 
say muci good' hitherto, and I do not like to speak 
ill of them, though they do of one another." 

" Octobn- 19. 

" You may be sure that the moment I can join 
you again will be as welcome to me as at any period 
of our recollection. There is nothing very' attrac- 
tive here to divide my attention ; but I must attend 
to the Greek cause, both from honor and inclina- 
tion. Messrs. B. and T. are both in the Morea, 
where they have been verj- well received, and both 
of them write in good spirits and hopes. I am anx- 
ious to hear how the Spanish cause will be arranged, 
as I think it may have an influence on the Greek 
contest. I wish that both were fairly and favorably 
settled, that I might return to Italy, and talk over 
with you our, or rather Pietro's, adventuix's, some ol 
which are rather amusing, as also some of the m 
cidents of our voyages and travels. But I reserve 
them, in the hope that we may laugh over their, 
together at no very distant period." 



LETTER DXCVIl 

TO MR. BOWRINO. 

"This letter will be presented to )ou by Mr. 
Hamilton Browne, who precedes or accouipanies 
the Greek deputies. He is both capable and desi 
rous of rendering any service to the cause, and in- 
formation to the committee. He has already been 
of considerable advantage to both, of my own 
knowledge. Lord Archibald Hamilton, to whom he 
is related, will add a weightier recommendation than 
mine. 

" Corinth is taken, and a Turkish squadron said 
to be beaten in the Archipelago. The public pri>- 
gress of the Greeks is considerable, but their inter- 
nal dissentions .still continue. On arriving at tlie 
seat of Government, I shall endeavor to mitig.ile or 
extinguish them — though neither is an easy t.isk. 
I have remaiiud here till now, partly in expectation 
of the s(juadron in relief of Mis>olonghi, partlv ii| 
Mr. Parry's. detachment, and partly to recei\e from 
Malta or'Zaiite tlie sum of four thouHund pounds 
sterling, which I have advanced f ' "I 

the expected squadron. The bill 
and will lie casheii in a short tim i 

have been inimediatelv in aiiv other i.i.irl , la.l tltu 
miserable Ionian merchants have little money, Oiid 
no great credit, and are besides, tKtliticxillt/ shy on 
this occasion ; for, although 1 had letters ol'Mo^r^ 
Webb, (one of the strongest ht)us«'s i»f thf MMlit.t 
rancaii,) and nUo of Messrs. H • 
liusincss to be done «in /rii'r ten > 

l-'.nu'lish inerchantK. These, \\o\\< >1 

both altle and willing, — and upright, itr> Ui^tial. 

*' Colonel Stanhopf has arrived, ami will proceed 

imini'di.itely ; he hIiuII have my - • • •" "M 

his cntlcavors ; b>it from every ■ u 

Irani, ih'- t'nnmtion of a bri-r ■ ■ 'I 

,■.■', -h 

M 



"Wo are still in Cephalonia, waiting for newii of I Mavroeurdato ■ recent letter, « enp> ol which is en 
more accurate description ; for rI. is contrudiotion I cloned in my packet sent to the deputies. 



It '« n»> 



B66 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Inter. tie tt to proceed by sea to Napoli di Romania 
as soon as I have arranged this business for the 
Greeks themselves — I mean tlie advance of two 
hundred thousand piastres for their fleet. 

" My time here has not been entirely lost, — as you 
will peri-eive by some former documents that any 
advanta^^e from my then proceeding to the.Morea 
n'as doubtful. We have at last moved the deputies, 
and I have made a strong remonstrance on their di- 
visions to Mavrocordato, which, I understand, v>'as 
forwarded by the legislative to the Prince With a 
loan they may do much, which i^ all that /, for 
particular reasons, can say on the subject. 

" I regret to hear from Colonel Stanhope that the 
committee have exhausted their funds. Is it sup- 
posed that a brigadr can be formed without them ? 
cs that three thousand pounds would be sufficient ? 
It is true that money will go farther in Greece than 
in most countries ; but the regular force must be 
rendered a nationa' concern, and paid from a nation- 
al fund ; and neither individuals nor committees, at 
least with the usual means of such as now exist, 
will find the experiment practicable. 

" I beg once more to recommend my friend, Mr. 
Hamilton Browne, to whom I have also personal 
sbligations for his exertions in the common cause, 
and h£ ^t the honor to be 

♦' Yours very truly." 



LETTER DXCVIII. 

TO THE GENERAL GOVERNMENT OP GREECE. 
" ('ephaloiiia, November 30, 1823. 

" The afla-r of the loan, the expectation so long 
and vainly indulged of tlie arrival of the Greek fleet, 
and the danger to which Missolonghi is still exposed, 
have detained me here, and will still detain me till 
some of them are removed. But when the money 
sh;.ll be advanced for the fleet, I will start for the 
Morea, not knowing, however, of what use my pres- 
ence can be in the present state of things. We 
have heard some rumors of new dissensions, nay, 
of the existence of a civil war. With all my heart, 
I pray that these reports may be false or exag- 
gerated ; for I can imagine no calamity more serious 
than this ; and I must frankly confess, that unless 
union and order are established, all hopes of a loan 
will be in vain ; and all the assistance which the 
Greeks could expect from abroad — an assistance 
neither trifling nor worthless — will be suspended or 
destroyed ; and, what is worse, the great powers of 
fjurope, of whom no one was an enemy to Greece, 
but seemed to favor her establishment of an inde- 
pendent power, will be persuaded that the Greeks 
are unable to govern themselves, and will, perhaps, 
thcjuselves undertake to settle your disorders in 
such a way as to blast the brightest hopes of your- 
selves and of your friends. 

" Allow me to add, once for all, — I desire the 
well-being of Greece, "and nothing else; I will do 
8.11 I can to secure it ; but I cannot consent, I never 
will consent, that the English public, or English 
individuals, should be deceived as to the real state 
of Greek affairs. The rest, gentlemen, depends on 
you. You have fought gloriously ; — act honorably 
towards yaur fellow-citizens and the world, and it 
will then no more be said, as has been repeated for 
two thousand years with the Roman historians that 
Philopocmen was the last of the Grecians. Let not 
calumny itself (and it is difficult, I own, to guard 
ftgainst it in so arduous a struggle) compare the 
patriot Greek, when resting from his labors, to the 
Turkish pacha, whom his victories have extermi- 
nated. 

" I pray you to accept these my sentiments as a 
sincere proof of my attachment to your real inter- 
ests, and to believe that I am, and always shall be, 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER DXCIX. 

TO PRINCE MAVROCORDATO. 

" Cephalonia, 2. I M, > BA. 

" Prince, 

•' The present will be put into your hands by Coi 
Stanhope, son of Major-General the Earl of Har 
rington, &c., &c. He has arrived from London iw 
fifty days, after having visited all the committees o\ 
Germany. He is charged by our committee to act 
in concert with me for the liberation of Greece. I 
conceive that his name and his mission will be a 
sufficient recommendation, without the necessity q\ 
any other from a foreigner, although one who, in 
common with all Europe, respects and admires the 
courage, the talents, and above all, the probity oi 
Prince Mavrocordato. 

" I am very uneasy at hearing that the dissensicns 
of Greece still continue, and at a moment when she 
might triumph over every thing in general, as she 
has already triumphed in part. Greece is, at pres- 
ent, placed between three measures : either to re- 
conquer her liberty, to become a dependence of the 
sovereigns of Europe, or to return to a Turkish 
province. She has the choice only of these three 
alternatives. Civil war is but a road which leads to 
the two latter. If she is desirous of the fate of 
Walachia and the Crimea, she may obtain it to- 
monow ; if of that of Italy, the day after ; but if 
she wishes to become truly Greece, free and inde- 
pendent, she must resolve to-day, or she will never 
again have the opportunity . 

" I am, with all respect, 
" Your Highnesses's obedient servant, 
''N. B. 

<' P. S. Your Highness will already have known 
that I have sought to fulfil the -wishes of the Greek 
Government, as mucn as it lay in my power to do 
so ; but I should wish that the fleet so long and so 
vainly expected were arrived, or, at least, that it 
were on the way; and especially that your High- 
ness should approach these parts either on board 
the fleet, with a public mission, or in some other 
manner." 



LETTER DC. 

TO MR. BOWRING. 

<' lObre 7, 1823. 

*' 1 confirm the above ;* it is certainly my opinion 
that Mr. Millingen is entitled to the same salary 
with Mr. Tindall, and his service is likely to be 
harder. 

" I have written to you (as to Mr. Hobhuse fol 
your perusal) by various opportunities, mostly pri 
vate ; also by the deputies, and by Mr. Hamiltoi 
Browne. 

" The public success of the Greeks has been con- 
siderable ; Corinth taken, Missolonghi nearly safe, 
and some ships in the Archipelago taken fror the 
Turks; but there is not only dissension i; tie 
Morea, but civil war, by the latest accountt: to 



• He here alludes » a letter, forwarded with his own, from Mr. MUI>iigea, 
who was about to joiu, in his medical capacity, tlie Suliotos, near Patras, and 
reqLBsled of the committee an incre>ise of pay. This geiit'/imao laving' 
mtntioned in his letter " that the retreat of the Turks from befcri MissO' 
longhi had rendered unnecessary the appearance of the Greek fleet," Ocrd 
Byrtn, in a note on this passage, says, "By the special providence of th« 
Deity, the Mussulmans were sei/^l with a panic, and Hcd ; but no thanks ta 
the fleet, which ought to have been here months ago, and has no excuse la 
the contrary, lately— at least, since 1 have had the money ready to pay." 

On another passage, in which Mr. Millingen complains that his hope ol 
any remuneration from the Greeks has " turni^d out perfectly chimerical," 
Lord Byron remarks, in a note, "andtriW do so, till they obtain a loan. 
They have not a rap, nor credit (in the islands) to raise one. A medical ma« 
may succeed better tlian others ; but all these pennil.ss officers had bettei 
have staid at home. Much money may not be required, but some must." 

t The Legislative and Executive boilies having been for some time at »af< 
ance, the latter had at length resorted to violeoce, and.iome ftlcirmiihaa ha 
already taken place beiween the factions. 



LETTERS. 



967 



what extect we do not yet know, but hope 

trifling 

•'For six weeks [ have been expecting the fleet, 
which has not arrived, though I have, at the re- 
quest of the Greek Government, advanced — that is, 
prepared, and have in hand, two hundred thousand 
piastres (deducting the commission and bankers' 
charges), of my own moneys to forward their pro- 
jects. The Suliotes (now in Acarnania) are very 
anxious that I should take them under my direc- 
tions, and go over and put things to rights in the 
Morea, which, without a force, seems impracticable ; 
And really, though very reluctant (as my letters will 
have shown you) to take such a measure, there 
seems hardly any milder remedy. However, I will 
aot do any thing rashly ; and have only continued 
here so long in the hope of seeing things reconciled, 
and have done all in my power thereto. Had I gone 
sooner, they would have jorced me into one ■party or 
other, and I doubt as much now ; but we will do our 
best. *' Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCI. 



TO MR. BOWRIN&. 



' October 10, 1823. 



** Colonel Napier will present to you this letter. 
Of his military character it were superfluous to 
speak ; of his personal, I can say, from my own 
knowledge, as jvell as from all public rumor or pri- 
vate report, that it is as excellent as his military ; 
in short, a better or a braver man is not easily to be 
found. He is our man to lead a regular force, or to 
organize a national one for the Greeks. Ask the 
army — ask any one. He is besides a personal friend 
of both Prince Mavrocordato, Colonel Stanhope, 
and myself, and in such concord Avith all three that 
we should all put together — an indispensable, as well 
as a rare point, especially in Greece at present. 

*' To enable a regular force to be properly organ- 
ized, it will be requisite for the loan-holders to set 
apart at least 50,000/. sterling for that particular 
purpose — perhaps more — but by so doing they will 
guaranty their own moneys, ' and make assurance 
doubly sure.' They can appoint commissioners to 
see that part properly expended— and I recommend 
a similar precaution for the whole. 

" I hope that the deputies have arrived, as well as 
some of my various despatches (chiefly addressed 
to Mr. Hobhouse) for the committee. Colonel 
Napier will tell you the recent special interposition 
of the gods in behalf of the Greeks— who seem to 
have no enemies in heaven or on earth to be dreaded, 
but their own tendency to discord among them- 
Belves. But these, too, it is to be hoped, will be 
mitigated, and then we can take the fleld on the 
offensive, instead of being reduced to the petite 
fuerre of defending the same fortresses year after 
year, and taking a few ships, and starving out a 
castle, and making more fuss about them than 
Alexander in his cups, or Bonaparte in a bulletin. 
Onr friends have done something in the way of the 
8[portam— (though not one-tenth of what is told)— 
D'it have not yet inheritod their style. 

" Believe me yours, &c." 



LETTER DCII. 
TO MH, nowniNO. 

'• Octolwr 13, Iffa, 

«* Since T wrote to you on the lOth instant, thf 
long -desired squadron bus arrived in the wute-s of 
Missoloni^hi and intercepted two Turkish corvette 



— and an unarmed vessel, with passengers, chase4 
into a port on the opposite side of Cephalonia, 
The Greeks had fourteen sail, the Turks four — but 
the odds don't matter — the victory will make a vert 
good puff, and be of some advantage besides. \ 
expect momentarily advices from Prince Mavrocor 
date, who is on board, and has (I understand) des- 
patches from the Legislative for me ; in conse- 
quence of which, after paying the squadron, (fol 
which I have prepared, and am preparing,) I shall 
probably join him at sea or on shore. 

" I add the above communication to my letter by 
Col. Napier, who will inform the committee of eveiy 
thing in detail much betier than I can do. 

' The mathematical, medical, and musical prepa- 
rations of the committee have arrived, and in good 
condition, abating some damage from wet, and soms 
ditto from a portion of the letter-press being spilt 
in landing — (I ought not to have omitted the press 
— but forgot it a moment — excuse the same) — they 
are excellent of theii- kind, but till we huve an en- 
gineer and a trumpeter (we have chirurgeons al- 
ready) mere ' pearls to swine,' ass tL*^ Greeks are 
quite ignorant of mathematics, and have a bad ear 
for our music. The maps, &c., I will put into use 
for them, and take care that all (with proper cau 
tion) are turned to the intended uses of the com- 
mittee — but I refer you to Colonel Napier, who «-ill 
tell you, that much of your really valuable supplier 
should be removed till proper persons arrive to 
adapt them to actual service. 

" Believe me, ray dear sir, to be, 8zc. 

* P. S. Private. — I have written to our friend 
Douglas Kinnaird on my own matters, deii.-cg L.m 
to send me out all the further credits I can com 
inand, — and I have a year's income and the sale of 
a manor besides, he tells me, before me, — for till the 
Greeks get their loan, it is probable that I shiill 
have to stand partly paymaster — as far as I am 'good 
upon Change,' that is to say. I pray you to repeat 
as much to hi/n, and say that I must in the interim 
draw on Messrs. Ransom most fonnidaljly. To say 
the truth, I do not grudge it, now the fellows have 
begun to fight again — and still more welcome shall 
they be if they will go on. But they have had. or 
are to have, some four thousand pounds (besides 
some private extraoidinaries for widows, orpliaus, 
refugees, and rascals of all descriptions) of mine a» 
one ' swoop ; ' and it is to be expected the next will 
be at least as much more. And how can I refuse it 
if they will fight ? — and especially if I should hap- 
pen ever to be in their company ? I therefore re- 
quest and require that you should apprize my trusty 
and trustworthy trustee and banker, and crown and 
sheet anchor, Douglas Kinnaird the Hoiioralde, 
that he prepare all moneys of mine, including the 
purchase-m^ney of Rochdale manor and mine in 
come for tlie year ensuing. A. 1). 1824, to aiiswej- 
or anticipate, any orders or drafts of mine for tht 
good cause, in good and lawful money of Ureal 
Britain, ^e., Xc. Mnv you live a thousand yt-Ar-s ! 
which is nine hundred and niuety-niuo longer taaa 
the Spanish Cortes Constitution.' 



LETTER DCIII. 

TO THE HONO&ABLB Mtt. DOUOLAS KINMAIUD 
•^LVphKloiiU. IVe, «, ita. 

'• I shall be as saving of my purse and person aa 
von recommend, but you know tUat it is u« well to 
be in rea(iines8 with one or both, in the event ol 
either being reqiiired. 

" I ])resuinp that some nijrecjnent has been con 
eluded with Mr. Murray about • Wenu'r.' Althounl 
• he eopvright should only be worth two or ihre« 



—ditto transports— destroying or taking all four— .hundred pimnds, I will tell you what can bo doiH 
CKcept 8)mo of tho crews escaped on shore in Ithaca Uvith them. For three nundrt^J pv»unas 1 cau m*iU 



968 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tain in Greece, at more than the fullest pay of the ; 
Provisional Government, rations included, one 
hundred armed men for three months. You may 
judge of this when I tell you, that the four thousand 
pounds advanced by me to the Greeks is likely to 
Bet a tieet and an army in motion for some months. 

" A Greek vessel has arrived from the squadron 
to convey me to Missolonghi, wh(»re Mavrocordato 
now is, and has assumed the command, so that I 
sxpect to embark immediately. Still address, how- 
ever, to Cephalonia, through Messrs. Welch and 
Barry of Genoa, as usual ; and get together all the 
means and credit of mine you can, to face the war 
establishment, for it is * in for a penny, in for a 
found,' and I muat do all that I can for the ancients. 

" I have been laboring to reconcile these parties, 
and there is now some hope of succeeding. Their 
public affairs go on well. The Turks have retreated 
from Acarnania without a battle, after a few fruit- 
less attempts on Anatoliko. Corinth is taken, and 
the Greeks have 'gained a battle in the Archipelago. 
The squadron here, too, has taken a Turkish cor- 
vette, with some money and a cargo. In short, if 
they can obtain a loan, I am of opinion that matters 
will assume and preserve a steady and favorable 
aspect for their independence. 

" In the mean time I stand paymaster, and what 
not ; and lucky it is that, from the nature of the 
warfare and of the country, the resources even of 
an individual can be of a partial and temporary ser- 
vice. 

'• Colonel Stanhope is at Missolonghi. Probably 
we shall attempt Patras next. The Suliotes, who 
are friends of mine, seem anxious to have me with 
them, and so is Mavrocordato. If I can but suc- 
ceed in reconciling the two parties (and I have left 
no stone unturned) it will be something ; and if 
not, we must go over to the Morea with the western 
Greeks — who are the bravest, and at present the 
strongest, having beaten back the Turks — and try 
the effect of a little physical advice, should they 
persist in rejecting moral persuasion. 

" Once more recommending to you the reinforce- 
ment of my strong-box and credit from all lawful 
sources and resources of mine to their practicable 
extent — for, after all, it is better playing at nations 
than gaming at Alraack's or Newmarket — and re- 
guesting you to write to me as often as you can, 
" I remain ever, &c." 



LETTER DCIV. 

TO MR. BOWRING. 

" yjbre 26, 1823, 

''Little need be added to the enclosed, which 
arrived this day, except that I embark to-morrow 
for Missolonghi. The intended operations are de- 
tailed in the annexed documents. I have only to 
rc'juest that the committee will use every exertion 
to forward our views by all its influence and credit. 

" I have also to request you personally from my- 
aeif to urge my friend and trustee, Douglas Kin- 
naird, (from whom I have not heard these four 
noonths nearly,) to forward to me all the resources 
»f my own we can muster for the ensuing year, 
gince it is no time to menager purse, or, perhaps, 
ps7'son. I have advanced, and am advancing, all 
that I have in hand, but I shall require all that can | 
be got together — and, (if Douglas has completed! 
the sale of Rochdale, t/iat and my year's income for j 
next year ought to form a good round sum) — as you 
may perceive that there .will be little cash of their' 
own among the Greeks, (unless they get the loan,) 
ft is the more necessary that those of their friends 
who have any should risk it. 

" The supplies of the committee are, some useful, 
and all excellent in their kind, but occasionally, 
hardly practical enough, in the present state of' 



Greece ; for instance, the mathematical instruiuenti 
are thrown away — none of the Greeks know a pro- 
blem from a poker — we must conquer first, and^ plan 
afterward. The use of the trumpets, too, may be 
doubted, unless Constantinople were Jericho, foi 
the Hellenists have no ears for bugles, and jOv. 
must send us somebody to listen to them. 

" We will do our best — and I pray you to stir 
your English hearts at home to more general exer- 
tion ; for my part, I will stick by the cause while a 
plank remains which c^n be honorably clung to. H 
I quit it, it will be by the Greeks' conduct, and not 
the Holy Allies or the holier Mussulmans — but let 
us hope better things. "Ever yours, 

"N.B. 

" P. S. I am happy to say that Colonel Leicester 
Stanhope and myself are acting in perfect harmony 
togethei- — he is likely to be of great service both to 
the cause and to the committee, and is publicly as 
well as personally a very valuable acquisition to our 
party on every account. He came up (as they all 
do who have not been in the country before) with 
some high-flown notions of the sixth form at Har- 
row or Eaton, &c. ; but Col. Napier and I set him 
to rights on those points, which is absolutely neces- 
sary to prevent disgust, or perhaps return ; but now 
we can set our shoulders soberly to the wheel, with 
out quarrelling with the mud which may clog it oc- 
casionally. 

" I can assure you that Col. Napier and myself 
are as decided for* the cause as any German student 
of them all ; but like men who have seen the coun- 
try and human life, there and elsewhere, we must 
be permitted to view it in its truth, with its defects 
as well as beauties, — more especially as success will 
remove the former gradually. 

"N. B. 

"P. S. As much of this letter as you please is 
for the committee, the rest may be ' entre nous.' " 



LETTER DCV. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

" Cephalonia, Doc 27, tSl^ 

** I received a letter from you some time ago. 1 
have been too much employed latterly to write as 1 
could wish, and even now must write in haste. 

" I embark for Missolonghi to join Mavrocordato 
in four-and-twenty hours'! The state of parties 
(but it were along story) has kept me here till now , 
but now that Mavrocordato (their Washington or 
their Kosciusko) is employed again, I can act with 
a safe conscience. I carry money to pay the squad- 
ronj &c., and I have influence with the Suliotes, 
sujyposed sufficient to keep them in harmony with 
some of the dissentients ; — for there are plenty oi 
differences, but trifling. 

"It is imagined that we shall attempt eithei 
Patras or the castles on the Straits ; and it seems, 
by most accounts, that the Greeks, — at any rate, 
the Suliotes, who are in affinity with roe of ' bread 
and salt,' — expect that I should^ march with them, 
and — be it even so ! If any tiling in the ^vay of 
fever, fatigue, famine, or otherwise, should cut short 
the middle age of a brother warbler, — like Garcilasso 
de la Vega, "Kleist, Korner, Kutoffski, (a Russian 
nightingale — see Bowring's Antiiology,) or Thersan* 
der, or, — or, — somebody else — but never mind — I 
pray you to remember me in your * smiles and 
wine.' 

" I have hopes that the cause will triumph; but 
whether it does or no.Rtill 'Honor must le mindej 
as strictly as a milk diet.' I trust to observe both 

" Evei. &o/' 



LETTERS. 



969 



LETTER DCVI. 



Ta THE HONORABLE COLOXEL STANHOPE. 

" Scroter, (o||ome such name,) on board a Cephaoniote. 
^ " Miatieo, Dec. 31, Ifta. 

« My Dear Stanhope, 

" We are just arrived here, that is, part of my 
people and 1, \nth some things, &c., and which it 
Oiay be as well not to specify in a letter, (wliich has 
a risk of being intercepted, perhaps ;) — but Gamba 
aud wiy horses, negro, steward, and the press, and 
and ail the committee things, also some eight thou- 
sand dollars of mine (but never mind we have more 
left, do you understand ?) are taken by the Turkish 
&Igates, and my party and myself, in another boat, 
naT3 had a narrow escape last night, (being close 
Dnc°.r their stern and hailed, but we would not an- 
swer, and bore away,) as well as this morning. — 
Ht-re we are, with sun and clearing weather, within 
a pretty little port enough : but whether our Turk- 
ish friends may not send in their boats and take us 
out, (foi we have no arms except two carbines and 
some pistols, and, I suspect, not more than four 
fighting people on board,) is another question, es- 
pecially if we remain long here, since we are blocked 
out of Missolonghi by the direct entrance. 

" You had better send my friend George Drake 
^'Draco,) and a body of Suliotes, to escort us by 
land or by the canals, with all convenient speed. — 
Gamba and oiu- Bombard are taken into Patras, I 
suppose ; and we must take a turn at the Turks to 
get them out : but where the devil has the deet 
gone ? — the Greek, I mean ; leaving us to get in 
without the least intimation to take heed that the 
Moslems were out again. 

" Make my respects to Mavrocordato, and say, 
that I am here at his disposal. I am uneasy at 
being here ; not so much on my own account as on 
that of a Greek boy with me, for you know what 
his fate yould be : and I would sooner cut him in 
pieces, and myself too, than have him taken out 
by those barbarians. We are all very well. 
' "N. B. 

" The Bombard was twelve miles out when taken ; 
at least so it appeared to us, (if taken "she actu- 
ally he, for it is not cert<iin ;) and we had to es'^ape 
from another vessel that stood right between un t^ 
the port." 



LETTER DCVn. 



TO MR. MUIR. 



" DrAgomertri, Jan. 2, 18^4. 

" My Dear Muih, 

" 1 wish you many returns of the season and hap- 
piness therewithal, (iamlja and the Bombard, (there 
IS strong reason to believe,) are cairiod into Patras by 
a Turkish frigate, wliich we saw chase tlicui at 
dawn on tlie 31st ; we had been close under the 
Btorn in the night, believing her a Greek till within 
pistol-shot, and only escaped by a miracle of all the 
Saints, (our captaiii says,) and truly I am of his 
opinion, for we should never have got away of our- 
iclvcs. They were signalizing thoir consort with, 
lights, and hid illuminated the ship between decks, 
and were shouting like a mob ;— l)ut then why did 
thcv not fire ? Perhaps they took us for a (Jreek 
briilot and were afraid of kindling us— they hud no 
colors flying even at dawn nor after. 

•• At daybreak my boat was on the coast, bt>t the 
rind unfavorable for t/tc port ;—a large vessel with 
the wind in her favor standing between uh and the 
Gulf, and anotlur in chase of the B<unl)ard ub«)Ut 
twelve miles off or so. Soon after they stood (i. o. 
the Bombard and frigate), ujiparontly towards Pu- 
trus, and aZantiole boat making signals to us from 
♦he shore to get away. Away we went before the 
▼ind, and ran into a creek culled Scrofes, 1 believe 
122 



where I landed Luke* and another, (as Luke'i life 
was in most danger,) with some money for then? 
selves, and a letter for Stanhope, and sent them up 
the country to Missolonghi, where they would be in 
safety, as the place where we were, could be assailed 
by armed boats in a moment, and Gamba had all our 
arms except two carbines, a fowliiig-piece, and soma 
pistoU. 

" In less than an hour the vessel in chase neared 
us, and we dashed out again, and showing our stem, 
(our boat sails very well,) got in before night to 
Dragomestri, where we now are. But where is the 
Greek fleet ? I don't know — do you i I told out 
master of the boat that I was inclined to think the 
two large vessels (there were none else in sight), 
Greeks. But he answered ' they are too large — why 
don't thev show their colors .'' ' and his account was 
confirmed, be it true or false, by several boats which 
we met or passed, as we could not at any rate hav6 
got in with that wind without beating about for a 
long time ; and as there was much property and 
some lives to risk (the boy's especially) without any 
means of defence, it was necessary to let our boat 
men have their own way. 

" I despatched yesterday another messenger tc 
Missolonghi for an escort, but we have yet no an- 
swer. We are here (those of my boat) for the fifth 
day without taking our clothes off", and sleeping on 
deck in all weathers, but are all very well, and in good 
spirits. It is to be supposed that the government 
will send, for their own sakes, an escort, as I have 
sixteen thousand dollars on board, the greater part 
for their serWce. I had (besides personal property 
to the amount of about five thousand more), eight 
thousand dollars in specie of my own, without 
reckoning the committee's stores, so that the Turks 
will have a good thing of it if the prize be good. 

" I regret the detention of Gamba, &.C., but the 
rest we can make up again, so tell Hancock to set 
my bills into cash as soon as possible, and Corgia- 
legno to prepare the remainder of my credit with 
Messrs. Webb to be turned into moneys. I shall 
remain here, unless souicthing extraordinary occurs, 
till Mavrocordato sends, an « then go on, and act 
according to circumstances My respects to the 
two colonels, and remembranv'es to all friends. Tell 
' Ultima Atuilise 'f that his friend Raidi did not 
make his appearance with the brig, though I tli nk 
that he might as well have spoken with us /« or ojf 
Zante, to give us a gentle hint o' what we had to 
expect. " Yours ever atFectionately, 

•' N. B. 

" P. S. Excuse my scrawl on account of the i)en 
and the frosty morning at daybreak. I write in 
haste, a boat starting for Kalauio. I do not know 
whether the detention of the Bombard, (if she ba 
detained, for I cannot swear to it, and I can only 
judge from ap|)earances, and what all these follows 
say,) be an alfair of the government, and neutrality, 
and, itc, — but she trcw stopind at /rti.v/ twelve miles^ 
distant from any port, anil Iwid all her pai>«'rs regu- 
lar from '/jtnte for Ka/anio, and uw also. 1 did not 
land at Zante, bi-ing anxious to lose as little time 
as nossible, but Sir F. S. came off to invite me, Ac, 
and every body was as kind as could be, even iB 
Ccphulonia." 



LETTER DCVIII. 

TO UK. 0. HANCOCK. 

" UrH<>«»MUi, Jmi. a, tm. 

'• Dear Sir * Ancock.'J 

•' Ueuiember mo to Dr. Muy- and everybody 1 
have still the sixteen thoutunJ doil.trs wit"h me, tb« 



• A linx-k jiHiih whom to tod tmu«h( w.lh ktai, Ui hti mM», (Km Capfr 
iloiili. 
» • M. A. :-:.... ,., whom h*irl»r« ihh m»m> m miiiii)iiiiim rf • 

liad oT iMlng Om |)tii«M •• In vitltea MalM* 



-••rty. • I 



tu aM vWik Di. arvM MM. 



970 



BYRON'S WORKS, 



rest were on board the Bombarda. Here we are — 
the Bombarda taken, or^t least missing, with all 
the committee stores, my friend Gamba, the horses, 
negro, bull-dog, steward, and domestics, with all 
our implements of peace and war, also eight thou- 
sand dollars ; but whether she will be lawful prize 
or no, is for the decision of the governor of the 
Seven Islands. I have written to Dr. Muir, by way 
of Italamo, with all particulars. We are in good 
condition ; and what with wind and weather, and 
bemg hunted or so, little sleeping on deck, &c., are 
in tolerable seasoning for the country and circum- 
stances But I foresee that we shall have occasion 
for all the cash I can muster at Zante and else- 
where. Mr. Barff gave us eight thousand and odd 
dollars ; so there is still a balance in my favor. We 
are not quite certain that the vessels were Turkish 
which chased; but there is strong presumption that 
they were, and no news to the contrary. At Zante, 
every body, from the resident downwards, were a« 
kind as could be, especially your worthy and courte- 
ous partner. 

" Tell our friends to keep up their spirits, apd we 
may yet do well. I disembarked the boy and another 
Greek, who were in most terrible alarm — the boy, at 
least, from the Morea — on shore near Anatoliko, I 
believe, which put them in safety ; and as for me 
and mine, we must stick by our goods. 

" I hope that Gamba's detention will only be 
temporary. As for the effects and moneys, — if we 
have them, well ; if otherwise, patience. I wish you 
a happy nev7 year, and all our friends the same. 

"Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCIX. 

TO MB. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missolonghi, Ja». 13, 18U4. 

' Dear Sir, 

" Many thanks for yours of the 5th : ditto to 
Muir for his. You will have heard that Gamba and 
my vessel got out of the hands of the Turks safe 
and intact ; nobody knows well how or why, for 
there's a mystery m the story somewhat melodra- 
matic. Captain Valsamachi has, I take it, spun a 
long yarn by this time in Argostoll. I attribute 
their release entirely to Saint Dionisio, of Zante, 
and the Madonna of the Rock, near Cephalonia. 

* The adventures of my separate luck were also 
not finished at Dragomestri ; we were conveyed out 
by some Greek gun-boats, and found the Leonidas 
brig-of-war at sea to look after us. — But blowing 
weather coming on, we were driven on the rocks 
twice in the passage of the Scrophes, and the dol- 
lars had another narrow escape. Two-thirds of the 
crew got ashore over the bowsprit : the rocks were 
rugged enough, but water very deep close in shore, 
so that she was, after nmch swearing and some ex- 
ertion, got off again, and away we went with a third 
of our crew, leaving the rest on a desolate island, 
where they might have been now, had not one of 
the gun-boats taken them off, for we were in no con- 
dition to take theni off again. 

" Tell Muir that Dr. Bruno did not show much 
fight on the occasion, for besides stripping to his 
flannel waistcoat, and running about like a rat in an 
emergency, when I was talking to a Greek boy, (the 
brother of the Greek girls in Argostoli,) and telling 
him of the fact that there was no danger for the 
passengers, whatever there might be for the vessel, 
and assuring him that I could save both him and 
payself without difficulty, (though he can't sAvim,) 
»s the water, though deep, was not very rough, — the 
»vind iioi blowing right on shore, (it was a blunder of 

Of h/i orden, wriUen to Mr. Hancock, with some particulars of thair Toyag« ; 
Ukd iie Doctor having begun his letter, " Pregiatmo. Sigr. Aucock," Lord 
drion tki« pandiea hia mode of addreM.— iibor*. 



the Greeks who missed stays,) the d »ct»;r cxz^laimea 
' Save A/w, indeed ! by G — d! save me latner— I'L 
be first if I can ' — a piece of egotism which he pro 
nounced with such emphatical simplicity as to set all 
who had leisure to hear hinflaughing, and in a min- 
ute after the vessel drove off again after striking 
twice. She sprung a small leak, but nothing fur 
ther happened, except that the captain was A'ery ner 
vous afterward. 

" To be brief, we had bad* weather almost always, 
though not contrary ; slept on deck in the wet gen 
erally for seven or eight nights, but never was in 
better health (I speak personally) — so much so, 
that I actually bathed for a quarter of an hour on 
the evening of the fourth instant in the sea (to 
kill the fleas, and other &c.,) and was all the better 
for it. 

" We were received at Missolonghi with aU kinds 
of kindness and honors ; and the sight of the fleet 
saluting, &c., and the crowds and different cos- 
tumes, was really picturesque. We think of under- 
taking an expedition soon, and I expect to be or- 
dered with the Suliotes to join the army. 

"All well at present. We found Gamba al- 
ready arrived, and every thing in good condition 
Remember me to all friends. 

" Yours ever, 

" N. B. 

" P. S. You will, I hope, use every exertion to 
realize the assets. For besides what I have already 
advanced, I have undertaken to maintain the Suli- 
otes for a year, (and will accompany them, either 
as a chief, or whichever is most agreeable to the 
government,) besides sundries. I do not under- 
stand Brown's 'letters of credit.' I neither gave 
nor ordered a letter of credit that I know of; and 
though of course, if you have done it, I will be re- 
sponsible, I was not aware of any thing except that 
I would have backed his bills, which you said was 
unnecessary. As to orders — I ordered nothing but 
some red cloth and oil chths, both of which I am 
ready to receive, but if Gamba has exceeded my 
commission, the other things must.be seid back for I 
catmot permit any thine/ of the kind, nor will. The 
servants' journey will of course be paid for, though 
that is exorbitant. As for Brown's letter, I do 
not know any thing more than I have said, and I 
really cannot defray the charges of half Greece, and 
the Frank adventures besides. Mr. BarfT must send 
us some dollars soon, for the expenses fall on me for 
the present. 

" January 14, l&M. 

"P. S. Will you tell Saint (Jew) Geronimo 
Corgialegno that I mean to draw for the balance ol 
my credit with Messrs. Webb & Co. I shall diaw 
for two thousand dollars, (that being about the 
amount, more or less ;) but to facilitate the business, 
I shall make the draft pavable also at Messrs. Ran- 
som & Co., Pall-Mall East, London. I believe I 
already showed you my letters, (but if not, I have 
them to show,) by which, besides the credits now 
realizing, you will have perceived that I am not 
limited to any particular amount of credit with my 
bankers. The Honorable Douglas, my friend and 
trustee, is a principal partner in that house, and" 
having the direction of my affairs, is aware to what 
extent my present resources may go, and the letter? 
in question were from him. I can merely say, thai 
within the current year, 1824, besides the money 
already advanced to the Greek government, and the 
credits now in your hands and your partner's, (Mr. 
Barff,) which arc all from the income of 1823, I 
have anticipated nothing from that of the present 
year hitherto. I shall or ought to have at my 
disposition upwards of one hundred thousand dol- 
lars, (inchiding my incc^me, and the purchase mon- 
eys of a manor lately sold,) and perhaps more, 
\vithout infringing on my income for 1825, and not 
including the remaining balance of 1823. 

•* Yours ever. 



LETTERS. 



971 



LETIER DCX. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK 

'< MUaolonghi, Jan. 17, 1624. 

"I have answered, at some length, your obliKirig 
letter, and trust that you have received my reply by 
means of Mr. Tindal. I Avill also thank you'to re- 
mind Mr. Tindal that I would thank him to furnish 
you, on my account, ^^^th an order of the committee 
for one hundred dollars, which I advanced fo him on 
their account through Signor Corgialegno's agency 
at Zante on his arrival in October, as it is but fafr 
that the said committee should pay their own ex- 
penses. An order will be suihcient, as the money 
might be inconvenient for Mr. T. at present to dis- 
burse. 

"I have also advanced to Mr. Blackett the sum 
of fifty dollars, which I will thank Mr. Stevens to 
pay to you, t»n my account, from moneys of Mr. 
Blackett, now in his hands. I have Mr. B.'s ac- 
knowledgment in writing. 

" As the wants of the State here are still pressing, 
and there seems very little specie stirring except 
mine, I still stand paymaster, and must again re- 
quest you and Mr. Barif to forward by a s<t.f'e chan- 
nel (if possible) all the dollars you can collect on 
the bills now negotiating. I have also written to 
Corgialegno for two thousand dollars, being about 
«;he balance of my separate letter from Messrs. 
Webb and Co., making the bills also payable at 
Ransom's in London. 

" Things are going on betteT, if not well ; there is 
Bome order, and considerable preparation. I expect 
to accompany the troops on an expedition shortly, 
which makes me particularly anxious for the remain- 
ing remittance, as ' money is the sinew of war,' and 
of peace, too, as far as I can see, for I am sure there 
would be no peace here without it. However, a 
little does go a good way, which is a comfort. The 
government of the Morea and of Candia have writ- 
ten to me for a further advance from my own pecu- 
lium of twenty or thirty thousand dollars, to which 
I demur for the present, (haviiig undertaken to pay 
the Suliotcs as a free gift and .other tilings already, 
besides the loan which I have already advanced,) 
till I receive letters from England, which 1 have 
reason to expect. 

" When the expected credits arrive, I hope that 
you will Ijear a hand, otherwise I must have recourse 
to Malta, which will be loiiing time and takuig 
trouble ; but I do not wish you to do more than is 
perfectly agreeable to Mr. BarlF and to yourself. 1 
am very well, and have no reason to be dissatisfied 
with my personal treatment, or with the posture of 
public alfairs — others must speak for themselves. 
"Yours ever and truly, ike* 

"P. S. Respects to Colonels Wright and Dufho, 
and the officers civil and military ; also to my friends 
Muir and Stevens particularly, and the Dellade- 
cima." 



LETTER DCXI. 

TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

•• MUiulonglil, Jiin. 10, ISM. 

•' Since T wrote on the 17th, I have received a let- 
ter from Mr. Stevens, enclosing an account from 
Corfu, which is so exaggerated in price and <juan- 
tity, that I am at a loss whether most to udtvnre 
Gamba's folly, or the morchunt's knavery. All that 
/request(!d Gamba to order was red cloth, enough 
to make w. jacket, and some oil-skin for trousers, \'C. 
>— the latter has not l)een st-nt — the whoU- could not 
tave amounted to titty dollars. The acttount \h tix 
hundred and forty-five ! ! ! I will guaranty Mr. Ste- 
rens again^^t any loss, of course, but I am not dis- 
pOBed to tak« the articles, (which 1 uevor ordered,) 



nor to pay the amoimt. I will take one hundred 
dollars worth ; the rest may be sent back, a id 1 wiU 
make the merchant an allowance of 30 much pei 
cent. ; or if that is not to be done, you must sell 
the whole by auction at what price the things may 
fetch, for I would rather incur the dead loss oi part. 
than be encumbered with a quantity of things, to 
me at present superfluous or useless. Why, I could 
have maintained three hundred men for a month foi 
the sum in Western Greece ! 

*' When the dogs, and the dollars, and the negro, ! 
and the horses, fell into the hands of the Turks, 1 
acquiesced with patience, as you may have per- 
ceived, because it was the work of the eleni'^nts, ol 
war, or of Providence ; but this is a piece of mere 
human knavery or folly, or both, and I neither can 
nor will submit to it. I have occasion for every dol- 
lar I can muster to keep the Greeks together, "and I 
do not grudge any expense for the etiuse ; but to 
throw away as much as would equip, or at least 
maintain, a corps of excellent ragamuffins with 
arms in their hands, to furnish Gamba and the 
doctor with blank bills, (see list,) broadcloth, Hes- 
sian boots, and horsewhips, (the latter I own that 
they have richly earned.) is rather beyond my en- 
durance, though a pacific person, as all the world 
knows, or at least my acquaintances. I pray you 
to try to help mo out of this damnable commercial 
speculation of Gamba's, for it is one of those piecee 
of impudence or folly which I don't forgive him in 
a hurry. I will, of course, see Stevens free of ex- 
pense out of the transaction; — by-the-way, the 
Greek of a Corfiote has thought proper to "draw a 
bill, and get it discounted at twenty-four dollars ; 
if I had been there, it should have been protested 
also. 

"Mr. Blackett is here ill, and will soon set out 
for Cephalonia. He came to me for some pills, and 
I gave him some reserved for particular friends, and 
which I never knew any body recover from under 
several months ; but he is no better, and what ia 
odd, no worse ; and as the doctors have had no bet- 
ter success with him than I, he goes to Argostoli, 
sick of the (xreeks and of a constii)ation. 

'• I must reiterate my recjuist for specie, and that 
speedily, otherwise public affairs will be at a stand 
still here. I have undertaken to pay the Suliotea 
for a year, to advance in March three thousand dol- 
lars, l)esides, to the government for a balance duf 
to the troops, and some other smaller matters for 
the Germans, and the press, vtc, itc. (!tc. ; so what 
with those, and the expenses of my suite which, 
though not extravagant, is exjiensive with Gaml>a'a 

d d nonsense, I shall have occasion for all the 

moneys I can muster, and I have credits where- 
withal to face the undertakings, if realized, and 
expect to have »iore soon. 

" Believe me ever and truly yours, &e." 



LETTER DCXIL 



•'The expedition of ubmit two thouHand men li 
planned for an attack on Lepanto ; and for rea«oiM 
of pnlicy with regard to the native Capitaui, who 
would rath«T be (nominally at least) under the corj- 
mand «>f a ioreiguer, than one of their own bodjr, 
the direction, it is said, is to be given to me. Thort 
is also aiM)lher reason, which is, that if a capiiula* 
lion should take place^ the Mussulmans nui^ht ner* 
haps, rather have ('/inftian faith with a Frank thiiO 
witli a Greek, and so U' iucliiuvl to accede u point 
or two. These appear to be the moHt obvioun .jxo 
lives, for s\uh an appoiutnu'iil, as f.ir as 1 can con 
ji'.ture, unless there In- <»/<< reason more, \i/.., tl^.it, 
under present circun>Htuuces. no one else <uol uvea 



972 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Maviocoidato limself) seems disposed to accept 
Buch "^ nomination — and though my desires are as 
far as my deserts upon this occasion, I do not de- 
cline it, being willing to do as I am bidden ; and as 
[ pay a considerable part of the clans, I may as well 
see what they are likely to do for their money; be- 
sides I am tired of hearing nothing but talk. * * 
" I presume, from the retardment, that he* is the 
jame Parry who attempted the North Pole, and is 
(it may be supposed) now essaying the Soitth." 



LETTER DCXIII. 

TO MB. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missolonghi, Feb. 5, 1824. 

♦* Dr. Muir's letter and yours of the 23d reached 
Die some days ago. Tell Muir that I am glad of his 
promotion for his sake, and of his remaining near 
us for all our sakes : though I cannot but regret Dr. 
Kennedy's departure, which accounts for the pre- 
vious earthquakes and the present English weather 
in this climate. With all respect to my medical 
pastor, I have to announce to him, that among 
other firebrands, our fire-master Parry (just landed) 
has disembarked an elect blacksmith, entrusted with 
three hundred and twenty-two Greek Testaments. 
I have given him all facilities in ray power for his 
works spiritual and temporal, and if he can settle 
matters as easily with the Greek Archbishop and 
hierachy, I trust that neither the heretic nor the 
supposed skeptic will be accused of intolerance. 

*' By-the-way, I met with the said Archbishop at 
Anatolico (where I went by invitation of the Pri- 
mate a few days ago, and was received with a 
heavier cannonade than the Turks, probably) for 
the second time, (I had known him here before;) 
and he and P. Mavrocordato, and the Chiefs and 
Primates and I, all dined together, and I thought 
the metropolitan the merriest of the party, and a 
very good Christian for all that. But Gamba (we 
got wet through in our way back) has been ill with 
a fever and colic ; and Luke has been out of sorts 
too, and so hav« some others of the people, and I 
have been very well, — except that 1 caught cold 
yesterday with swearing too much in the rain at the 
Greeks, who would not bear a hand in landing the 
committee stores, and nearly spoiled our combusti- 
bles ; but I turned out in person, and made such a 
row as set them in motion, blaspheming at them 
from the government downwards, till they actually 
did some part of what they ought to have done sev- 
eral days before, and this is esteemed, as it deserves 
to be, a wonder. 

"xell Muir that, notwithstanding his remon- 
strances, which I receive thankfully, it is perhaps 
best that I should advance with the troops ; for if 
we do not do something soon, we shall only have a 
thii-d year of defensive operations and another siege, 
and all that. We hear that the Turks are coming 
down in force, and sooner than usual ; and as these 
fellows do mind me a little, it is the opinion that I 
should go, — firstly, because they will sooner listen 
to a foreigner than one of their own people, out of 
native jealousies ; secondly, because the Turks will 
sooner treat or capitualate (if such occasion should 
happen) with a Frank than a Greek ; and, thirdly, 
because nobody else seems disposed to take the 
responsibility — Mavrocordato being very busy here, 
the foreign military men too young or not of author- 
ity enough to be obeyed by the natives, and the 
chiefs (as aforesaid) inclined to obey any one ex- 
cept, or rather than, one of their own body. As fur 
me, I am willing to do what I am bidden, and to 
follow my instructions. I neither seek nor shun 
{hat nor 'any thing else they may wish me Xo at- 

• Purry, whc had been loof expected with artillery. %'. 



tempt; and as for personal safety, "kesides thai M 
ought not to be a consideration, I take it that a 
man is on the whole as safe in. one place as another; 
and, after all, he had better end with z. bullet than 
bark in his body. If we are not taken off with the 
sword, we are like to march oif with an ague in this 
mud-basket ; and to conclude with a very bad pun, 
to the ear rather than to the eye, bettei martially, 
than marsh-ally; — the situation of Missolonghi is 
not unknown to you. The dykes of Holland, when 
broken down, are the Deserts of Arabia lor dryness, 
in comparison. 

" And now for the sinews of war. I thank you 
and Mr. BarfF for your ready answers, which, next 
to ready money, is a pleasant thing. Besides the 
assets, and balance, and the relics of the Corgia- 
legno correspondence with Leghorn and Genoa, (I 
sold the dog flour, tell him, but not at his price,) I 
shall request and requu-e, from the beginning oi 
March ensuing, about five thousand dollars every 
two months, i. e., about twenty-five thousand with- 
in the current year, at regular intervals, independent 
of the sums now negotiating. I can show you docu- 
ments to prove that these are considerably within 
my supplies for the year in more ways than one; 
but I do not like to tell the Greeks exactly what 1 
could or would advance on an emergency, because, 
otherwise, they A\-ill double and triple their demands, 
(a disposition tliat they have already sutficiently 
shown;) and though I am mlling to do all I can 
when necessary, yet I do not see why they should 
not help a little, for they are not quite so bare as 
they pretend to be by' some accounts. 

« Fe<). 7, 1824. 

" I have been interrupted by the arrival of Parry, 
and afterward by the return of Hesketh, who has 
not brought an answer to my epistles, which rather 
surprises me. You will write soon I suppose. Par- 
r\- seems a fine rough subject, but will hardly be 
ready for the field these three weeks ; he and I will 
(I think) be able to draw together — at least 7 will 
not interfere with or contradict him in his own 
department. He complains grievously of the mer- 
cantile and enthusyiitusy part of the committee, but 
gi'eatly praises Gordon and Hume. Gordon tcould 
have given three or four thousand pounds and come 
out himself, but Kennedy or somebody else disgust- 
ed him, and thus they have spoiled part of their 
subscription and cramped their operations.' Parry 
says Bowring is a humbii.s:, to which I say nothing. 
l.e sorely laments the printing and civilizing ex- 
penses, and wishes Hhat there was not a Sunday- 
school in the world, or any school here at present, 
save and except always an academy for artillery- 
ship. 

" He complained also of the cold, a little to my 
surprise ; firstly, because, there being no chimneys, 
I have used myself to do without other warmth than 
the animal heat and one's cloak, in these pirts; 
and sectmdly, because I should as soon have ex- 
pected to hear a volcano sneeze, as a fire-mastei 
(who is to burn a'whole fleet) exclaim against th« 
atmosphere. I fully expected that his very ap 
proach would have scorched up the town like th* 
burning-glasses of Archimedes. 

" Well, it seems that I am to be Commander- in 
chief, and the post is by no means a sinecure foi 
we are not what Major Sturgeon calls ' a set of the 
most amicable officers.' Whether we shall have a 
' boxing 'bout between Captain Sheer and the Colo- 
nel,' I cannot tell ; but, between Suliote chiefs, 
German barons, English volunteers, and adven 
turers of all nations, we are likely to form afl 
goodly an allied army as ever quarrelled ben€stl» 
the same banner. 

" Feb. 8, 18a». 

'* Interrupted again by business yesterday, and it 
is time to conclude my letter. I drew some time 
since on Mr. Barff for a thousand dollars to com- 
plete some money wanted by the government. The 



LETTERS. 



973 



•aid government got cash on that bill here and at 'under yotir eyes, in the cause ol Greece, will be to 



% profit; but the very same fellow who gave it to 
them, after proposing to give me money tor other 
bills on Barff to the amount of thirteen hundred 
dollars^ either could not, or thought better of it. I 
had written to BarfF advising him, but had after- 
ward to write to tell him of the fellow's having not 
tome up to time. You must really send me the 
5alance soon. I have the artillerists and my Suli- 
otes to pay, and Heaven knows what besides, and 
as every thing depends upon punctuality, all our 
operations will be at a stand-still unless you use 
despatch. I shall send to Mr. Barff or to you fur- 
ther bills on England for three thousand pounds, to 
be negotiated as speedily as you can. I have al- 
ready stated here and formerly the sums I can 
command at home within the year, — without in- 
cluding my credits, or the bills already negotiated 
or negotiating, as Corgiaiegno's balance of Mr. 
Webb's letter, — and my letters from my friends 
(received by Mr. Parry's vessel), confirm what I 
have already stated. How much I may requiie in 
the course of the year I can't tell, but I will take 
e that it shall not exceed the means to supply it. 
' ' Yours ever, 

"N. B. 
•' P. S. I have had, by desire of a Mr. Jerostati, 
to draw en Demetrius Delladecima (is it our friend 
in ultima analise ?) to pay tV*; committee expenses. 
I really do not understand what the committee 
mean by some of their freedoms. Parry and I get 
on very well hitherto ; how long this may last. 
Heaven knows, but I hope it will, for a good deal 
for the Greek service depends upon it, but he has 
already had some miffs with Col. S., and I do all I 
can to keep the peace among them. However, 
Parry is a fine fellow, extremely active, and of 
strong, sound, practical talents, by all accounts. 
Enclosed are bills for three thousand pounds, dra%vn 
in the mode directed, (i. e. parcelled out in smaller 
bills.) A good opportunity occurring for Cephalo- 
nia to send letters on, I avail myself of it. Re- 
member me to Stevens, and to all friends. Also 
my compliments and every thing kind to the 
colonels and officers. 

<« Februsry 9, 1824. 

" P. S. 2d or 3d. I have reason to expect a per- 
son from England directed with papers (on busi- 
ness) for me to sign, somewhere in the islands, hy- 
and-by ; if such should arrive, would you forward 
him to me by a safe conveyance, as the papers re- 
gard a transaction with regard to the adjustment of 
a lawsuit, and a sum of several thousand pounds, 
which I, or my bankers and trustees for me, may 
have to receive (in England) in consequence. The 
time of the probable arrival I cannot state, but the 
date of my letters is the 2d Nov., and I suppose that 
he ought to arrive soon." 



LETTER DCXIV. 

to andrew londo.» 

** Dbab Frirnd, 

"The sight of your handwritinar gave me the 
greatest pleasure. Greece has ever l)een for me, as 
It must be for all men of any feeling or education, 
the promised land of valor, of the arts, and of lib- 
erty ; nor did the time I passed in my youth in 
travelling among her ruins at aU chill my affection 
for the birth-place of heroes. In addition to this, I 
am bound to yourself by ties of friendship and grati- 
tude for the hospitnilty which I experienced from 
you during my stay in that country, of which you 
are now become one of the first defenders and or- 
Daments. To see myself serving, by your side and 



me one of the happiest events of my life. lu tht 
mean time, with the hope of our again meeting, 
" I am as ever &c." 



LETTER DCXV. 

TO HIS HIGHNESS YtJSSUFP PACHA. 

" MiaK>lon^hi, 23a Jan. ISM. 

" Highness ! 

" A vessel, in which a friend and some domestici 
of mine were embarked, was destined a few day* 
ago and released by order of your Highness. I have 
now to thank you ; not for lii)erating the vessel, 
which, as carrying a neutral ti;ig, and being under 
British protection, no one had a right to detain ; 
but for having treated my friends with so much 
kindness while they were in your hands. 

" In the hope, therefore, that it may not be alto- 
gether displeasing to your Highness, I have re- 
quested the governor of this place to release four 
Turkish prisoners, and he has humanely consented 
to do so. I lose no time, therefore, in sending them 
back, in order to make as early a return as I could 
for your courtesy on the late occasion. These pri- 
soners are liberated without any conditions : but, 
should the circumstance find a place in your recol- 
lection, I venture to beg that your Highness will 
treat such Greeks as may henceforth fall into your 
hands with humanity ; more especially since the 
horrors of war are sufficiently great in themselves, 
without being aggravated by wanton cruelties on 
either side. "Noel Byron ' 



LETTER DCXVI. 

TO MR. BARFP. 

«• Feb. 91. 

"I am a good deal better, though of course 
weakly; the leeches took too much blood from my 
temples the day after, and there was some difficulty 
in stopping it, but I have since been up daily, and 
out in boats or on horseback. To-day 1 have taken 
a warm bath, and live as temperately as can well be, 
without any liquid but water, and without animal 
food. 

" Besides the four Turks sent to Patras, I have 
obtained the release of four-and-twenty women 
and children, and sent them at my own expense to 
Prevesa, that the English consul-general may con- 
sign them to their relations. I did this by their 
own desire. Matters here are a little emhroilrd 
with the Suliotes and foreigners, \c., but I still 
hope better things, and will stand by the cause a< 
long as my health and circumstances will permit me 
to be supposed useful.* 

" I am obliged to support the government here foi 
the present." 

(The prisoners mentioned in this letter *» having 
been released by him and sent to Pnvcsn had been 
held in captivity at Mis.sulonglii ' ' !iK 

of the Revolution. The full. ^ ,r 

which he forwarded with them i > >»» 

sul at Prevesa.] 



LETTER DCXVII. 

TO MR. MAYBE. 

•« Sir, 

"Coming to Greece, one of in ^ -ftn 

was to alleviate as much as JO'^- - "»• 




Om of Um Oiwk akU*. 



^74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cident to a warfare so cruel as the present. "When 
the dictates of humanity are in question, 1 know no 
difference between Turks and Greeks. It is enough 
tliat those who want assistance are men, in order to 
claim the pity and protection of the meanest pre- 
tender to humane feelings. I have found here 
twenty-four Turks, including women and children, 
who nave long pined in distress, far from the moans 
of support and the consolations of their home. 
The government has consigned them to me : I 
transmit them to Prevesa, whither they desire to be 
sent. I hope that you will not object to take care 
that they may be restored to a place of safety, and 
that the Governor of your town may accept of ray 
present. The best recompense I can hope for 
would be to find that I had inspired the Ottoman 
ronimanders with the same sentiments towards 
these unhappy Greeks who may hereafter fall into 
theii- har.ds. *' I beg you to believe me, &c." 



LETTER DCXVIIL 

TO THE HONORABLE DOUGLAS KINNAIBD. 
" Missolooghi, Feb. 21, 1824. 

" I have received yours of the 2d of November. 
It is essential that the money should be paid, as I 
have drawn for it all, and more too, to help the 
Greeks. Parry is here, and he and I agree very 
well ; and all is going on hopefully for the present, 
considering circumstances. 

"We shall have work this year, for the Turks 
are coming down in force; and, as for me, I must 
stand by the cause. I shall shortly march (accord- 
ing to orders) against Lepanto, with two thousand 
men. I have been here some time, after some nar- 
row escapes from the Turks, and also from being 
shipAvrecked. We were twice upon the rocks, but 
tl\is you will have heard, truly or falsely, through 
other channels, and I do not wish to bore you with 
a long story. , " 

" So far i have succeeded in supporting the Gov- 
ernment of Western Greece, which would other- 
wise have been dissolved. If you have received the 
eleven thousand and odd pounds, these, with what 
I have in hand, and my income for the current year, 
to say nothing of contingencies, will, or might, 
enable me to keep the ' sinews of war' properly 
strung. If the deputies be honest fellows, and ob- 
tain the loan, they will repay the 4000^. as agreed 
upon ; and even then I shall save little, or indeed 
less than little, since I am maintaining nearly the 
whole machine — in this place, at least — at my own 
cost. But let the Greeks only succeed, and I don't 
care for myself. 

" I have been very seriously unwell, but am get- 
ting better, and can ride about again ; so pray quiet 
our friends on that score. 

'• It is not true that I ever did, will, would, could, 
or should write a satire against GifFord, or a hair of 
his head. I always considered him as my literary 
fut>;ar, ard myself as his ' prodigal son ; ' and if I 
ha^'e allowed nis * fatted calf to grow to an ox be- 
fore he kills it on my return, it is only because I 
prefer beef to veal. " Yours, &c." 



LETTER DCXIX. 

TO MR. BARFP. 

" February 23. 

My health seems improving, especially from 
riding and the wai n bath. Six Englishmen will 
oe soon in quarantine at Zante ; they are artificers, 
\nd have had enough of Greece in fourteen days. 
If you could recommend them to a passage home, I 
»ould thank you ; tbay are good men enough, but 



do not quite understand the littU disciepancies K. 

these countries, and are not usea .o see shootinfll 
and slashing in a domestic quiet way, or fas it 
forms here) a part of housekeeping. 

"If they should want any thing during theil 
quarantine, you can advance them not more than a 
dollar a day (among them) for that period, to pur- 
chase them some little extras as comforts, (as they 
aie quite out of their element.) I cannot afford them 
more at present." 



LETTER DCXX 



TO MR. MURRAY. 



■" Missolonghi, Feb. 25, !83*. 

" I have heard from Mr. Douglas Kinnaird that 
you state * a report of a satire on Mr. Gifford 
having arrrived from Italy, said to be written by me ! 
but that you do not believe it.' I dare say you do 
not, nor any body else, I should think. Whoever 
asserts that I am the author or abettor of any thing 
of the kind on Gifford lies in his throat. If any 
such composition exists it is none of mine. You 
know as well as any body upon whom I have or have 
not \viitten ; and you also know w^hether they do or 
did not deserve that same. And so much for such 
matters. 

" You will perhaps be anxious to hear some news 
from this part of Greece, (which is the most liable 
to invasion ;) but you will hear enough through pub- 
lic and private '^hannels. I will, however, give you 
the events of a week, mingling my own private pe 
culiar with the public, for we are here a little jum- 
bled together at present. 

" On Sunday, (the loth, I believe,) I had a strong 
and sudden convulsive attack, which left me speech- 
less, though not motionless — for s<ome strong men 
could not hold me ; but whether it was epilepsy, 
catalepsy, cachexy, or apoplexy, or what other 
exy or epsy, the doctors have not decided ; or 
whether it was spasmodic or nervous, &c. ; but it 
was very unpleasant, and nearly carried me off, and 
all that. On Monday, they put leeches to my tem- 
ples, no difficult matter, but the blood could not be 
stopped till eleven at night, (they had gone too 
near the temporal artery for my temper il safety,) 
and neither styptic nor caustic would cauterize the 
orifice till after a hundred attempts. 

" On Tuesday, a Turkish brig-of-war ran on shore. 
On Wednesday, great preparations being made to 
attack her, though protected by her consorts, the 
Turks burned her and retired to Patras. On Thurs- 
day a quarrel ensued between the Suliotes and the 
Frank guard at the arsenal : a Swedish officer was 
killed, and a Suliote severely wounded, and a gen- 
eral fight expected, and with some difficulty pre- 
v^ted. On Friday, the officer was buried ; and 
Captain Parry's English artificers mutinied, under 
the pretence that their lives are in danger, and are 
for quitting the country : — they may. 

" On Saturday, we had the smartest shock of an 
earthquake which I remember, (and I have fell 
thirty, slight or smart, at different periods ; they 
are in the Mediterranean,) and the whole army dis- 
charged their arms, upon the same principle that 
the savages beat drums, or howl, during an eclipse 
of . the moon : — it was a rare scene altogether — if 
you had but seen the English Johnnies, who had 
never been out of a workshop before ! — or will 
again, if they can help it — and on Sunday, we 
heard that the Vizier is rome down to Larissa, with 
one hundred and odd thousand men. 

" In coming here, I had two escapes, one from 
the Turks, {one of my vessels was taken, but after- 
ward released,) and the other from shipwreck. Wa 
drove twice on the rocks near the Scrophes (islands 
nesr the coast.) 

" I have obtained from the Greeks the release o 
eight-and-twenty Turkish prisoners, men, womea 



LETTERS. 



97.: 



and tnildren, and sent them to Patras and Prevesa, 
at my own charges. One little girl of nine j'ears 
old- who prefers remaining with me, I shall (if I 
livej send, with her mother, probably, to Italy, or 
to England. Her name is Hato, or Hetagoe. She 
is a very pretty, lively child. All her brothers were 
killed by the Greeks, and she herself and her 
mother merely spared by special favor and owing to 
her extreme youth, she being then but five years 
old. 

" Mv health is now better, and I ride about again. 
My office here is no sinecure, so many parties and 
dirftculties of every kind ; but I will do what I can. 
Prince Mavrocordato is an excellent person, and 
does all in his power, but his situation is perplexing 
ill the extreme. Still we have great hopes of the 
success of the contest. You will hear, however, 
more of public news from plenty of quarters, for I 
have little time to write. 

" Believe me yours, &c., &c., 
"N. Bn." 



LETTER DCXXI. 



TO MR. MOORB. 
" Missolonghi, Western Greece, March 4, 1824. 

My Dear Moore, 

" Your reproach is unfounded — I have received 
vwo letters from you, and answered both previous 
to leaving Cephalonia. I have not been ' quiet ' in 
an lonion island, but much occupied with business, 
-as the Greek deputies (if arrived) can tell you. 
Neither have I continued 'Don Juan,' nor any 
other poem. You go, as usual, I presume, by some 
newspaper report or other. 

*' When the proper moment to be of some use, 
arrived, I came here ; and am told that my arrival 
(with some other circumstances) has been of, at 
least, temporary advantage to the cause. I had a 
narrow escape from the Turks, and another from 
shipwreck on my passage. On the 15th (or 16th) 
of February I had an attack of apoplexy, or epilepsy, 
— the physicians have not exactly decided which, 
but the alternative is agreeable. My constitution, 
thcr(4lore, remaijis between the two opinions, like 
Mahomet's sarcophagus between the magnets. All 
that I can say is, that they nearly bled me to death, 
by placing the leeches too near the temporal artery, 
so that the blood could with difficulty be stopped, 
even with caustic. I am supposed to be getting 
better, slowly, however. But my homilies will, I 

gresum*, for the future, be like the Archbishop of 
^reuada's— in this case, 'I order you a hundred 
ducats from my treasurer, and wish you a little 
more taste.' 

" F(jr public matters I refer you to Col. Stan- 
hope's and Capt. Parry's reports, — and to all other 
reports whatso';vfr. There is plenty to do — war 
without, and tumult within — they * kill a man a 
week,' like iiob Acres in the country. Parry's 
artihcors have gone away in alarm, on account ol a 
dispute, in which some of the natives and foreigners 
were engaged, and a Swede was killed, and a Suliote 
wounded. In the middle of their fight there was a 
strong shock of an earthquake ; so, between that 
and the sword, they boon)ed otf ii a hurrj^ in desuite 
cf all dissuasions to the contrary A lurkish brig 
ran ashore, itc, iSfc., \'c.* 

" You, I presume, are either publishing or medi- 
tating that same. Let me hoar from and of you, 
and believe me, in all events, • 

" Ever and airectionatoly your*, 

••N. B." 



• ^"hixt la omilteil her« U but k ropeiltlon of ilie Torioiii punkuUuv, r»- 
ipoetlng nil lli.a mil hnp|H-ii>'il aiiice lili nrriv,«l, whioli hare tStfAj tiMD 
••▼CO jn Ibe leCten to bla otlier comtpomleuw.—. Vocrg. 



" P. S. Tell Mr. Murray that I rrote to him the 
other day, and hop j that he has received, or wiD 
receive, the letter." 



LETTER DCXXII. 



TO DR. KENNEDY. 

" MtaK>laD(rhi, Mditb i 1981. 

"My Dear Doctor, 
" I have to thank you for your two very kir.3 

letters, both received at the same time, and one 
long after its date. I am not unaware of the 
precarious state of my health, nor am,' nor have 
been, deceived on that subject. But it is proper 
that I should remain in Greece ; and it wer€ bettei 
to die doing something than nothing". My presence 
here has been so far useful as to have prevented 
confusion from becoming worse confounded, at least 
for the present. Should I become, or be deemed, 
useless or superfluous, I am ready to retire ; but in 
the interim I am not to consider personal con- 
sequences ; the rest is in the hands of Pro\-idence, 
— as indeed are all things. I shall, however, 
observe your instructions, and indeed did so, as fai 
as regards abstinence, for some time past. 

" Besides the tracts, &c., which you have sent 
for distribution, one of the English artificers (hight 
Brownbill, a tinman), left to my charge a number 
of Greek Testaments, which 1 will endeavor to 
distribute properly. The Greeks complain that the 
translation is not correct, nor in (food Romaic : 
Bambas can decide on that point. I am trying to 
reconcile the clergy to the distribution, which 
(without due regard to their hierarchy) they might 
contrive to impede or neutralize in the effect, from 
their power over their people. Mr. Brownbill has 
gone to the islands, having some apprehensicm foi 
his life, (not from the priests, however,) and ap- 
parently preferring rather to be a saint than a 
martyr, although his apprehensions of becoming 
the latter were probably unfounded. All the Eng- 
lish artificers accompanied him, thinking themselves 
in danger, on account of some troubles here, which 
have apparently subsided. 

" I have been interrupted by a visit from Prince 
Mavrocordato and others since I began this letter, 
and must close it hastily, for the boat is announced 
as ready to sail. Your future convert. Halo, or 
liatagj^e, appears to me lively, nnd intelligent, and 
proTuising. and possesses an interesting counte- 
nance. With regard to her disposition, I can say 
little, but Millingen, who has the mothi-r (who is a 
middle-aged lady of good character) in his house aa 
a domestic, (although the family was in good worldly 
circumstances previous to the Revolution,) speuki 
well of both, and he is to be relied on. As far iis I 
know, I have only seen the child a few times with 
hor mother, and what I have seen is favorablo. or I 
should not take so much interest in her behalf. 11 
she turns t)ut well, my idea would be to send her to 
my daughter in Kngland, (if nvt to respeetHlW 
persons in Italy,) and so to provide for her as to 
enable her to live with reputation, either singly or 
in marriage, if she arrive at u>aturity. I will make 
proper arr;i1igement8 about her expenses through 
Nlessrs Barit and Hancock, and the rest 1 leave to 
your discretion and to Mrs. K.'s, with a grout senso 
of obligation for your kindness in undertaking her 
temporary superintendence. 

" Uf jmblic mutters here, I have little to «d4 
to what you will already have heard. We are sruin| 
on ns wi-ll as we can^ and with the hopo and th* 
endeavor to do better. Believe me, 

•• Ever ami truU', i%e ' 



876 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LETTER DCXXIII. 



TO MR. BARFF. 

" March 5, 1824. 

•* If Sisseni* is sincere, he will be treated with, 
and well treated; if he is not, the sin and the 
Bhame may lie at his own door. One great 
object is to heal those internal dissensions for the 
future, without exacting too rigorous an account of 
the past. Prince Mavrocordato is of the same 
opinion, and whoever is disposed to act fairly will be 
fairly dealt with. I have heard a g.ood deal of Sis- 
seni, but not a dealoi good; however, I never judge 
from report, particularly in a revolution. Person- 
ally, I am rather obliged to him, for he has been 
very hospitable to all friends of mine who have 
passed through his district. You may therefore 
assure him that any overture for the advantage of 
Greece and its internal pacification will be readily 
and sincerely met Aere. I hardly think that he 
would have ventured a deceitful proposition to me 
through you, because he must be sure that in such 
a case it would eventually be exposed. At any 
rate, the healing of these dissensions is so impor- 
tant a poir.t, that something must be risked to ob- 
tain it." 



LETTER DCXXIV. 

TO MR. BARFF 

" March 10. 

• Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, 
and I hope that you will assure him from me, that I 
have done and am doing all I can to reunite the 
Greeks with the Greeks. 

" I am extremely obliged by your offer of your 
country-house (as for all kindness) in case that my 
health should require my removal ; but I cannot 
quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of 
any (even supposed) utility : — there is a stake worth 
millions such as I am, and while I can stand at all, 
I must stand by the cause. When I say this, I am 
at the same time aware of the difficulties and dis- 
sensions, and defects of the Greeks themselves ; 
but allowance must be made for them by all reason- 
able people. 

" My chief, indeed nine-tenths of my expenses 
here are solely in advances to or on behalf of the 
Greeks, and objects connected with their independ- 



LETTTER DCXXV. 



TO 8R. FARRUCA. 



LETTER DCXXVI. 



" Maieh 10, 1824. 



" Sir, 

" I have the honor of answering your letter. My 
first wish has always been to bring the Greeks to 
agree among themselves. I came here by the invi- 
tation of the Greek Government, and I do not think 
that I ought to abandon Roumeali for the Pelopon- 
nesus until that Government shall desire it ; and 
the more so, as this 'part is exposed in a greater de- 
gree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my presence 
can really be of any assistance in uniting two or 
more parties, I am ready to go any where, either as 
a mediator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these 
affairs, I have neither private views, nor private dis- 
like of any individual, but the sincere wish of 
deserving the name of the friend of your country, 
bnd of her patriots. 

" I have the honor, &c." 



* Thii SiMeni, who wa< the Capitano of the rich district about Gastouni, 
tnd had, for tome time, held out a^iut the general goTemment, wa< uow, 
M appear* by the alx)Te letter, making overtures, through M. BarfT, of adhe- 
iion. As a proof of bis siiicrrity, it was required by Lord Byron that be 
riiould surrender into the band* of the goTemroent the fortress of Chiarenza. — 



TO MR. CHARLES HANCOCK. 

" Missolonghi, 10th Mareh, 1W4. 

"Sir, 

"I sent by Mr. J. M. Hodges a bill drawn ob 
Signor C. Jerostatti for three hundred and eighty- 
six pounds, on account of the Hon. the Greek com- 
mittee, for carrying on the service at this place. 
But Count Delladecima sent no more than tw« 
hundred dollars until he should receive instructions 
from C. Jerostatti, Therefore I am obliged to ad- 
vance that sum to prevent a positive stop being 
put to the laboratory service at this place, &c., &c. 

" I beg you will mention this business to Count 
Delladecima, who has the draft and every account, 
and that Mr. Barif, in conjunction with yourself, 
will endeavor to arrange this money account, and^ 
when received forward tae same to Missolonghi. 
" I am, sir, yours very truly. 

" So far is written by Captain Parry ; but I set 
that I must continue the letter myself. I under- 
stand little or nothing of the business, saving and 
except that, like most of the present affairs here, it 
will be at a stand-still if moneys be not advanced, 
and there are few here so disposed ; so that I must 
take the chance as usual. 

'* You will see what can be done with Dellade- 
cima and Jerostatti, and remit the sum, that we 
may have some quiet ; for the committee have 
somehow embroiled their matters, or chosen Greek 
correspondents more Grecian than ever the Greek* 
are wont to be. "Yours ever, 

" Nl. Bn. 

** P. S. A thousand thanks to Muir for his cauli 
flower, the finest I ever saw or tasted, and I believe, 
the largest that ever grew out of Paradise or Scot- 
land. I have written to quiet Dr. Kennedy about 
the newspaper, (with which I have nothing to do as 
a writer, please to recollect and say.) I told the 
fools of conductors that their motto would play the 
devil ; but, like all mountebanks, they persisted. 
Gamba, who is anv thing but lucky, had something 
to do vnth it ; ana, as usral, the moment he had, 
matters went wrong. It will be better, perhaps, in 
time. But I write in haste, and have only time to 
say, before the boat sails, that I am ever 

" Yours, • 
" N. Bn. 
* P. S. Mr. Flndlay is here, and has received hia 
money." 



LETTER DCXXVII. 

TO DR. KENNEDY. 

" Msssolonghi, March 10, 18BM. 

' Dear Sir, 

'* You could not disapprove of the motto to the 
Telegraph more than I did, and do ; but this is the 
land of liberty, where most people do as they please, 
and few as they ought. 

** I have not written, nor am inclined to write, for 
that or any other paper, but have suggested to 
them, over and over, a change of the motto and 
style. However, I do not think that it will turn 
out either an irreligious or a levelling publication, 
and they promise due respect to both churches and 
things, i. e. the editors do, 

*' If Bambas would vprite for the Greek Chronicle, 
he might have his his own price for articles, 

** Ther# is a slight demur about Hato's voyage, 
her mother wishing to go with her, which is quite 
natural, and I have not the heart to refuse it ; for 
even Mahomet made a law, that in the divisica of 
captives, the child should never be separated frcn 
the mother. But this mav make a difference ir h* 
arrangement, although the poor woman (wbr hu 



LETTERS. 



977 



lOSt half her family in the war) is, as 1 said, of good 
character, and of mature age, so as to render her 
respectability not liable to suspicion. She has 
heard, it seems, 'from Prevesa, that her husband is 
no longer there. I have consigned your Bibles to 
Di- Meyer; and I hope that the said Doctor may 
iustify your confidence ; nevertheless, I shall keep 
all eye upon him. You may depend upon my giving 
the society as fair play as' Mr. Wilberforce himself 
would : and any other commisssion for the good of 
Greece will meet with the same attention on my part. 

" I am trying, with some hope of eventual suc- 
cess, to reunite the Greeks, especially as the Turks 
are expected in force, and that shortly. We must 
meet them as we may, and fight it out as we can. 

" I rejoice to hear that your school prospers, and 
1 assure you that your good wishes are reciprocal. 
The weather is so much finer, that I get a good deal 
of moderate exercise in boats and on horseback, 
and I am willing to hope that my health is not 
worse than when you kindly wrote to me. Dr. 
Bruno can tell you that I adhere to your regimen, 
and more, for I do not eat any meat, even fish. 

" Believe me ever, &c. 

** P. S. The mechanics (six in number) were all 
pretty much of the same mind. Brownbill was but 
one. Perhaps they are less to blame than is imag- 
ined, since Colonel Stanhope is said to have told 
them, ' that he could not positively say their lives 
were safe.' I should like to know where our life is 
safe, either here or any where else ? With regard 
lo a place of safety, at least such hermetically- 
sealed safety as these persons appeared to desider- 
ate, it is not to be found in Greece, at any rate ; but 
Missolonghi was supposed to be the place where 
they would be' useful, and their risk was no greater 
^han that of others." 



LETTER DCXXVIII. 



TO COLONEL STANHOPE. 



" MiMolonghl, Mawh 19, 1824. 

•My Dear Stanhope, 

" Prince Mavrocordato and myself will go to Sa- 
lona to meet Ulysses, and you may be very, sure 
that P. M. will accept any proposition for the advan- 
tage of Greece. Parry is to answer for himself on 
his oxvn articles ; if I were to interfere with him, it 
would only stop the whole progress of his exertion, 
and he is really doing all that can be done without 
mdre aid from the government. 

" What can be spared will be sent ; but I refer 
you to Captain Humphries's report, and to Count 
Gamba's letter for details upan all subjects. 

•'In the hope of seeing you soon, and deferring 
much that will be to be said till then, 

" Believe ipe ever, Ac. 

" P. S. Your two letters (to me) are sent to Mr. 
BarfF, as you desire I ray remember me particu- 
larly to Freawney, whom I shall be very much 
Dleased to see again." 



LETTER DCXXIX. 



to MR. BARFF. 



♦' As Count Mercati is under some apprehensions 
of a direct answer to him personally on Greek affairs, 
I reply (as you authoriaed me) to you, who will have 
the goodness to communicate to him the cncloHod. 
U is the joint answer of Prince Mavrofordato and 
of'myself, to Signor Georgio Sisseiii's nropositionH. 
You may also add, both to him and to Parruca, that 
( am perfectly sincere in desiring the most ainii-ai !. 
termination of their internal dinstnsions, and tl 
I believe P. Mavrocordato to be so aluo otherwihi i 
123 



would not act with Jim or any other, whether na* 
tive or foreigner. 

" If Lord Guilford is at Zante, or, if he is not, i? 
Signor Tricupi is there, you would oblige me by 
jJresenting my respects to one or both, and by telling 
them, that from the very first I foretold to Colonel 
Stanhope and to P. Mavrocordato, that a Greek 
newspaper (or indeed any other) in the present staff 
of Greece might and probably would tend to much 
mischief and misconstruction, unless under some 
restrictions, nor have I ever had any thing to lo 
with either, as a writer or otherwise, except as a pe- 
cuniary contributor to their support on the outsi t, 
wliich I could not refuse to the earnest request ol 
the projectors. Col. Stanhope and myself had con- 
siderable differences of opinion on this subject, and 
(what will appear laughable enough) to such a dt 
gree that he charged me with desjx)tic principles, and 
I him with ultra-radicalism. 

' Dr. * ♦, the editor, with his unrestrained free 
dom of the press, and who has the freedom to exer- 
cise an unlimited discretion, — not allowing any 
article but his own and those like them to appear,— 
and in declaiming against restrictions, cuts, carves, 
and restricts (as they tell me), at his own will and 
pleasure. He is the author of an article against 
monarchy, of which he may have the advantage and 
fame — but they (the editors) will get themselves into 
a scrape, if they do not take care. 

*' Of all petty tyrants, he is one of the pettiest, 
as are most demagogues, that ever I kne»v. He is 
a Swiss by birth, and a Greek by assumption, having 
married a wife, and changed his religion. 

" I shall be very glad, and am extremely anxiouii 
for some favorable result to the recent pacific over- 
tures of the contending parties in the PeloponnefM»." 



LETTER DCXXX. 

to MR. BARFF. 

" MuKh 1*. 

*' If the Greek deputies (as seems probable^ have 
obtained the loan, the sums I have udvancea ma? 
perhaps be repaid ; but it would make no great dif- 
ference, as I should still spend that in the cause, and 
niore^o boot — though I should hope to better pur- 
pose than paying otf arrears of fleets that sail away, 
and Suliotes that won't march, which, they say. 
what has hitherto been advanced has been cmploy«.*a 
in. But that was not my affair, but of those who 
had the disposal of affairs, and I could not decently 
say to them, ' You shall do sc and so, because, &c., 
&c., itiC' 

" In a few days, P. Mavrocordato and myself, >n-ith 
a considerabK> escort, intend to proceed to Sulona at 
the request of Ulysses and the chiefs of Knstern 
Greece, and take measures offensive and defensive 
for the ensuing campaign. Mavrocordato is almost 
recalled by tlie 7iew government to the Morca (to 
take the lead, I rather think), and ihey have WK'ten 
to propose to me, to go either to the Moreii witU 
him, or to take the general direction of a.'.'.iirs in 
this quarter — with General Londo. and any other I 
may choose, to form a council. A. Londo is my old 
friend and acquaintance since we were Uas la 
Greece together. It wtuild be difficult to giTe • 
positive anuwer till the Salona meeting is over,* but 
I urn willing to serve them in any capacity they 
please, either commanding or cummandrd — it it 
much the same to me, as long as I can be of anr 
presiimrd use to them. 

•'Excuse haste; it is late, and I have hern «et- 
eral hours on horseback in a country so miry aflor 



• To thU filTrrurih* OuTwmim nt U> »|-i 
Qrnrer. (Uiat )•, uf Uir (infniiKhlirtl p«rt iif t!> 






978 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



the raine, thai every hundred yards brings you to a 
ditch, of whose dtpth, width, C"l':^r, and contents, 
both my horses and their riders have brought away 
many tokens." 



LETTER DCXXXI. 

TO MR. BAE.FF. 

" March 26. 

" Since your intelligence with regard to the 
Greek loan, P. Mavrocordato has shown to me an 
extract from some correspondence of his, by which 
it would appear that three commissioners are to 
be named to see that the amount is placed in proper 
hands for the service of the country, and that my 
name is among the number. Of this, however, we 
have as yet only the report. 

" This comm'ission is apparently named by the 
committee or the contracting parties in England, 



first time that you had placed them in s.milar eu 
cumstances. Neither Mr. Hesketh nor mjseli 
could imagine that you were in bed, as we had been 
assured of the contrary, and certainly sucn a situa 
tion was not contemplated. But Mr. Hesketh had 
positive orders to conduct you from your quarters to 
those of the Artillery Brigade, at the same time 
being desu-ed to use no violence, nor does it appeal 
that any was had recourse to. This measure waa 
adopted, because your landlord assured me when I 
proposed to put off the inquiry until the next da;y, 
that he could not return to his house without a 
guard for his protection, and that he had left Lis 
wife, and daughter, and family in the greatest alarm : 
and on that account putting them under our imme- 
diate protection. The case admitted of no delay. 
As I am not aware that Mr. Hesketh exceeded his 
orders, I cannot take any measures to punish him, 
but I have no objection to examine minutely into 
his conduct. You ought to recollect that entering 



_ r ■ ■ J.X, u. u - - • • -n V, ' into his Auxiliary Greek corps now under my orders, 

I am of opmion that^ such a commission will be ^^ y^^^ ^^^.^ ^^^^^ ^^q^^^^ ^^^ ^^^-^-^.^ ^^--^.^^ y^- 



necessary, but the office will be both delicate and 
difficult. The weather, which has lately been equi- 
noctial, has flooded the country, and will probably 
retard our proceeding to Salona for some days, till 
the road becomes more practicable. 

" You were already apprized that P. Mavrocordato 
and myself had been invited to a conference by 
Ulysses and the chiefs of Eastern Greece. I hear 
(and am indeed consulted on the subject) that in 
case the remittance of the first advance of the loan 
should not arrive immediately, the Greek Gen-^ral 
Government mean to try to raise some thousand 
dollars in the islands in the interim, to be repaid 
from the earliest instalments on their arrival. What 
prospect of success they may have, or on what con- 
ditions, you can tell better than me : I suppose, if! 
the loan be confirmed, something might be done by| 
them, but subject of course to the usual 
You can let them and me kno 
There is an imperious necessi 



incurred the obligation of obeying the laws of the 
country as well as those of the service. 

'• I have the honor to be, &c., &c., 

"Noel Byron.' 



LETTER DCXXXIII. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



■ AprU ; 



" There is a quarrel, not yet settled, between the 
citizens and some of Cariascachi's people, which 
has already produced some blows. IJkeep my peo 
pie quite neutral ; but have ordered them to be on 
their guard. 

" Some days ago we had an Italian private soldier 

teims. drummed out for thieving. The German officers 

w your own op.nion | ^..^^^^^i ^^ q ^^^. but 1 flatly refused to permit 

ity for some nationalising ^^^^ ^^ the stick 



- , J ^1. ^- j-i J.-L. - ■ 1. a. • X u I "»- — V.X v-xi^. ^..^a. or whip, and delivered him over 

fund, and that speedily, other^-ise what is to bej^othe police. Since then a Prussian officer rioted 
done ? The auxiliary corps of about two hundred-^ ^^i^ lodgings ; and I put him under arrest, ac- 
men paid by me, are, I believe, the sole regularly u^j.^-^ ^^ ^j^^ ^^^^^^ -j-^is, it appears, did not 
and properlv furnished v^ith the money, due to them I ig^g/jnig German confederation : but I stuck by 
weekly, and the officers monthly. It is true that,^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ • ^^ ^^em plainly to upder- 
the Greek government gives their rations but we,^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^'^^ ^^ ^^ amenable 
have had three mutinies, owing to the badness or ' 
the bread, which neither native nor stranger could 
masticate (nor dogs either), and there is stiU great 
difficulty in obtaining them even provisions of any 
kind, 

" There is a dissension among the Germans about 
the conduct of the agents of their committee, and 
an examination among themselves instituted. What 
the result may be, cannot be anticipated, except 
that it will end in a row, of course, as usual. 

"The English are all very amicable, as far as I 
know ; we get on too with the Greeks very tolerably, 
always making allowance for circumstances ; and 
we have no quarrels with the foreigners." 



LETTER DCXXXII. 

TO • « « » ♦ , A PRUSSIAN OFFICER. 



'8lB, 



Aprl . , .8!^. 



*' I have the honor to reply to your letter of this 
day. In consequence of an urgent, and, to all ap- 
pearance, a well-founded complaint made to me 
yesterday evening, I gave orders to Mr. Hesketh,* 
to proceed to your quarters with the soldiers of his 
guard, and to remove you from your house to the 
Beraglio, because the owner of your house declared 
himself and his family to be in immediate danger 
from your conduct, and added that it wa? not the 

* Tbe A^liuant. 



to the laAvs of the country and service, may retire ; 
but that in all that I have to do, I will see them 
obeyed by foreigner or native. 

" I wish something was heard of the arrival of 
part of the loan, for there is a plentiful dearth of 
every thing at present." 



LETTER DCXXXIV. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



' Apnl 



" Since I wrote, we have had some tumult here 
with the citizens and Cariascachi's people, and all 
are under arms, our boys and all. They nearly fired 
on me and fifty of my lads,* by mistake, as we were 
taking our usual excursion into the country. To- 
day matters are settled, or subsiding ; but about an 
hour ago, the father-in-law of the landlord of the 
house where I am lodged (one of the primates the 
said landlord is) was arrested for high-treason. 

" They are in conclave still with Mavrocordato ; 
and we have a number of new faces from the hills, 
come to assist, they say. Gun -boats and batteries 
all ready, &c. 

" The row has had one good effect — it has puf 
them on the alert. What is to become of the falhei 
in-law, I do not know ; nor what he has done, ei 
actly ; but 

• 'Ti» a very fine tiling to be father-in-law 
To a very magnificent three-tailed tashaw,' 

• A eoip* </ tt^ BuUotM, hk wKtjr.fuafd. 



EXTKACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



97y 



as the man in Bluebeard says and sings. I wrote to 
you upon matters at length, some days ago ; the 
letter, or letters, you will receive with this. "We are 
desirous to hear more of the loan; and it is some 
time since I have had any letters (at least of an in- 
teresting description) from England, excepting one 
of 4th Feb., from Bowring (of no great import- 
ance). My latest dates are of Q^re, or of the 6th 
10'>^ four months exactly. 1 hope you get on well 
in the islands : here most of us are, or have been, 
more or less indisposed, natives as well as foreign- 
ers." 



LETTER DCXXXV. 



TO MR. BARFF. 



' April 7. 



" The Greeks here of the government have been 
boring me for more money. As I have the brigade 



t . maintain, and the campaign is apparently now to 
c jen, and as I have already spent thirtj' thousano 
dollars in three months upon them in one way ox 
other, and more especially as their public loan ban 
succeeded, so that they ought not to draw *jom indi- 
viduals at that rate, I have given them a refusal, 
and — as they would not take that, — aiwtlier refussil 
in terms of considerable sincerity. 

"They \vish now to try in the islands for a few 
thousand dollars on the ensuing loan. If yci can 
serve them, perhaps you will, (in the way of infer 
mation, at any rate,) and 1 will see that you have 
fair play, but still I do not advise you, except to set 
as you please. Almost every thing depends up -■n 
the arrival, and the speedy arrival, of a portion ol 
the loan to keep peace among themselves. If thi; 
can but have sense to do this. I think that they rill 
be a match and better for any force that can be 
brought against them for the present. We are \11 
doing as well as we can." 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL, 



BEGUN NOVEMBER 14, 1813. 



•• If this had been begun ten years ago, and faith- 
fully kept ! ! ! — heigho ! there are too many things I 
wish never to have remembered, as it is. Well, — I 
have had my share of what are called the pleasures 
of this life, and I have seen more of the European 
and Asiatic world than I have made a good use of. 
They say ' virtue is its own reward,' — it certainly 
should be paid well for its trouble. At five-and- 
twenty, when the better part of life is over, one 
should be something ; — and what am I ? nothing but 
five-and-twenty- -and the odd months. What have 
I seen r the same man all over the world, — ay, and 
woman too. Give me a Mussulman who never asks 
questions, and a she of the same race who saves 
one the trouble of putting them. But for this same 
plague — yellow-fever — and Newstead delay, 1 should 
have been by this time a second time close to the 
Euxinc. If I can overcome the last, I don't so 
much mind your pestilence; and, at any rate, the 
spring shall see me there, — provided I neither niarrv 
myself nor uiiniarry any one else in the interval. \ 
wish one was — I don't know what I wish. It is odd 
I never set myself seriously to wishing without at- 
tf'ining it — and repenting. I l)egin to believe with 
the good old Magi, that one should only pray for 
the nation, and not for the individual; — biit, ou my 
piinciple, this would not be very patriotic. 

"No more rcHections. — Let nie see — last night I 
finished ' Zuleika,'* my second Tunkish Tale. I 
believe the composition of it kept ine alive — for it 
was written to drive my thoughts from the recollec- 
tion of — 

' V.*\t, Mcmd ntme, real ever unrpveMM,' 

At least, even here, mv hand would tremble to write 
It. This afternoon \ have burned the sceneB of my 
commenced comedy. 1 have nonie idea of expecto- 



I'lM wae uf Ad « 



rating a romance, ot rather a tale, in prose ;— but 

what romance could equal the events — 



' qnivq'ie tpM . , 
Et qiionim par* nia^na fni.' 



»id!, 



" To-day Henry Byron called on me vrith my little 
cousin Eliza. She will grow up a beaxity and a 
plague; but, in the mean time, it is the prettiest 
child ! dark eyes and eyelashes, black and long as 
the wing of a raven. I think she is prettier even 
than my niece, Georjiiana, — yet 1 don't like to think 
so neither; and, though older, she is not so clever. 

"I)allas called before I was up, so we did not 
meet. Lewis, too — who seems out of humor with 
everything. What can be the niatter? hr i» not 
married — has he lost his own mistress, or any other 
person's wife ? Hodgson, too, came. He is going 
to be married, and he is the kind of man who will 
be the happier. He bus talent, eheerfuliirss, every 
thing that can make him a pleasing ioti,]' .Tiitin ; 
and his intended is handsome and \ ill 

that. Mm I never see any one mui i >t 

matrimony. All my eounhd cont< ; i .iro 

bald and discontented. W. and S. have both Kmt 
their hair and good-humor ; and the last of the two 
had a good deal to lose. But it don't much hignify 
wliat tails art' x\ man's temj^les in that state. 

•* Mem. 1 must get u toy to-morrow \'vx V.liza 
and send the device lor the seals of n^ • • 

♦ • *. Mem. too, to rail on the St Im 

Holland to-morrow, and on ♦ *, wlu; ~cd 

m«' (without seeing it. hy-thc-by) not to publish 
'Ztiltika;' I believe he is ■ right, but experienos 
mi." ! Might him that not to print is /»Ay»i- 
(•(' i«'. No one has seen it but HodgHOO 
ati 1(1. I never in m> li(V r,./,- .> r(m:p(v 
sitiuu, >.\i to Hoilgson, as be y '' 

is a horrible thing to do too tre(|i.' 
and tkey who likv may read, lUiu _. .. i - : •• 



980 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



fou have the satisfaction of knowing that they 
Uave, at least, purchased the right of sayin^j so. 

" I have declined presenting the Debtor's Peti- 
tion, being sick of parliamentary mummeries. I 
/"have spoken thrice ; but I doubt ray ever becoming 
I an orator. My first was liked ; the second and third 
! —I don't know Avhether they succeeded or not. I 
' have never yet set to it con amove ; one must have 
Boras excuse to oneself for laziness, or inability, or 
Doth, and this is mine. 'Company, villanous com- 
panv, hath been the spoil of me;' — and then, I 
have ' drunk medicines,' not to make me love 
,,*;h?rs, but certainly enough to hate myself. 

*'■ Two nights ago, I saw the tigers sup at Exeter 

/ 'Ci^ange. Except Veli Pacha's lion in the Morea, 

' —who followed the Arab keeper like a dog, — the 

i fondness of the hyaena for her keeper amused me 

V most. Such a crnversazione ! There was a 'hip 

popotamus,' like Lord Liverpool in the face ; and 

the ' IJ'-sint Sio^.b. ' hath the very voice and manner 

of my' vale* -oct the tiger talked too much. The 

elephar . took and gave me my money again — took 

off my hat — opened a door — trunked a whip — and 

behaved so well, that I wish he was my butler. The 

handsomest animal on earth is one of the panthers ; 

but the poor antelopes were dead. I should hate to 

see one here : — the sight of the camel made me pine 

ag-ain for Asia Minor. ' Oh quando te aspiciara ? * 



"Nor. 16. 

""Went last night with Lewis to see the first of 
Antony and Cleopatra. It was admirably got up, 
and wer acted — a salad of Shakspeare and Dryden. 
Cleopatra strikes me as the epitome of her sex — 
fond, lively, sad, tender, teasing, humble, haughty, 
beautiful, the devil ! — coquettish to the last, as well 
with the ' asp ' as with Antony. After doing all 
fhe can to persuade him that — ^but why do they 
abuse him for cutting off that poltroon Cicero's 
head ? Did not TuUy tell Brutus it was a pity to 
have spared Antony ? and did he not speak th 
Philippics ? and are not ' words thinys ? ' and such 
* loords ' very pestilent * things ' too ? If he had 
nad a hundred heads, they deserved (from Antony) 
a rostrum (his was stuck up there) a-piece — though 
after all, he might have as well have pardoned him 
for the credit of the thing. But to resume — Cleopa- 
tra, after securing him, says, ' yet go ' — ' it is your 
interest,' &c. ; how like the sex ! and the questions 
about Octavia — it is woman all over. 

" To-day received Lord Jersey's invitation to Mid 
dleton — to travel sixty miles to meet Madame de 
Stael ! I once travelled three thousand to get 
among silent people ; and this same lady writes 
octavos and talks folios. I have read her books — 
like most of them, and delight in the last: so I 
won't hear it, as well as read. ******* 

** Read Burns to-day. What would he have been, 
if a patrician ? We should have had more polish — 
less force — just as much verse, but no immortality 
— a divorce and a duel or two, the which had he 
survived, as his potations must have been less spir- 
ituous, he might have lived as long as Sheridan, 
ind outlived as much as poor Briiisley. What a 
wreck is that man ! and all from bad pilotage ; for 
■ one had ever better gales, though now and then 
t little to squally, PocVr dear Sherry ! I shall never 
forg^it the day he, and Rogers, and Moore, and I 
passed together ; when he talked, and we listened, 
without one yawn, from six till one in the morning. 

• " Got my seals ******. Have again forgot a 
plaything for my petite cousine Eliza ; but I must 
B( nd for it to-morrow. I hope Harry will bring her 
to me. I sent Lord Holland the proofs of the last 

Giaour,' and the 'Bride of Abydos.' He won't 
hke the latter, and I don't think that I shall long, 
[t wa.s written in four nights to distract my dreams 
from * *. Were it not thus, it had never been com- 
posed; and had I not done something at that time, 
) must have gone mad, by eating my own heart — 



bitter diei ! H dgson likes it bet er than thfl 
Giaour, but nobtdy else will, — and he never liked 
the Fragment. I am sure, tad it not been for Mur 
ray, that would never have been published, though 
the circumstances which are the groundwork make 
it * * * heigh-ho ! 

"To-night I saw both the sisters of * *; my 
God; the youngest so like ! I thought I should hava 
sprung across the house, and am so glad no one was 
with me in Lady Holland's box. I hate those like- 
nessess — the mock-bird, but not the nightingale — 
so like as to remind, so different as to be painful. 
One quarrels equally with the points of resemblance 
and of distinction. 

"Nov. 17, 

" No letter from * * ; but I must not complainX 
The respectable Job says, '\Vhy should a living) 
man complain ? ' I really don't know, except it be' 
that a dead man can't; and he, the said patriarch,' 
did complain, nevertheless, till his friends were 
tired, and his wife recommended that pious pro 
logue, ' Curse — and die ; ' the only time, I suppose, 
when but little relief is to be found in swearing. 1 
have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland, on 
' The Bride of Abydos,' which he likes, and so does 
Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from 
whom I don't deserve any quarter. Yet I did think, 
at the time, that my cause of enmity proceeded from 
Holland House, and am glad I was wrong, and wish 
I had not been in such a hurry with that confounded 
satire, of which I would suppress even the memory ; 
— but people, now they can't get it, make a fuss, t 
verily believe, out of contradiction. 

"George Ellis and Murray have been talking 
something about Scott and me, George pro Scoto, 
— and very right too. If they want to depose him. 
I only wish they would not set me up as a competi 
tor. Even if I had my choice, I would rather be the 
earl of Warwick than all the kings he ever made ! 
Jeffrey and Giffwd I take to be the monarch-makera 
in poetry and prose. The British Critic, in their 
Rokeby Review, have presupposed a comparison, 
which I am sure my friends never thought of, and 
W, Scott's subjects are injudicious in de.5cending 
to, I like the man — and admire his works to what 
Mr. Braham calls entustjinusy. All such stuff can 
only vex him, and do me no good. Many hate his 
politics, — (I hate all politics;) and, here, a man's 
politics are like the Greek soul — an et^wAoi/, besides 
God knows what' other soul ; but their estimate of 
the two generally go together. 

"Harry has not brought ma petite cousine. I 
want us to go to the play together ; she has been 
but once. Another short note from Jersey, invit- 
ing Rogers and me on the 23d. I must see my 
agent to night. I wonder when that Newstead 
business will be finished. It cost me more than 
words to part with it — and to have parted with it ! 
What matters it what I do ? or what becomes of 
me ?— but let me remember Job's saying, and con- 
sole myself with being ' a living man.' 

" I wish I could settle to reading again ; my life is 
monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, 
and fling them dovra again. I began a comedy, and 
burned it because the scene ran into reality ; a novel, 
for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more 
away from facts ; but the thought always runs 

through, through yes, yes, through. I have 

had a letter from Lady Melbourne, the best friend 
I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women. 

" Not a wordifrom * *. Have they set out from 
* * ? or has my last precious epistle fallen into ths 
lion's jaws ? If so — and this silence looks suspi- 
cious — I must clap on ' my musty morion ' and 
'hold out my iron,' I am out of practice, but I 
won't begin again at Manton's now. Besides, I 
would not return his shot. I was once a famoui 
wafer-splitter ; but then the bullies of society made 
it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I hart 
a bad cause to support, I have left off the exero»_.. 

" What strange titfimrH from that Anahim i 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



98i 



jtnprchy — ^Bonaparte! Ever since I defended my 
busv jf him at Harrow against the rascally time- 
Bervors, when the war broke out in 1803, he has 
beon a ' Htros de Roman ' of mine, on the conti- 
nent ; I don't want him here. But I don't like 
those same flights, leaving of armies, &c., &c. I 
am sure when I fought for his bust at school, I did 
not think he would run away from himself. But I 
should not wonder if he banged them yet. To be 
beat by men would be something ; but by three stu- 
pid, legitimate-old-dynasty boobies of regular-bred 
sovereigns — 0-hone-a-rie ! — 0-hone-a-rie \ It must 
be, as Gobbet saysf his marriage with the thick- 
Upp-d and thick-headed Aatridiienne brood. He 
had oetter have kept to her who was kept by Barras. 
I never knew any good to come of your young wife, 
and legal espousals, to any but your ' sober-blooded 
Doy,' who 'eats fish' and drinketh 'no sack.' Had 
he not the whole opera .^ all Paris ? all France ? 
But a mistress is just as perplexing — that is, one, — 
two or more are manageable by division. 

" I have begun, or had begun a song, and flung 
it into the fire. It was in remembrance of Mary 
Duii", my first of flames, before most people begin to 
burn. I wonder what the devil is the matter with 
me ! I can do nothing, and — fortunately there is 
nothing to do. It has lately been in my power to 
make two persons (and their connexions) comforta- 
ble, pro ti'iHpore, and one happy ex tempore, — I re- 
joice in the last particularly, us it is an excellent 
man. I wish there had been more inconvenience 
and les^ gratification to my self-love in it, for then 
there had been more merit. We arc all selfish 
—and I believe, ye gods, of Epicurus ! I believe 
ki Ruchefoucault above rnen, and in Lucretius, (not 
Busby's translation,) about yourselves. Your bard 
has made you very nonchalant and blest ; but as he 
''has excused us from damnation, I don't envy you 
your blessedness much — a little, to be sure I re- 
member last year, * * said to me at * *, ' Have we 
not passed our last month like the gods of Lucre- 
tius ? ' And so we had. She is an adept in the 
text of the original, (which I like too ;) and when 
that booby Bus. sent his translating prospectus, she 
subscribed. But, the devil prompting him to add a 
specimen, she transmitted him a subsequent answer, 
saying, ..hat, ' after perusing it, her conscience would 
not permit her to allow her name to remain on tht 
list of subscribers.' « « * « 

* * Last night, at Lord Holland's 
— Mackiiftosh, the Ossulstones, Puyscgui, &c., 
there — I was trying to recollect a quotation (as / 
think) of Stael's, from some Teutonic sophist al)out 
architecture. ' Architecture,' says this Macoronica 
Tedescho, ' reminds uie of frozen music' It is 
somewhere — but where ? — the demon of perplexity 
must know and wo7<'t tell. I asked Moore, and he 

said it was not in her ; but P r said it must bt 

hers, it was so like. * * * ♦ < 

* * . * ♦ H. laughed, as he 
does at all * De rAllemagnc,'— in which, however, 1 
think he goes a little too far. B., 1 hear, contemns 
it too. But there are fine passages ; — a>id after ;ill, 
what is. a work— any— or every work— l)ut a desert 
'vith fountains, and, perhajjs, a grove or two. every 
l;iy'* journey i" To be sure, in Madame, what we 
,).ten nustake, and ' pant for,' as the ' cooling 
stream,' turns out to be the ' mirooi-,' (eriliei', 
verb'uK/c ;) but we do, at last, g.-t to sonuthing like 
the t«.mpie of Jove Ammon, and then the waste 
we b«^ve"pa88od is only remembered to gladden the 
contrast. 



Called on C ♦ ♦, to explain 



Sht 



very beiMitiful, to my taste, at least; for on eoniiug 
hoi.ie from abroiul. I recollect being unable to look 
at any woman but her— thev were so fair, and iiii- 
meaning, and hloiule. The darkncHH and regulantv 
of her features reminded me of my 'Jiiimat ul 
Aden.' Hut thin impression wore ofi ; and now 1 
»an look ut a fair woman without Ioukiuk for u 



Houri. She was very good-tempered, and eveij 
thing was explained. 

" To-day, great news, — ' the Dutch have taker 
Holland,' — which, I suppose, will be succeeded bj 
the actual explosion of the Thames. Five province! 
have declared for young Stadt, and there will b€ 
inundation, conflagration, constirpation, conster 
nation, and every sort of nation and nations, fight 
ing away up to their knees, in the damnable quagi 
of this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It is said, 
Bernadotte is among them, too ; and, as Orange 
will be there soon, they will have (Crown) Piiuc« 
Stork and King Log in their Loggery at th< sarue 
time. Two to one on the new dynasty ! 

' Mr. Murray has ofi"ered me one thousand gi.in « 
for the ' Giaour ' and the ' Bride of Abvdca.' ' 
won't — it is too much, though I am strongly terarl 
ed, merely for the say of it. No bad price for a 
fortnight's (a week each) what ? — the gods know- 
it was intended to be called poetry. 

"I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time 
since Sunday last — this being Sabbath, too. All the 
rest, tea and dry biscuits — six per diem. I wish to 
God I had not dined now ! It kills me with heavi- 
ness, stupor, and horrible dreams ; — and yet it was 
but a pint of bucellas and fish. — Meat I never touch, 
— nor much vegetable diet. I wish I were in the 
country, to take exercise, — instead of being obliged 
to coolhy abstinence, in lieu of it. I should not so 
much mind a little accession of flesh, — my bones can 
well bear it. But the worst is, the devil ulways 
came with it, — till I starve him out, — and I will not 
be the slave of any appetite. If I do err, it shall 
be mv heart, at least, that heralds the way. Oh 
my head — how it aches ! — the horrors of digea 
tion ! I wonder how Bonaparte's dinner agrees with 
him ? 

' Mem. I must write to-morrow to ' Master 
Shallow who owes me a thousand pe.. ds,' and 
seems, in his letter afraid that I should ask him foi 
it; — as if I would ! — I doa't want it (just now, at 
least), to begin with ; and thoiigh I have often 
wanted that sum, I never asked for the repayment 
of !()/. in my life — from a friend. His bond is not 
due this year; and I told him when it was, I should 
not enforce it. How often must he make me say 
the same thing ? 

" I am wrong— I did once ask ♦ • ♦ to repay me 
But it was under circumstances that extused uje ft. 
him, and would to any one. I took no interest, nor 
req\iired security. He jiaid me soon — at lea<Jt, his 
padre. My head ! 1 believe it was given me to acbo 
with. Good even. 

"Nv*. «, 1813. 

" • Orange Boven ! ' So the bees have expelled 
the bear that broke onen their hive. W»ll. — ii" we 
are to have new De Witts and De liuyters. God 
speed the little npuMic ! I should lik«- to see 
the Hague and tlu- viU;,«e of Hroek, where ihtj 
have such primitive habits. Yet. 1 don't know, 
— their canals would cut a poor fimireby the memo- 
ry of the Hosi)horu8 ; and the Zuyder Zee look 
awkwardlv after ' Ak Degnity." ^o mnttir,— the 
Itlulf liurs;liers, ptiHing freedoui out of then sLoit 
tobacco-|up«s nnght be worth seeing; though I pre- 
fer a rigur «>rahooka, with the rose-h'af mi.xed with 
the mihh r herb of the Levant. 1 don't kn.»T what 
libcrtv mtans,— never having seen it, — but wiulih 
is poxver all over the w«>rld : and as u shillinc \vt 
forms the dutv of » inmnd (besides nun and ^ky um' 
beaut\ fur nothing) in tlie Kust,— /Art/ is xXw coun 
try. lliw I envy llemdes Attirus !— more than 
PiunpnniiiH. And' vet a little rMi/n<.'/. now and then, 
\n U.J agreeable «inukener of st-nsation . btnh as a 
vevolulion, u buttle, or an avtutiirc of any liveU 
de^eriptiou. I think I rather would have Iteen lion 
nmal, Uij)perdu, All»eioni, llayreddiu, or Horuc 
Marltarossa, or even Wortley Montugue, thun M» 

hohirt hnUM'lf. 

" i:o;,( I . \\\\\ be in town 'oon ! — the 2.'id »« fixcJ 
I for our Middletou viait. Shall I ko ? umpU *. -l« 



982 



BtlvOJ^'S WORKS. 



this island, wlieie one can't ride out without over- 
taking the s(;a, it don't much matter where one 
goes. 

* * * * * * 

*" 1 remember the effect of the, Jirst Edinburgh 
Review on me. I heard of it six week before, — 
read it tiie day of its denunciation, — dined and 
drank three bottles of claret, (with S. B. Davies, I 
think,) — neither ate nor slept the less, but never- 
theless, was not easy till I had vented my wrath 
and my rhyme, in the same pages, against every 
thing and every body. Like George, in the Vicar 
. of Wakefield, ' the fate of my paradoxes ' would 
allow me to perceive no merit in another. I re- 
membered only the maxim of my boxing-master, 
which, in my youth was found useful in all general 
riots,--' Whoever is not for you is against you — 
mill away right and left,' and so I did ; — like 
Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all 
men's anent me. I did wonder, to be sure at my 
i)wn success — 

' And ir.ijvels so much wit is ail his own.* 

as Hob house sarcastically says of somebody, (not 
unlikel}- myself, as we are old friends ;) — but were 
it to come over again, I would 7iot. I have since 
redde* the cause of my couplets, and it is not ade- 
quate to the etfect. C * * told me that it was be- 
lieved I alluded to poor Lord Carlisle's nex'vous dis- 
order in one of the lines. I thank heaven I did not 
know it — and would not, could net, if I had. I must 
naturally be the last person to be pointed on defects 
or maladies. 
^,~. " Rogers is silent, — and, it is said, severe. When 
' ne does talk, he talks well ; and, on all subjects of 
taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his poe- 
try. If you enter his house — his drawing-room — 
his library — you of yourself say, this is not the 
dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, 
a coin, a book, thrown aside on his chimney-piece, 
his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost 
fastidious elegance in the possessor. But this very 
delijacy must be the misery of his existence. Oh 
the jarrings his disposition must have encountered 
through life ! 

" Southey 1 have not seen much of. His appear- 
ance is Epic ; and he is the only existing entire man 
of letters. All the others have some pursuit' an- 
nexed to their authorship. His manners are mild, 
Out not those of a man of the world, and his talents 
"»f tl^ first order. His prose is perfect. 'Of his 
f'oetry there are various opinions : there is, perhaps, 
too much of it for the present generation ; — poster- 
ity will probably select. He has passa(/es equal to 
any thing. At present, he has a party, but no pub- 
lic — except for his prose writings. Tlie life of Nel- 
son is beautiful. 

" * * is a Litt'rateur, the Oracle of the Coteries, 
of the * *s, L * W *, (Sidney Smith's ' Tory Vir- 
gin,') Mrs. Wilmot, (she, at least, is a swan, and 
might frequent a purer stream,) Lady B * *, and all 
the Blues, with Lady Caroline at their head — but -1 
say nothing of he>\ — ' look in her face, and you for- 
get them all,' and every thing else. Oh that face ! 
—by 'te, Diva potens Cypri,' I would, to be be- 
loved by that woman, build and burn another 
Troy. 

" Moore has a peculiarity of talent, or rather tal- 
•ents,- -poetry, music, voice, all his own ; and an ex- 
pression in each, which never was, nor will be, pos- 
sessed by another. But he is capable of still higher 
flights in poetry. By-the-by, what humor, what — 
every thing in the ' Post-Bag ! ' There is nothing 
Moore may not do, if he will but seriously set about 
it. In society, he is gentlemanly, gentle, and alto- 
gether more pleasing than any individual with 
whom I am acquainted. For his honor, principle, 
und independence, his conduct to * * * * speaks 
■ tn.mpet-tongued.' He has but one fault — and 
•iiat one I daily regret — he is not here. 



K VM thus that tw. in feneral. iDelled tliw word 



" Ward— I like Ward.* By Mahomet ! I begin 
to think I like every body ; a disposition not to be 
encouraged ; a sort of social gluttony, that swallows 
every thing set before it. But I like Ward. He is 
piquant ; and in my opinion, will stand very high in 
the House and every where else — if he applies reg- 
ularly. By-the-by, I dine with him to-morrow 
which may have some influence on my opinion, \y 
is as well not to trust one's gratitude ajter din- 
ner. I have heard many a host libelled by his guests, 
with his burgundy yet reeking on their rascally 
lips. 

« * * * * * 

" I have taken Lord Salisbury's box at Covent 
Garden for the season ; — and now I must go and 
prepare to join Lady Holland and party, in theirs, 
at Drury Lane, questa sera. 

" Holland doesn't think the man is Junius ; but 
that the yet unpublished journal throws great light 
on tlie obscurities of that part of George the Second's 
reign. — What is this to George the Third's ? I don't 
know what to think. Why should Junius be yet 
dead ? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his 
grave without sending his £(r5wA u^ to shout in the 
ears of posterity, ' Junius was X. Y. Z., Esq., buried 
in the parish of * * *. Repair his monument, ye 
church-wardens ! Print a new edition of his letters, 
ye booksellers!' Impossible; the man must be 
alive, and will never die without the disclosure. I 
like him ; he was a good hater. 

" Came home unwell and went to bed* — not so 
sleepy as might be desirable. 

" Tuesday Morning. 

" I awoke from a di-eam — well ! and have not oth- 
ers dreamed ? — Such a dream ! but she did not over- 
take me. I wish the dead would rest, however. — 
Ugh ! how my blood chilled — and 1 could not wake 
— and — and — heigho ! 

' Shadows to-night 
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, 
Than could tlie substance of ten thousand * * s, • 

Arm'd all in proof, and led by shallow * *.' 

I do not like this dream, — I hate its * foregone con 
elusion.' And am I to be shaken by shadows ? Ay, 
when they remind us of — no matter — but, if I 
dream thus again, I will try whether all sleep has 
the like visions. Since I rose I've been in considera- 
ble bodily pain also ; but it is gone, and now, like 
Lord Ogleby, I am wound xip for the day. 

"Anote from Mountnorris — I dine with Ward; 
Canning is to be there, Ferere, and Sharpe, perhaps 
Gilford. I am to be one of ' the five,' (or rafher 
six,) as Lady * * said, a little sneeringly, yesterday. 
They are all good to meet, particularly Canning, and 
— Ward, when he likes. I wish I may be well enough 
to listen to these intellectuals. 

'• No letters to-day ; so much the better, there are 
no answers. 1 must not dream again ; it spoils 
even reality. I will go out of do6rs, and see what 
the fog will do for me. Jackson has been here; 
the boxing world much as usual ; but the club in- 
creases. I shall dine at Crib's to-morrow : I like 
energy, even animal energy, of all kinds ; and I 
have need of both mental and corporeal. I have not 
dined out, nor, indeed, at all, lately; have heard 
no music, have seen nobody. Now for a. plu7i(/i~-' 
high life and low life. ' Amant alterna Caiuoe 
naj ! ' 

" I have burned my Roman, as I did the fist 
scenes and sketch of my comedy — and, for aught I 
see, the pleasure of burning is quite as great aa 
that of printing. These two last Avould not have 
done, I ran into realities more than ever ; and 
some would have been recognized and others guessed 
at. 

' Redde the Ruminator, a collection of essays, h\ 
a strange, but able, old man (Sir Edgerton Bridges) 
and a half-wild young one, author of a poem on the 



The pTesent Lotd Dudley, 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



983 



Highlands, called '(-liilde Alarique.' The word 
'senLsibility,' (always my aversion) occurs a thou- 
sand times in these essays ; and, it seems, is to be 
an excuse for all kinds of discontent. This young 
man can know nothing of life ; and, if he cherishes 
the disposition that runs through his papers, will 
, become useless, and, perhaps, not even a poet, after 
all which he seems determined to be'. God help 
him ! no one should be a rhymer who could be any 
thing better. And this is what annoys one, to see 
Scott and Moore, and Campbell and Rogers, who 
; might all have been agents and leaders-; now mere 
'^' Hpectators. For, though they may have other os- 
tenr.ible avocations, these last are reduced to a sec- 
ondary consideration. * *, too, frittering away his 
tim-d among dowagers and unmarried giiis. If it 
advanced any serious affair, it were some excuse ; 
but, with the unmarried, that is a hazardous specu- 
lation, and tiresome enough, too ; and, with the 
veterans, it is not much worth trying, — unless, per- 
haps, one m a thousand. ^ 

*' If I had any views in this country, they would 
probably be parliamentary. But I have no ambition ; 
at least, if any, it would be ' aut Caesar aut nihil.' 
My hopes are limited to the arrangement of my af- 
fairs, and settling either in Italy or the East, (rather 
the last,) and drinking deep of the languages and 
literature of both. Past events have unnerved me ; 
and all I can now do is to make life an amusement, 
and look on, while others play. After all — even the 
highest game of crowns and sceptres, what is it ? 
Vide Napoleon's Jiist twelvemonth It has com 
pletely upset my system of fatalism. I thought, if 
crushed, he would "have fallen, when ' fractus illa- 
batur orbis,' and not have been pared away to grad- 
ual insignificance ;— that all this was not a mere>it 
of the gods, but a prelude to greater changes and 
mightier events. But men never advance beyond a 
certain point ;— and here we are, retrograding to the 
dull, stupid, old system,— balance of Europe— pois- 
ing straws upon kings' noses, instead of wringing 
them olf ! Give me a republic, or a despotism of 
one, rather than the mixed government of one, two, 
three. A republic ! — look in the history of the 
(■ Earth — Rome, Greece, Venice, France, Holland, 
I America, our short (eheu!) commonwealth, and 
\ compare it with what they did under masters. The 
\ Asiatics are not qualified'tobe republicans, but thev 
1 have the liberty of demolishing despots,— which 
• is the next thing to it. To be the first man— not 
the Dictator— not the Sylla, but the Washington or 
the Aristides— the lead'er in talent and truth— is 
next to the divinity ! Franklin, Penn, and, next to 
these, either Brutus or Cassius— even Mirabeau- or 
%t. Just. I shall never be any thing, or rather al- 
tvays be nothing. The most I can hope is, that some 
will say, ' He might, perhaps, if he would.' 

" 12, Midiilfht. 

"Here arc two confounded proofs from the prin- 
ter. I have looked at the one, but, for the soul of 
m«, I can't look over that ' Giaour ' again,— at least, 
rast now, and at this hour— and yet there is no 

moon. ,.,11. 

" Wail talks of going to Holland, and we have 
nnrtly discussed nv vnscmhle exi)edition. It must 
be in I2n days, if at all, if we wish to be m at the 
revolr.tion. And why not? * * is distant, and will 
b€ at * *, still more distant, till spring. No one 
else, cxcc^it Argusta, caicn for me— no tics— no 
tiammels— r/wZ/Ytwo dumjuc^se tormnmo, /»■'>''— "'^ 
twn rh' importa 1 Old W^illiam of Orangr talked of 
dying in ' tlie last ditch ' of hia dingy country. It n* 
hicky I can swim, or I suppose I should "<'t ^rll 
w.^ulu-r tlve first. But let u» see. T hav hnird 
hyenas ai*l jackals in the ruins of Asia; and Imll- 
fro"s in the marshes, besidi's wolves and angry Mus- 
sulmans. Now, I should like to listen to the shout 
>f a free Dutihmaii. 

•'Alia' Viva! Forever! Honrrn ! lly.ra.- 
whlcl is the most rational or musical of thcbo 



cries? 'Orange Boven, according to the Morniiifl 
Post. 

" \\ <!<lue«liy, i4ik 

" No dreams last night of the dead nor tL:« liv- 
ing — so — I am 'firm as the marble, foindcd as the 
rock ' — till the next earthquake. 

" Ward^s dinner went olf well. There w.is not a 
disagreeable person there — unless / offended any 
body, which I am sure I could not by contradiction, 
for I said little, and opposed nothing. Sharpe (a 
man of elegant mind, and who has lived m'lch \%ith 
the best — jc'ox, Home Tooke, Windham, Fitzpat- 
rick, and all the agitators of other times and 
tongues) told us the particulars of his last interview 
with Windham, a few days before the fatal opera- 
tion, which sent ' that gallant spirit to aspire tLe 
skies.' Windham, — the first in one department of 
oratory and talent, whose only fault was his refii.e- 
ment beyond the intellect of half his hearers, 
Windham, half his life an active participator in the 
events of the earth, and one of those who governed 
nations, — he regretted, and dwelt much on tha 
egret, that ' he had not entirely devoted himself to 
literature" and science I ! ! ' His mind certainly 
would have carried him to eminence there, as else- 
where ; but I cannot comprehend what debility of 
that mind could suggest such a wish. I, who have 
heard him, cannot regret any thing but that 1 shaU 
never hear him again. What ! would he have beei. 
a plodder ? a metaphysiciali ? — perhaps a rhymer ? a 
scribbler ? Such an exchange must have been sug- 
gested by illness. But he is gone, and Time ' shall 
not look upon his like again.' 

" I am tremendously in arrear with my letters, — 
except to * *, and to her my thoughts overpower 
me, — my words never compass them. To Ludy 
Melbourne I write with most pleasure — and her 
answers, so sensible, so tactique — 1 never met with 
half her talent. If she had been a few years 
younger, what a fool she would have made of me 
had she thought it worth her while, — and I should 
have lost a valuable and most ugiceable jKiini. 
Mem. — a mistress never is nor can be a friend. 
While you agree, you are lovers; and, when it i& 
over, any thing but friends. 

" I have not answered W. Scott's last letter, — but 
I will. 1 regret to hear from others that he has 
lately been unfortunate in pecuninry involv«-nu-nts. 
He is undoubtedly the monarch of Parnassn-. :.hd 
the most Eiuilish of bards. 1 should p]a>'o H. .;. . ^ 
next in the living li^t — (I value him > • 
last of the best school) — Moore and C 
third — Southey, and Word>w..riii. aiui ..,, — 

the rest, ^» iroAAoi — thus ; 



-i 




trinnffiiUr ' Grndu« ad Pnrnn* 

(.»(» numerous f(»r the bfthcuf 



Th» 



rlow has kouo wild nl>out t ' 

Uuieii Uchs'h reign— <-''«r dtmumtf/v. I I. >xe ,.u,KrJ 
the names upon ray triangle more upon what 1 b* 



984 



BYRON'S WORKS 



4ieve popular opinion than any decided opinion of 
my own. For, to me, some of Moore's last Erin 
sparks — ' As a beam o'er the face of the waters ' — 

• When he who adores thee ' — ' Oh blame not ' — and 

• Oh breathe not his name ' — are worth all the Epics 
that ever were composed. 

" * * thinks the Quarterly will attack me next 
Let them. I have been ' peppered so hischly ' in my 
time, both ways, that it must be cayenne or aloes to 
make ms taste. I can sincerely say that I am not 
very much alive now to criticism. But — in tracing 
this — I rather believe that it proceeds from my not 
attaching that importance to authouship which many 
do, and which, when young, I did also. * One gets 
tired of every thing, my angel,' says Valraont. The 
'angels' are the only things of which I am not a 
little sick — but I do think the preference of writers 
to agents — the mighty stir made about scribbling and 
Bcribes, by themselves and others — a sign of etfemi- 
nacy, degeneracy, and weakness. Who would write, 
who had any thing better to do ? ' Action ' — * ac- 
tion ' — ' action ' — said Demosthenes : ' Actions — ac- 
t'.ons,' I say, and not writing,— least of all rhyme. 
Look at the querulous and monotonous lives of the 
' genus ; ' — except Cervantes, Tasso, Dante, Ari- 
DSto, Kleist, (who wei'e brave and active citizens,) 
'.^schylus, Sophocles, and some other of the an- 
tiques also — what a worthless, idle brood it is ! 

" 12, Mezza notte. 

•' Just returned from dinner with Jackson (the 
emperor of pugilism) and another of the select, at 
Cribb's the champion's. I drank more than I like, 
and have brought away some three bottles of very 
fair claret — for I have no headache. We had Tom 
Ciibb up after dinner ; — '\'ery facetious, though 
somewhat prolix. He don't like his situation. — 
wants to fight again — pray Pollux (or Casto^, if he 
was the miller) he may ! Tom has been a sailor — a 
coal-heaver — and some other genteel professions, 
before he took to the cestus. Tom has been in ac- 
tion at sea, and is now only three-and-thirty. A 
great man ! has a wife and a mistress, and conver- 
sations well — bating some sad omissions and mis- 
applications of the aspirate. Tom is an old friend 
o\ mine ; I have seen some of his best battles in 
ray nonage. He is now a publican, and, I fear, a 
sinner ; — for Mrs. * * is on alimony, and * *'s 
daughter lives with the champion. This * * told 
me, — Tom having an opinion of my morals, passed 
her oif as -a legal spouse. Talking of her-, he said, 
' she was the truest of women ' — from which I im- 
mediately inferred she could not be his wife, and so 
it turned out. 

" These panegyrics don't belong to matrimony ; 
for if ' true,' a man don't think it necessary to say 
60 ; and if not, the less he says the better. * * * * 
is the only man, except * * * *, I ever heard ha- 
rangue upon his wife's virtue ; and I listened to both 
with great credence and patience, and stuffed my 
handkerchief into my mouth, when I found yawning 
irresistible. By-the-by, I am yawning now — so, 
good-night to thee, N'^at^aj'. 

" Thursday, 26th November. 

" Awoke a little feverish, but no headache — no 
dreams neither — thanks to stupor! Two letters, 
one from * * * *, the other from Lady Melbourne 
--both exctllent in their respective styles. * * * *'s 
contained also a very pretty lyric on ' concealed 
griefs ' — if not her own, yet very like her. Why 
did she not say that the stanzas were, or were not, 
of her composition ?— I do not know whether to 
wish them hers or not. I have no great esteem fur 
poetical persons, particularly women : — they have 
80 much of the * ideal ' in practics, as well as ethics. 

" I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary 
Dutf. How very odd that I should have been so 
utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at an age when 
I could neither feel passion, nor know the meaning 
of the word. And the effect ! — My mother used 
slwaya to rally me about this childish amour ; and, ' 



at last, many years after, when I was sii.teei itit 
told me one day, ' Oh, Byron, I have had a It :tci 
from Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and joui 
old sweetheart Mary DufF is married to a Mr. Coe.' 
And what was my answer ? I really cannot explain 
or account for lay feelings at that moment ; but 
they nearly threw me into convulsions, and alarmed 
my mother eo much, that, after I grew better, she 
generally avoided the subject — to me — and con- 
tented herself with telling it to all her acquain' 
ance. Now, what could this be ? I had never seeu 
her since her mother's faux-pas at Aberdeen had 
been the cause of her removal to her graudmother'a 
at Banff; we were both the merest children. 1 had 
and have been attached fifty times since that period; 
yet I recollect all we said to each other, all our ca- 
resses, her features, my restlessness, sleeplessness, 
my tormenting my mother's maid to write for me tt 
her, which she at last did, to quiet me. Poor Nancy 
thought I was wild, and, as I could not write for 
myself, became my secretary. I remember, too, our 
walks, and the happiness of sitting by Mary, in the 
children's apartment, at their house not far from 
the Plainstones at Aberdeen, while her less sister 
Helen played with the doll| and we sat gravely 
making love, in our way. 

"How the deuce did all this occur so early? 
where could it originate ? I certainly had no sexual 
ideas for years afterward; and yet' my misery, my 
love for that girl were so violent, that I sometimes 
doubt if I have ever been really attached since. Be 
that as it may, hearing of her marriage several yeara 
after, was like a thunder-stroke — it nearly choked 
me — to the horror of my mother and the astonish- 
ment and almost incredulity of every body. And it 
's a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not 
eight years old) which has puzzled, and will puzzle 
me to to the latest hour of it; and lately, Iknow 
not why, the recollection (not the attachment) has 
ecurred as forcibly as ever. I wonder if she can 
have the least remembrance of it or me ? or remem 
ber her pitying sister Helen for not having an ad 
mirer too ? How very pretty is the perfect image ol 
her in my memory — her brown dark hair, and hazel 
eyes — her very dress ! I should be quite grieved to 
her noio ; the reality, however beautiful, would 
destroy, or at least confuse, the features of the 
lovely Peri which then existed in her, alid still lives 
in my imagination, at the distance of more thin 
sixteen years. I am now twent}'-five and old 
months 

' I think my mother told the circumstances (on 
my hearing of her marriage) to the Parkynsi'es, and 
certainly to- the Pigot family, and probably ijien 
tioned it in her answer to Miss A., who was well 
acquainted with my childish penchant, and had sent 
the news on purpose for me, — and, thanks to her ! 

' Next to the beginning, the conclusion has often 
occupied my reflections, in the way of investigation. 
That the facts are thus, others know as well as I, 
and my memory yet tells me so, in more than a 
whisper. But, the more I reflect, the more I ^am 
bewildered to assign any cause for this precocity ol 
affection. 

' Lord Holland incited me to dinner to-day ; b^^t 
three days' dining would destroy me. So, witho-.U 
eating at all since yesterday, I went to my box at 
Covent Garden. 

" Saw * * * * looking very pretty, though quite i 
different style of beauty from the other two, Sho 
has the finest eyes in 'the world, out of whicli she 
pretends not to see, and the longest eyelashes I evel 
saw, since Leila's and Phannio's Moslem curtains 
of the light. She has much beauty, — just enough 
— but is I think, mhliante. » 

« « « « jjt « 

^ I have been pondering on the miseries of st pa 
ration, that — oh how seldom we see those we lovei 
yet we live ages in moments, ichen met. The onlj 
thing that consoles me during absence is the refleft 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



985 



tion tnai no mental or personal estrangement, from 
ennui or disagreement, can take place ; — and when 
people meet hereafter, even though many changes 
may have taken place in the mean time, still — iinless 
they are tired of each other — they are ready to re- 
Unite, and do not blame each other for the circum- 
stances that severed them. 

'' Saturday, 27th, (1 believe — or rather am in doxAl, 

fvtiich is the ne plus ultra of mental faith). 

•'I have missed a day; and, as the Irishman 
■aid, or Joe Miller says for him, ' have gained a 
lo83,* or btj the loss. Every thing is settled for 
Holland, and nothing but a cough, or a caprice of 
my fellow-traveller's, can stop us. Carriage ordered 
-.funds prepared — and, probably, a gale of wind 
ij.to the bargain. N'importe — I believe, with Clym. 

the Clew, or Robin Hood, 'By our Mary (dear 
nam^ !) that art both Mother and May, I think it 
cever was a man's lot to die before his day.' Heigh 
for Helvoetsluys, and so forth ! 

" To-night I went with young Henry Fox to see 
' Nourjahad ' — a drama, which the Morning Post 
hath laid to my charge, but of which I cannot even 
guess the author. I wonder what they will next 
inflict upon me. They cannot well siujc below a 
melodrama ; but that is better than a satire, (at 
least, a personal one,) with which I stand truly ar- 
raigned, and in atonement of which I am resolved 
to bear silently all criticisms, abuses, and even 
•praises for bad pantomimes never composed by me, 
— without even a contradictory aspect. I suppose 
the root of this report is my loan to the manager of 
my lurkish drawings for his dresses, to which he 
was more welcome than to my name. I suppose the 
real author will soon own it, as it has succeeded ; if 
not. Job be mv modf^l, and Lethe my beverage. 

" * * * * has received the portrait safe ; and, in 
answer, the onl;Pfemark she makes upon it is, ' in- 
ieed it is like ' — and again, ' indeed it is like.' * * * 
With her the likeness * covered a multitude of sins ;' 
for I happen to know that this portrait was not a 
flatterer, but dark and stern, — even black as the 
mood in which my mind was scorching last July 
when I sate for it. AU the others of me— like most 
portraits whatsoever — are, of course, more agreea- 
ble than nature. 

" Redde the Ed. Review of Rogers. He 
ranked highly — but where he should be. There is a 
summary view of us all — Muore and me among the 
rest; and both (thc//-.s7! justly) praised ; though, by 
implication (jusllv again) i)laced beneath our mem- 
oraljle friend. iSfackintosh is the writer, and also 
of the critic on the StaCl. His grand essay on 
Burke, I hear, is for the next number. But I know 
nothing of the Edinburgh, or of any other Review, 
but from rumor ; and have long ceased— indet;d, 1 
could not, in justice, complain of any, even tliough 

1 were to rate poetry in general, and my rhymes in 
particular, more highly than 1 really do. 'lo with- 
draw my.ielf from myself (oh that cursed selfish- 
ness !) liasever been my'sole, my entire, my sincere 
motive in scril)bling at all ; and publislving is also 
the continiiiince of the same object, by the acti«)n it 
affords to the mind, which else recoils unon itself. 
If I valued fame, I should flatter received opinions, 
which have gathered strength bv time, and will yet 
wtar h)rj;er than any living works to the contrary. 
Fat. for the soul of me, I cannot and will not wive 
the lit to my own thoughts and doubts, come what 
mav. If I im a fool, it is, ut least, u d..ubting 
one ; \nd 1 envy no one the certainty of his sell- 
aoproviid wisdom. 

" All are inclined to believe what they covet, froin 
a lottery-ticket up to a passport to ranidise ;' in 
which, from description, I see ni)thing very tempt- 
ing. My restlessness tells me tliat I have some- 
thing within that 'passeth show.' It is for llim, 
»rho made it, to prolong that ^p >rk of ceh-stial hre 
which illnminates, yet burns, this frail tem-ment; 
3Ut 1 see no such norror iu u ' dreamlesb sleep 'and 



I have no conception of any existence which dura- 
tion would render tiresome. How el^.e ' fell the 
angels,' even according to vour creed ! They wore 
immortal, heavenly, and happy as their a'poscau 
Abdiel is now by his treachery. Time must decide 
and eternity won't be the less agreeable or mor« 
horrible because one did not expect it. In the 
mean time, I am grateful for some good, and tol* 
erably patient under certain evils — grace ? ^ieu <»t 
men bon temperament. 

" Sunday, 28th. 



«« Monday, 29th. 



' Tuesday 30th. 



" Two days missed in my log-book ; biatuM h:iud 
deflendus. They were as little worth recollection 
as the rest, and, luckily, laziness or society pre 
vented me from notching them. 

" Sunday, I dined with Lord Holland in St. 
James's Square. Large party — among them Sir S. 
Romily and Lady Ry. ; General Sir Somebody 
Bentham, a man of science and talent, I am told ; 
Horner — the Horner, an Edinburtrh Reviewer, as 
excellent speaker in the 'Honorable House,' very 
pleasing, too, and gentlemanlv in company, as fat 
as I have seen — Sharpe — Phillips of Lancas"hiri— 
Lord John Russell, and others, ' good men and 
true.' Holland's society is very good ; vou always 
see someone or other in it worth knowing. Stufled 
myself with sturgeon, and exceeded in ctianipagne 
and wine in general, but no confusion of head. 
When I do dine, I gorge like an Arab or a boa 
snake, on fish and vegetables, but no meat. I am 
always better, however, on my tea and biscu t than 
any other regimen, — and even that sparingly. 

" Why docs Lady H. always have that dammed 
screen between the whole room and the fire ? I 
who bear cold no better than an antelope, and uevpi 
yet found a sun quite done to my taste, was abso- 
lutely petrified, and could not even shiver. All th« 
rest, too, looked as if they were just unpacked, like 
salmon in an ice-basket, and set down to table tor 
that day only. When she retired, I watched their 
looks as I dismissed the screen, and every cheek ^ 
thawed and every nose reddened with the antioi 
pated glow. 

" Saturday, I went with Harry Fox to see Nour- 
jahad ; and, I believe, convinee(l him, by incessant 
yawning, that it was mine. I wish the pncitmj 
author would own it and release me from his fame. 
The dresses are pretty, bnt not in cttstume — .Mrs 
Home's, all but the" turban, and the want of a 
small dagger, (if she is a ^w^tMxw,) pet'tWt. I noer 
saw a Tur'iish woman with a turban in my life — nor 
did any one else.* The Sultanas have a small 
poniard at the waist. The diah>gue is drowsy — the 
action heavy — the scenerv fine — the tctors loleiable 
I can't say much for their seraglio ; Teresa, I'han 
nio, or ♦ * ♦ • worth tliim all. 

" Sunday, u very handsome note from Muckin 
tosh, who "is a rare instance of the union t»f \erj 
transctndent talent and great good- nature. To- 
dav, (Tuesday,) a very prett) billet from M. la Ha 
roniie de Sta^l ilolstei'n. She is pleased t > W much 
pleased with my mention of her uiul her last w. •!; 
in my notes. 1 spoke as I thought Her \M!kt 
are my delight, and so is she hei- ^ 

honr. 1 don't like her polities — at 
chnnytd them; hud she been (^ua . ' 

were nothing. But she is a woman liy herM-ll, .»u4 
has done more than all the rest of them ttiaether, 

intellectually.— she ought to have V, "'''• 

//(I^'«7^v me very prettily in her intti 

l"he reason that adulation is not di ; 

though untrue, it shows one to be ol ■ 

enough, in on« way or other, lo indrn ■ * 

lie, to make us their friend : — that is th> 

" • • is, I hear, thriving on the repute ot m imn 
(which wtti mine at Muekmtosh's dinu«jr aom* Uin« 



9^0 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



back) on "Ward, who was asking 'how much it 
would take to re-whig him ? ' 1 answered that, 
probably, he ' must first, before he was re-whigged, 
oe re-warded.' This foolish quibble, before the Stael 
and Mackintosh and a number of conversationers, 
has been mouthed about, and at last settled on the 
b.ead of * *, where lon^ may it remain ! 
• • ' George* is returned from afloat to get a new 
ship. He looks thin, but b«^tter than I expected. I 
tike George much more than most people like their 
heirs. He is a fine fellow, and every inch a sailor. 
I w. uld do any thing, but apostatize, to get him on 
in hts profession. 

"Lewis called. It is a good and good-humored 
man, but pestilently prolix, and paradoxical, and 
perscnal. If he would but talk half, and reduce his 
dsits to an hour he would add to his popularity. 
As an author, he is very, good, and his vanity is 
ouverte, like Erskine's, and yet not offending. 
/A" Yesterday, a very pretty letter from Annabella,t 
'which I answered. What an odd situation and 
friendship is ours ! without one spark of love on 
either side, and produced by circumstances which 
in general lead to coldness on one side, and aversion 
on the o^her. She is a very superior woman, and 
very little spoiled, which is strange in an heiress — a 
girl of twenty — a peeress that is to be, in her own 
right — an only child, and a savante, who has al- 
ways had her own way. She is a poetess — a mathe- 
matician — a metaphysician ; and yet, withal, very 
kind, generous, and gentle, with verv little preten- 
sion. Any other head would be turned with half 
her acquisitions, and a tenth of her advantages. 

" Wednesday, December 1, 1813. 

** To-day responded to La Baronne de Stael Hol- 
stein, and sent to Leigh Hunt (an acquisition to my 
acquaintance — through Moore — of last summer) a 
copy of the two Turkish tales. Hunt is an extra- 
ordinary character and not exactly of the present 
age. He reminds me more of the Pym and Hamp- 
den times — much talent, great independence of 
spirit, and an austere, yet not repulsive, aspect. If 
he goes on qiuilis ah incejito, 1 know few men who 
will deserve more praise or obtain it. I must go and 
see him again ; the rapid succession of adventure 
since last summer, added to some serious uneasiness 
and business, have interrupted our acquaintance ; 
but he is a man worth knowing ; and though, for 
nis own sake, I wish him out of prison, I like to 
study character in such situations. He has been 
unshaken, and will continue so. I don't think him 
deeply versed in life ; — he is the bigot of virtue, 
(not religion,) and enamored of the beauty of 
that empty name, as the last breath of Brutus pro- 
nounced, and every day proves it. He is, perhaps, 
a little opinionated, as all men who are the centre of 
circles, wide or narrow — the Sir Oracles, in whose 
name two or three are gathered together — m^jst be, 
and as even Johnson was ; but, withal, a valuable 
man, and less vain than success and even the 
consciousness of preferring * the right to the expe- 
dient' might excuse. 

•* To-morrow there is a party of purple at the 
, blue' Miss * * *'8. Shall I go ? umf I don't 
much affect your blue-bottles ; but one ought to be 
civil. Tiiera will be, ' I guess now,' (as the Amer- 
icans say,) the Stalls and Mackintoshes— good— 
the * * * s and * * * s— not so good— the * * * s, 
&c., &C. — good for nothing. Perhaps that blue- 
winged-Kashmirian butterfly of book-learning. 
Lady * * * *, will be there. 1 hope so ; it is a pleas- 
ire to look upon that most beautiful of faces. 

'• Wrote to Hodgson ; he has been telling that 
I ,t I am sure, at least, / did not mention it, 

* Hit coiisii), afterwaixi f joid Byron. 

T MiM Milhanke, aftorwdni Lady Byron. 

J Twc or ihr. e wcrOs t ■ e here scratched out in the manuicript, but the 
nport o;' Iha »cnlPiicc eviLd illy is, that Mr. Hodgson (to w hoin the paatage 
•*iB) Irad been revealing to «me friendi Ibr tecret of Lonl Byrou'» kinUoeas 
ilm. —Moor*. 



and I wish he had not. He is a gt od fellow^ and j 
obliged myself ten times more by being of une than 
I did him ; and there's an end on't*. 

"Baldwin is boring me to prcsen'r their King's 
Bench petition. I presented Cartwright's last vear ; 
and Stanhope and I stood against the whole House, 
and mouthed it valiantly — and had some fun and u 
little abuse for our opposition. But ' I am not i' 
the vein' for this business. Now, had * * been 
here, she would have made me do it. There is a 
woman, who, amid all her fascination, always urged 
a man to usefulness or glory. Had she remained 
she had been my tutelar genius. * * * 

" Baldwin is very importunate — but, poor fellow, '1 
can't get out, I can't get out — said the starling.' Ah, 
I am as bad as that dog Sterne, who preferred whining 
over ' a dead ass to relieving a living mother' — villain 
— hypocrite — slave — sycophant ! but /am no better. 
Here I cannot stimulate myself to a speech for 
the sake of these unfortunates, and three words and 
half a smile of * *, had she been here to urge it, 
(and urge it she infallibly would — at least, she al- 
ways pressed me on senatorial duties, and particu- 
larly in the cause of weakness,) would have made 
me an advocate, if not an orator. Curse on Roche- 
foucault for being always right ! In him a lie were 
virtue, — or, at least, a comfort to his readers. 

" George Byron has not called to-day ; I hope he 
will be an admiral, and, perhaps. Lord Byrcn into 
the bargain. If he would but marry, I would en- 
gage never to marry, myself, or cut hhn out of the 
heirship. He would be happier, and 1 should like 
nephews better than sons. 

" I shall soon be six-and-twcnty, (January 22d, 
1814.) Is there any thing in the future that can 
possibly console us for not being always twenty-fivei 

' Oh Gioventu ! 
Oh Priinavera I Gioventu deil' anno. 
Oh Gioventu I primavera della vita.' 

" Sunday, Dec. 5. 

" Dallas's nephew (son to the American Attorney- 
General) is arrived in this country, and tells Dallas 
that my rhymes are very popular in the United 
Stat<5s. These are the first tidings that have ever 
sounded like fame to my ears — to be redde on the 
banks of the Oliio ! The greatest pleasure I ever 
derived, of this Mnd, was from an extract, in Cooke 
the actor's life, from his jolirnal, stating, that in 
the reading-room of Albany, near Washington, he ' 
perused English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. To\ 
be popular in a rising and far country has a kind of \ 
posthumous feel, very diiferent from the ephemeral 1 

lat and fete-ing, buzzing and party-ing compli- 
ments of the well-dressed multitude. I can s; j'ely I 
say 'that, during my 7-eig)i in the spring of 1812, 1 / 
regretted nothing but its duration of six weeks in ' 
stead of a fortnight, and was heartily glad to re- 
sign. 

' Last night I supped with Lewis ; — and, as usual, 
though I neither exceeded in solids nor fluids, have 
been half dead ever since. My stomach is entirely 
destroyed by long abstinence, and the rest will 
probably follow. Let it — I only wish the pain over. 
The ' leap in the dark' is the least to be dreaded. 

"The Duke of * * called. I have told fjliem 
forty times that, except to half-a-dozen old and 
specified acquaintances, I am invisible. His grace 
is a good, noble, ducal person ; but I am content to 
think so at a distance, and so — f was not at home. 

Gait called. — Mem. — to ask some one to spcsak 
to Raymond in favor of his play. We are old fel- 
low travellers, and, with all his eccentricities, he 
has. much strong sense, experience of the world, 
and is, as far as I have seen, a good-natured philo- 
sophical fellow. I showed him Sligo's letters on 
the report of the Turkish girl's avcnttire at Athena 
soon after it happened. He and Lord Holla.n<?, 
Lewis, and Moore, and Rogers, and Lady Melbourne 
have seen it. Murray has a copy. 1 thought It 
had been utiknovm, and wish it were ; but Siigo ar- 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



987 



rived only aome days after, and the rumors are the 
Bubject of his letter. That I shall preserve — it is as 
well. Lewis and Gait were both horrified ; and L. 
Tvoudered I did not introduce the situation into 
'the Giaour.' He may wonder — he might wonder 
more at that production's being written at all. But 
to describe the feelhvjs of that situation were im- 
possible — it is icy even to recollect them. 

" The Bride of Abydos was published on Thurs- 
day the second of December ; but how it is liked or 
disliked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not 
is no fault of tha public, against whom I cav have 
no complai-it. But I am much more indebted to 
the tale than I can ever be to the most partial 
reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from reality to im- 
agination — from selfish regrets to vivid recollefrtions 
—and recalled me to a country replete with the 
briyhtest and darkest, but always most lively colors 
of my memory. Sharps called, but was not let in, 
?vhich I regret 

****** 

<* Saw * * yesterday. I have not kept my ap- 
pointment at Middleton, which has not pleased 
aim, perhaps ; and my projected voyage with * * 
will, perh tps, please him less. But I wish to keep 
well with both. Th >y are instruments that don't 
do, in concert; but. surely, their separate tones 
are very musical, and I won't give up either. 

" It is well if I don'i jar between these great dis- 
cords. At present, I stand tolerably well with all, i 
out I cannot adopt their dislikes ; — so many sets. \ 
Holland's is the first; — every thing distingue is 
welcome there, and certainly the ton of his societv 
is the best.— Then there is M''e. de Stael's— there I 
never go, though I might, had I courted it. It is 
composed of the * *s and the * * family, with a 
strange sprinkling, — orators, dandies, and all kinds 
of blue, from the regular Grub street uniform, 
down to the azure jacket of the Lit'^rateur. To 
see * * and * * sitting together, at diixner, always 
reminds me of the grave, where all distinctions of 
fri» ud and foe are levelled ; and they— tlie Reviewer 
and Reviewi e, the rhinoceros . and elephant, the 
mammoth and ivlegalonyx— all will lie quietly to- 
gether. They now sit together, as silent, but not 
30 quiet, as if they were already hnmured. 
^ « * * * *■ ♦ 

" I did not go to the Berry'* the other night. 
The elder is a woman of much talent, aiul both are 
handsome, and must have been beautiful. To-night 
asked to Lord H.'s— shall 1 go ? um! perhaps. 



" Moriiiii;;, two o'clock. 

"Went to Lord H.'s— party numerous- m/lady 
in perfect good humor, and consequently perfect. 
Nc one more agreeable, or perhaps so much so, 
when she will. Asked for Wednesday to diiie and 
meet the Sta('l ;— asked particularly, 1 l)tlieve, out 
of mischief, to see the first interview after the note, 
with which Corinne piolesses herself to be so luucli 
/taken. I don't much like it ;— she always talks of 
myself or herseU, and I am not (except m solilo- 
quy, as now) much enamored of either subject— 
especially one's works. What the devil shall I say 
about ' De I'AlUinagne ? ' I like it prodigiouHly ; 
1)ut unlcbb I can twist my admiration into some tun- 
tastical expression, she won't brlieve nie ; and I 
know, by experience, I shall be overwhelmed with 
fine things about rhyme, <!Cc.. &c. The over, Mr. 
Uocia, was there to-night, and Campbell said, it 
was the only proof he had scon of her good taste. 
Monsieur l/Amant is remarkably handsome; but I 
don't think more so tliaii Ix-r book. , , , 

"Campbell looks well— «eeined pleased, and (lr< 
to sprmery. A lilue cuut becomes liim. so do. 
new wig. lie really look.-d as if Apollo ha.l 
him a hiith-dav suit, or a wedding-gariuent, and was 
witty and livly. * * * ^It' i>l'»^«'d Corinne's book, 
-vhich 1 rcgr.t; because firstly, he undemtiuids 

'■ ■ ■ ' and. 



of judges. I reverence and admire him ; but I wou't 
give up my opinion — why should I ? I read Atr agali, 
and again, and there can be no affectation in this. I 
cannot be mistaken (except in taste) in a book 1 
read and lay down, and take up again ; and no book 
can be totally bad, which finds one, evtn one readei, 
who can say as much sincerely. 

"Campbell talks of lecturing next spring; nil 
last lectures were eminently successful. Moore 
thought of it, but gave it up, I don't know whv 
* * had been prating diynity to him, and such stutif; 
as if a man disgraced himself by instructing and 
pleasing at the same time. 

" Introduced to Marquis Buckingham — saw Lord 
Gower — he is going to Holland ; Sir J. and Ladj 
Mackinto.xh and Homer. G. Lamb, with, I know 
not how many, (R. Wellesley, one — a ck- vcr man.) 
grouped about the room.. Little Henry Fox. a fine 
boy, and very promising in mind and manner.— he 
went av/ay to bed, before I had time to talk to him. 
I am sure" I had rather hear him than all the sacans. 

" Mon<lay, D«c. 6. 

" Murray tells me that Croker asked him why the 
thing was called the Bride of Abydos .' It is a 
cursed awkward question, being unanswerable. .S/w 
is not a bride, only about to be one; but for, &c., 
&c., &c. .. 

"I don't wonder at his finding out the hull; but 
the detection * * * is too late to do any good. I waS 
a great tool to make it, and am ashamed of not being 
an Irishman. * « * • 

Campbell last night seemed a little nettled at 
something or other — I know not what. We were 
standing in the ante-saloon, when Lord H. brought 
out of the other room a vessel of some composition 
similar to that which is used in Catholic churches, 
and, seeing us, he exclaimed, ' Hcie is some uw-me 
for you.' Campbell answered — ' CaiTy it to Lord 
Byron — he is used to it.' 

" Now, this comes of ' bearing no brother near the 
throne.' I, who have no throne, nor wish to h.ive 
one now — whatever I may have done — am at p»itoot 
peace with all the poetical fraternity ; — i»r, at loast, 
if I dislike any, it is not poitlcnUy. but 
Surely, the field of thought is intinite;— 
it signify who. is before or behind in a 
there is no (/oalf The temple of Fame i.s l.k. lh.it 
of the Persians, the Universe ;— our altar, the tops 
of mountains. I should be equally content with 
Mount Cauca.sus or Mount Anylhmn; and Iboni- 
who like it may have Mont niane or ChimboUX', 
without mv envv of th( ' i. 

•' i think I may noir ; for I havo y\\»\ 

uor.'int whether it 



published a poem, and 
is likehi to be liked or nul. 1 h.ive hitherto hiMid 
little ill its eommendution, and no one cnn doun- 
ruiht abuse it to one's fare, exci-pt in print. It iMu't 
be good, or 1 should not have stumbled over the 
threshold, and blund«>r.>d in my very title. But I 
livgun it with heart full of • • *, and my head ol 
orientiahViV*, (1 can't call them iams,) uud wn»ie on 
rapidly. , . • 

" Tliis journal is a relief. When 1 nm lin I— at 
I generally am—out comes thi*. and down aw* 'very 
thing. But I can't read it over ;— untl <; •' ^" ^'« 
what contradiotions it may contain. If 1 
with myH«df. (hut 1 frir one lir-* mon- i 
than to any onr • ul nMiUiif 

refute, and ulteil 

'•.\nothor scrih •> ''''■ I" <» 

tioner : I have neither head nor im»v«-^ ' 

it That e<infounded nunptr at Lowiti's 
Ml and my philanthropy ' ' 
!\ a cruet of vim-gar. ' ' 

1 dieted on fire-irons — . 
iiM Ku./.aids could get the hrttir of, 

■" lo-dav i»aw W. Ili» un.le i- dying. »»« W 
don't muc^i r.th'ct our Dutch d.t.rniinui; ms. I dm* 
wiih him on 1 hursdav. nrovided /•»♦♦«/# \* not diu«J 



rw.,.n u.wl is ronse.iuentlv. a fair judge; and, wiih him on Muus.lay. provuieu* f»H .*.-..«» "."-^ 
^:oud;\heL;;;-;-^ls'r;iVciu*eHUCu\ly upon, or porempturdybcpoko by th, patbunou. 



tocoudly 



988 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



epicures, before that day. I wish he may recover — 
not for our dinner's sake, but to disappoint the un- 
dertaker, and the rascally reptiles that may well 
wait, since they will dine at last. 

" Gell called— he of Troy — after I was out. Mem. 
—to retm-n his visito But my Mems. are the verj' 
landmarks of forgetfulness : — something like alight- 
house, with a ship wrecked under the nose of its 
lantern. I never look at a Mem. without seeing that 
I have remembered to forget. Mem. — I have for- 
gotten to pay Pitt's taxes, and suppose I shall be 
surcharged. ' An' I do not turn rebel when thou art 
king ' — oons ! I believe my very biscuit is leavened 
with that impostor's imposts. 

"Ly. Me. returns from Jersey's to-morrow; — I 
must call. A Mr. Thomson has sent a song, whi^h 
I must applaud. I hate annoying them with cen- 
sure or silence, and yet I hate lettering. 

" Saw Lord Glenbervie and his prospectus, at 
Murray's, of a new Treatise on Timber. Now here 
is a man more useful than all the historians and 
rhymers ever planted. For, by preserving our 
woods and forests, he furnishes materials for all the 
nistory of Britain worth reading, and all the odes 
worth nothing. 

" Redde a good deal, but desultorily. My head 
is crammed with the most useless lumber. It is 
odd that when I do read, I can only be ir the chicken- 
broth of — any thing but novels. It is many a year 
since I have looked into one, (though they are some- 
times ordered, by way of experiment, but never 
taken,) till I. looked yesterday at the worst parts of 
the Monk. These descriptions ought to have been 
written by Tiberias at Caprea — they are forced - 
the philtred ideas of a jaded voluptuary. It is to 
me inconceivable how they could have been com- 
posed by a man of only twenty — his age when he 
wrote them. They have no nature — all the sour 
cream of cantharides. I should have suspected 
Buffon of writing them on the death-bed of his de- 
testable dotage. I had never redde this edition, and 
merely looked at them from curiosity and recollec- 
tion of the noise they made, and the name they 
have left to Lewis. JBut they could do no harm 
except * * *. 

" Called this evening on my agent — ^my business 
as usual. Our strange adventures are the only in- 
heritances of our family that have not diminished. 
****** 

" I shall now smoke two cigars, and get me to 
bed. The cigars don't keep well here. They get 
as old as a donna di quaranti anni in the sun of 
Africa. The Havana are the best ; — but neither are 
so pleasant as a hooka or chibouque. The Turkish 
tobacco is mild, and their horses entire — two things 
as they should be. I am so far obliged to this jour- 
nal, that it preserves me from verse, — at least from 
keeping it. I have just thrown a poem into the 
fire (which it has relighted to mv great comfort), 
and have .smoked out of my head the plan of an- 
other. I wish I could as easily get rid of thinking, 
or, at least, the confusion of thought. 

" Tuesday, Dec. 7. 

* Went to bed, and slept dreamlessly, but not 
retreshingly. Awoke and up an hour before" being 
sailed ; but dawdled three hours in dressing. When 
^ne subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation) 
sleep, eating, and swilling — buttoning and unbut- 
rouing — how much remains of downright existence ? 
'he summer of a dormouse. * * * * 

Redde the papers and tea-ed, and soda-watered, 
ind found out that the fire was badly lighted. Ld. 
Glenbervie wants me to go to Brighton — um ! 

" This morning a very pretty billet from the Sta(5l 
about meeting her at Ld. II. 's to-morrow. She has 
written, 1 dare say, twenty such this morning to 
different people, all equally flattering to each. So 
oauch tlus better for her and those who believe all 
the wishes them, or they wish to believe. She has 
lean p --ased to be pleased with my slight eulogy in 



the note annexed to the * Ende.' This i« to be a.: 

counted for in several ways : — firstly, all womeiiUki^ ^ 
all, or any praise ; secondly, this was unexpectecC 
because I have never courted her ; and, thirdly, as 
Scrub says, those who have been all their lives regu- 
larly praised, by legular critics, like a little variety^ 
and are glad when any one goes out of his way tc V^ 
say a civil thing ; and, fourthly, she is a very good- 
natured creature, which is the best reason, after all, 
and, perhaps, the only one. 

" A knock — knocks single and double. Bland 
called. He says Dutch society (he has been in Hol- 
land) is second-hand. French ; but the women are 
like women every where else This is a bore ; I 
should like to see them a littie i..nl\ke ; but thai 
can't be expected. 

" Went out — came home — this, that, and thfl 
other — and 'all is vanity, saith the preacner, and 
so say I, as part of his congregation. , Talking of 
vanity — whose praise do I prefer ? ^^^hy> Mrs. 
Inchbald's, and that of the Americans. Tne^firstT^ 
because her * Simple Story ' and ' Nature and Art ' 
are, to me, true to their titles ; and consequently 
her short note to Rogers about the ' Giaour ' de- 
lighted me more than any thing, except the Edin- 
burgh Review. .^ like the Americans, because 1 
happened to be in Asia, while the English .Bards 
and Scotch Reviewers were redde in America. If I 
could have had a speech against the Slave Trade, 
in Africa, and an epitaph on a dog, in Europe, (i. 
e. in. the Morning Tost,) my vertex sublimis would 
certainly have displaced stars enough to overthrow 
the Newtonian system. 

" Friday, Dec. 10, 1813. 

" I am ennuye beyond my usual tense of that 
yawning verb, which I am always conjugating ; and 
I don't find that society much mends the matter 
I am too lazy to shoot myself — and it would annoy 
Augusta, and perhaps * * ; but it would be a good 
thing for George, on the other side, and no bad one 
for me ; but I won't be tempted. 

"I have had the kindest letter from Moore.- ~^ 
do think that man is the best-hearted, the only 
hearted being I ever encountered ; and then, his ■- 
talents are equal to his feelings. 

" Dined on Wednesday at Lord H.'s — the Star- 
fords, Staijlsj Cowpers, Ossulstones, Melbourncs. 
Mackintoshes, (Site., &c., — and was introd'uced to 
the Marquis and Mai'chioness of Stafford, — an un- 
expected event. My quarrel with Lord Carlisle 
(their or his brother-in-law) having rendered it i:u- 
; oper, I suppose, brought it about. But, if -it w.is 
to happen at all, I wonder it did not occur before. 
She is handsome, and must have been beautiful — 
and her manners are princessly. * * * 

" The Stael was at the other end of the table, and 
less Iqquacious than heretofore. We are now very 
good friends ; though she asked Lady Melbourne 
whether I had really any bonhommie. She might as 
well have asked that question before she told C. L. 
' c'est un demon.' True enough, but rather prema 
ture, for she could not have found it out, and so — 
she wants me to dine there next Sunday. 

" Murray prospers, as far as circulation. For my 
part, I adhere (in liking) to my Fragment. It is no 
wonder that I wrote one — my mind is a fragment. 

"Saw Lord Gower, Tierney, &c., in the square. 
Took leave of Lord Gr., who is going to Holland 
and Germany. He tells me, that he carries with 
him a parcel of 'Harolds' and 'Giaours,' ^'c, for 
the readers of Berlin, who, it seems, read English, 
and have taken a caprice for mine. Um ! — have I 
been German all this lime, when I thought myself 
oriental^ * * * 

"Lent Tierney my box for to-morrow; 5nd re- 
ceived a new comedy sent by Lady C. A. — but tvot 
hers. I must read it, and endeavor not to displease 
the author. I hate annoying them with cavil ; but 
a comedy I taKe to be the most diflicult of compo- 
sitions, more so than tragedy. 

" Gait says there is a coincidence between th< 



I 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



939 



brst pal t of • the Bride ' and some story of his — 
whether published or not, I know not, never having 
Been it. He is almost the last person on whom any 
one vi^ould commit literary larceny, and 1 am not 
conscious of any writing thefts on any of the genus. 
As to originality, all pretensions are ludicrous, — 
* there is nothing new under the sun.' 

" Went last night to the place. * * « * 
liivllod out to a party, but did not go ; — right. Re- 
fused to go to Lady * *'s on Monday ; — right again. 
If I must fritter away my life, I would rather do it 
alone. I was much tempted ; — C * * looked so 
Turkish with her red turban, and her regular dark 
and clear features. Not that s^^s and / ever were, 
or could be, any thing ; but I love any aspect that 
reminds me of the ' children of the sun.' 

" To dine to-day with Rogers and Sharpe, for 
which I have some appetite, not having tasted food 
for the preceding forty-eight hours. I wish I could 
leave oft" eating altogether. 

"Sacuraay, Dec. 11, 
" Sunday, Dec. 13, 

" By Gait's ansvs^er, I find it is some story in real 
life, and not any work with which my late composi 
tion coincides. It is still more singular, for mine is 
di"aw'n from existence also. 

" I have sent an exciise to M. de Stafil. I do not 
feel sociable enough for dinner to-day ; and I will 
not go to Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not that I do 
not admire and prefer his unequalled conversation ; 
but — that ^but ' must only be intelligible to thoughts 
I cannot write. Sheridan was in good talk at Rog- 
ers's the other night, but I only stayed till nitie. 
All the world are to be at the Stall's to-night, and 
I am not sorry to escape any part of it. I only go 
out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone. 
Went out — did not go to the Stag's, but to Ld. 
Holland's. Party numerous — conversation general. 
Stayed late — made a blunder — got over it — came 

ome and went to bed, not having eaten. Rather 
empty, but/resco, which is the great point with me. 

" Monday, Dec. 13, 1813. 

" Called at three places— read, and got ready to 
leave town to-morrow. Murray has had a letter 
from his brother Bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says 
' he is lucky in having such a poe#' — something as 
if one was a pack-horse, or ' ass, or any thing that 
is his : ' or, like Mrs. Packwood, who replied to 
some inquiry after the Odes on Razors, ' Law, sir 
we keeps a Poet.' The same illustrious Edinburgh 
bookseller once sent an order for books, poesy, and 
cookery, with this agreeable postscript—' The Har- 
old and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame, 
and, after all, quite as good as any other ' life in 
other's breath.' 'Tis much the same to divide pur 
chasers with Hannah (ilasse or Hannah More. 

" Some editor of some Magazine has annoxinced 
to Murray his intention of abusing the thing • with- 
out 'reading it.' So much the better ; if he redde it 
first, he would abuse it more. 

'« Allen (Lord Holland's Allen— the bcBt informed 
and one of the ablest men I know— a perfect Mag- 
liabecchi— a dcvourer, a HcUuo of books, and an 
i observer of men) has lent me a quantity of Burns's 
1 unpublished, and never-to-bc-publishod, letters. 
I They are full of oaths and obscene songs. WJiiit 
an antithetical mind !— tenderness, roughness— del- 
icacy, coarseness— sentiment, sensuality— soaring 
and grovelling, dirt and deity— all mixed up in that 
one compound of inspired chiy ! 

•' It seems strange ; a true voluptuary will never 
abandon his mind to the grossncss of reahty. It is 
by exalting the earthly, the material, the j>/ii/si<fUf 



e pnyxt 
by mr^ 



ttf our pleasures, by veiling these ideas, by forget 
Xing tliem altogether, or, at least, never naming 
Ihem hardly to one's self, that we alone can prevent 
thrnn from disgusting. 

• * • • 



" Much done, but nothing 1 1 record. It is quite 
enough to set down my thouerhts ; my actions will 
rarely bear retrospection. 

" Dec. 17, 18. 

" Lord Holland told me a curious piece of senti- 
mentality in Sheridan. The other night we were 
all delivering our respective and various opinions 
on him and other hor.imcs marquans, and mine was 
this. * Whatever She ridan has done or chosen to 
do, has been, j9ar excellence, always the best of ita 
kind. He has written the best comedy, (School for 
Scandal,) the best drama, (in my mind, far bffore 
that St. Giles's lampoon, the Beggar's Opera,) tc.# 
best farce, (the Critic — it is only too good for n 
farce,) and the best address, (Monologue on Gar 
rick,) and, to crown all, delivered the very best 
oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived 
or heard in this country.' Somebody told S. this 
the next day, and on hearing it, he burst into teaie ! 

" Poor Brinsley ! if they were tears of pleasure, I 
would rather have said these few, but most sincere 
words, than have written the Iliad, or made his own 
celebrated Philippic. Nav. his own comedy never 
gratified me more than to hear that he had derived 
a moment's gratification from any praii^e of mine, 
humble as it must appear to my elders and my bet- 
ters. 

"Went to my box at Covent Garden to-night; 
and my delicacy felt a little shocked at .•seeing 
S * * *'s mistress (who, to my certain knowledge, 
was actually educated, from her birth, for her pro- 
fession) sitting with her mother, ' a three-piled 

b d, b d-Major to the army,' in a private 

box opposite. I felt rather indignant; but, casting 
my eyes round the house, in the next box to me, 
and the next, and the next, were the most distin- 
guifihed old and young Babylonians of quality ; — so 
I burst out a laughing. It was really odd; Lady 

* * divorced — Lady * * and her daughter, Lady • *, 
both divorceable—*Mrs. * *, in the next, the lik*, 
and still nearer **«**♦! What an assemblage 
to me, who know all their histories. It was as il 
the house had been divided between your public and 
your understood courtesans; but the iiitrii^u.intos 
much outnumbered the regular niereen.iiu'>. On 
the other side were only Pauline and /irr mother, 
and, next box to her, three of inferior note. Now, 
where lay the dilference between /nr and mdtiitna, 
and Lady *♦ and daughter? excej)t that the two 
last may enter Carleton and any other houjir, and 
the two first are limited to the opera and b— 
house. How I do delight in observing life iis it 
really is ! and myself, alter all, tlie worst of any. 
But, no matter, 1 must avoid egotism, whii li, juxt 
now, would be no vanity. 

have lately written n wild, rambling, unfin 
i8ht^d rhapsody, called 'The Devil's Drive, 't the 
notion of which 1 took from Person's ' Dovil't 
Walk." 
•• Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets on 

♦ • *.X I never wrote but one sonnet betote. and 
that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as att 
exereisi- — and I will never write uimthei. 1 hey »!• 
the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platouio com- 
positions. 1 detest the Petrarch »o niueh. th.it I 
would not be the man even to have obtuK.iHi hit 
Laura, which the metaphysical, whining dotard 
never could 

• ••••• 

••Jan. II. Ibii. 

• ••••• 

•• To-morrow I leave town for a few darn. I »»w 
Lewis tt»-duy, who has just relumed from OutLnult^ 
where he has been squabbling with Mud do Stui'l 
about himself, Clariasa Harlowe, Mackiutoth. and 



990 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tne. My hamage has never been paid in that quar- 
ter, or we would have agreed still worse. I don't 
talk —I can't flatter, and won't listen, except to a 
pretty or a foolish woman. She bored Lewis with 
praises of himself till he sickened — found out that 
Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh the first 
man in England. There I agree, at least, one of 
the first — but Lewis did not. As to Clarissa, I 
leave to those who can read it to judge and dispute. 
I could not do the one, and am, consequently, not 
qualified for the other. She told Le"wis wisely, he 
being my friend, that I was affected, in the first 
place ; and that, in the next place, I committed the 
heinous offence of sitting at dinner with my eyes 
shut, or half shut. * * * I wonder if I really 
have this trick. I must cure myself of it, if true. 
One insensibly acquires awkward habits, v/hich 
should be broken in time. If this is one, I wish I 
hud been told of it before. It would not so much 
signify if one was always to be checkmated by a 
plain woman, but one may as well see some of one's 
neighbors, as well as the plate upon the table. 

" I should like, of all things, to have heard the 
Amabiean eclogue between her and Lewis, — both 
obstinate, clever, odd, garrulous, and shrill. In 
fact, oiie could have heard nothing else. But they 
fell out, alas ! — and now they will never quarrel 
again. Could not one reconcile them for the 
* nonce ? ' Poor Corinne, — she will find that some 
of her fine sayings won't suit our fine ladies and 
gentlemen. 

" I am getting rather into admiration of * *, the 
youngest sister of * *. A wife would be my salva- 
tion. I am sure the wives of my acquaintances 
have hitherto done me little good. * * is beautiful, 
but very young, and, I think, a fool. But I have 
not seen enough to judge ; besides, I hate an esprit 
in petticoats. That she won't love me is very pro- 
bable, nor shall I love her. But on my system, and 
the modern system in general, that don't signify. 
The business (if it came to business) would proba- 
bly be arranged between papa and me. She would 
have her own way; I am good-humored to women, 
and docile ; and, if I did not fall in love with her, 
which I should try to prevent, we should be a very 
comfortable couple. As to conduct, that she must 
look to. * * * * * But if I love, I shall be jeal- 
ous ; — and for that reason I will not be in love. 
Though, after all, I doubt my temper, and fear I 
shoiild not be so patient as becomes the bietis ance 
of a married man in ray station. ***** Divorce 
ruins the poor femme, and damages are a paltry 
compensation. I do fear my temper would lead rne 
into some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, 
at any rate, into a summary appeal to the court of 
twelve paces. So * I'll none on 't,' but e'en remain 
single and solitary ; — though 1 should like to have 
somebody, now and then, *to yawn with one. 

" Ward, and, after him, * *, has stolen one of my 
buffooneries about Mde. de Stael's Metaphysics and 
the Fo^, and passed it, by speech and letter, as 
their own. As Gibbet says, ' they are the most of 
a gentleman of any on the road.' W. is in sad 
enmity with the whigs about this review of Fox, (if 
he (lid review him;) — all the epigrammatists and 
es?:ayists are at hira. I hate odds, and wish he may 
beat them. As for me, by the blessing of indiff"er- 
cnce, I have simplified my politics into an utter 
ietestatlon of all existing governments ; and, as it 
is the shortest and most agreeable and summary 
feeling imaginable, the first moment of a universal 
republic would convert me into an advocate for sin- 
jfle and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, 
riches are power, and poverty is slavery, all over 
♦^ho earth, and one sort of establishment is no bet- 
ter, nor worse, for a people than another. I shall 
idhero to my party, because it would not be hmior- 
Rble to act otherwise ; but, as to opinions, I don't 
think politics worth an opinio7i. Conduct is another 
tiir.g — if you begin with a party, go on with them. 
i Ji»ve no consistency, except in politics, and <W 



probably arises from my indifference on the subjeM 
altogether. 

" February 13. 

" Better than a month since I last journalized :— 
most of it out of London, and at Notts., but a busj; 
one and a pleasant, at least three weeks of it. Otj 
jmy return, I find all the newspapers in hystcri'^ 
and town in an uproar, on the avowal and rgpul> 
lication of two stanzas on Princess Charlotte's 
weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 1812. 
They are daily at it still ; — some of the abuse good, 
all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our 
House upon it— be it so. 

*' Got up — read the Morning Post containing tha 
battle of Bonaparte, the destruction of the Cusicm- 
house, and a paragraph on me as long as my peii 
gree, and vituperative, as usual. * * * 

" Hobhouse is returned to England. He is my 
best friend, the most lively, and a man of the most 
sterling talents extant. 

" ' The Corsair ' has been conceived, written, pub- 
lished, &c., since I last took up this journal. "They j 
tell me it has great success ; — it was ^^^:itten con ' 
amore, and much from existence. Murray is satis- 
fied with its progress ; and if the public are equally 
so with the perusal, there's an end of the matter. 

" Nine o'sjbck, 

"Been to Hanson's on business. Saw Rogers 
and bad a note from Lady Melbourne, who says, it 
is said that I am 'much out of spirits.' I wonder 
if I really am or not .^ I have certainly enough of 
' that perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart,' 
and it is better they should believe it to be the re 
suit of these attacks than of the real cause ; but— 
ay, ay, always but, to the end of the chapter. * * 

" Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes \ 
of Napoleon , all good and true. My friend H. is ) 
the most entertaining of companions, and a fine^ 
fellow to boot. • 

— ^' Redde a little — wrote notes and letters, and am 
alone, which, Locke says, is bad company. * Be not 
solitary, be not idle !' — Um ! — the idleness is trouble- 
some ; but I can t see so much to regret in the soli- 
tude. The more I see of men, the less I like them. 
If I could but say so of women, too, all would be 
well. Why can't I ? I am now six-and-twenty ; 
my passions have had enough to cool them : my 
affections more than enough to wither them, — and \ 
yet — and yet — always yet and hut — ' Excellent well, 1 
you are a fishmonger — get thee to a nunnery.' ' 
' They fool me to the top of my bent.' 

" Miiiuiglit. 

'* Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. 
Redde — but to little purpose. Did not visit Hob- 
house, as I promised and ought. No matter, the 
loss is mine. Smoked cigars. " 

" Napoleon ! — this week will decide his fate. All 
seems against him ; but I believe and hope he will 
win — at least, beat back the invaders. What right 
have we to prescribe sovereigns to France ? Oh foi 
a repiiblic ! ' Brutus, thou sleepest.' Hobhouse 
abounds in continental anecdotes of this extraordi • 
nary man ; all in favor of his intellect and cox;rage, 
but against his bonhcmmie. No wonder; — how 
should he, who knows mankind well, do other than 
despise and abhor them. 

"The greater the equality, the more impartially 
evil is distributed, and becomes lighter by the di- 
vi-sion among so many — therefore, a republic ! 

•'More notes from Mad. de Stael unanswered— 
and so they shall remain. ' I admire her abilities^ 
but really her society is overwhelming — an avalanche 
that buries one in glittering nonsense — all snow and 
sophistry. 

" Shall I go to Mackintosh's on Tuesday ? um !— 
I did not go to Marquis Lansdowne's, nor to Miss 
Berry's, though both are pleasant. So is Sir James's, 
— but I don't know — I believe one is not the better 
for parties ; at least, unless some regnante is there. 
I wonder how the deuce any body could m&kfl 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



TOch a world; for wht.l: purpose dandies, for in- 
itance, were ordained — and k'ngs — and fellows of 
colleges — and women of ' a certain age ' — and many 
men of any age — and myself, most of all ! 

' DivesnR prisco et naiug ab Inacho, 
Nil iiiu-restj an paof^r, et iiifirni 
De gente, sub clio iiioreris, 
Vicuma nil iniseraiilia Orel. 

Omnea ctxlem coginiur.' 

j^- "Is there any thing beyond ? — wlio knows ? He 
/ thnt can't tell. Who tells that there iS? He who 
don't know. And when shall he know ? pwjrhaps, 
erhei he don't expect, and, generally, when he don't 
wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not 
alike : it depends a good deal upon education, — 
gome thing upon nerves and habits — but most upon 
digestion. 

" Saturday, Feb. 19. 

" Just returned from seeing Kean in Kii;hard. By 
/ Jove, he is a soul ! Life — nature — truth — without 
/ exaggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is 
j perfect! — but Hanilet is not Nature. Rithard is a 
\ man ; and Kean is Richard. Now to my own con- 
\ cerns. 

« * * • * * * 

"Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white ; 
tut he says tliat t grind them in my sleep and chip 
the edges. That^TuHe sleep is no friend of mine, 
thoiigh I court him sometimes for half the twenty- 
four. 

" rpbniary 20. 

" Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal 
— I don't know why. Hodgson just called and 
gone. He has numh honhommle with his other 
good qxialities, and more talent than he has yet 
had credit for beyond his circle. 

, ""^* An invitation to diue at Holland House to meet 
Kean. He is v/orth meeting; and I hope, by get- 
ting hito good society, he will be prevented from 
' falling like Cooke. lie is greater now on' the stage, 
and olf he should never be less. There is a stupid 
and underrating criticism upon him in one of the 
newspapers. I thought that, last night, though 
great, he rather underacted more than the first 
time. This inav be tlie effect of these cavils r but I 
hope he has more sense than to mind them. He 
cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or 
to advance still higher, without the envy of his 
green-room felloAvs, and the nil)bling of their ad- 
mirers. But, if he don't beat them all, why, then- 
merit hath no purchase in ' these coster-nmuger 

" i wish that I had a talent for the drama ; 1 
would write a tragedy now. *\\\\t no,— it is goTic.— 
Hodgson talks of oiie,— ho will do it well ;— and I 
think Mr -re should try. H ■ has wonderful j)i)wors, 
and mu<h -"arioty ; besides, he has lived una felt. — 
To write so as to bring lu)me to the heart, the heart 
TiTJSt have been tried,— but, perhaps, ceased N. be 
80. Wl Ic you are under the inlliience of passitms, 
y^a cnh f el, but caunot descriho them,— awy mon* 
tbim, wl or. in action, you could turn round, and tell 
the Etor)' to your next neighbor ! When all is over, 
— aii, all and irreviK-able,— trust to memory— she itt 
then but too faith t'il. 

"Went out, and answered some letters, yawned 

/now and then, and redde the Il()t)hcrH. Fine,— but 

' Ficsco is better; and Alfieri and Monti's Anstode- 

mo btHt. They are more equal than the Tedcschj 

dramatists. , , , , ^i. 

" Answered— or, rather, nrknowlrdgpcl— th* re- 
ceipt of young llevnolds's pix-ni. Safle. The lad ih 
slcver, but much of his tliouphts are horrowod,— 
xcheme, the Reviewers mav <mh1 out. I hate dis- 
couraging a voung one; and I think,— though wild, 
and more oriental than he would l)r, had he seen th« 
scenes where he has placed hin tale,— that he haa 
nvrch i ilent and certainly. Are unouKh. 



931 

*' Received a very singular ep'stle ■ and the mod* 
of its convevance, tlirough Lord H.'t nands, as curl 
ous as the letter itself. But it was gratifying and 
pretty. 

" Suodiy, Feb. 27, 

" Here I am, alone, instead of dining at Lord 
H.'s, where I was asked, — ^but not inclined to go 
any where. Hobhouse says I am growing a loup 
garou, — a solitary hobgoblin. True ; — ' I am my- 
self alone.' The last week has been passed in reaSl- 
ing — seeing plays — now and then, visitors — some- 
times yawning and sometimes sighing, but no \\Titr-7 
ing — save of letters. K I could alwavs read, 17 
should never feel the want of society. t)o I regret i 
it? — urn! — 'Man delights not me,' and oulyonff^ 
woman — at a time. 

" There is something to me very softening in the \ 
presence of a woman, — some strange influence, even 
'if one is not in love with them, — which 1 cannot at 
all account for, having no very high opinion of the 
sex. But yet, — 1 always feel in better humor with 
myself and every thing else, if there is a woman 
within ken. Even Mrs. Mule, my fire-lighted,— 
the most ancient and withered of her kind and (ex- 
cept to myself) not the best tempered — always 
makes me laugh, — no difficult task when I am 'i' 
the vein.' 

'• Heigho ! I would I were in mine island !— I am 
not well ; and yet I look in good health. At times, 
I fear, ' I am not in my perfect mmd ; ' — and vet my 
heart and head have stood many a crash, and what 
should ail them now ? They prey upon themselves, 
and I am sick — sick — • Prithee, undo this button ; 
why should a cat, a rat, a dog, have life, and thou 
no life at all ? ' Six-and-twentv years, as they call 
them : — why, I might and shou'ldhave been a Fasba 
by this time. * I 'gin to be a weary of the sun.' 

" Bonaparte is not yet beaten ; out has rebuttea^l 
Blucher, and repiqued Swartzenburg. This it is to 
have a head. If he again wins, ' Vie victis ! ' 



" Siintlnj, Mkich § 

** On Tuesday last dined with Rogers, — Mad"- da 
Stall, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Erskine, and Payne 
KTiight, Lady Donegal! and Miss R. there. Sheri- 
dan told a very good story of himself and M' de 
Recamier's handkerchief; 'Erskine a few titorie- ol 
himself only. She is going to write a big book about 
England, she says ; — I believe her. Asked by her 
how I liked Miss ♦ ♦'« thmu, called ♦ *, and an- 
.swered (very sincerely) that 1 thought it very bad 
for /«'/•, and worse than any of the others. After- 
ward thought it possible Lady l)"nf i::il! bcirir Ir*<h, 
might be a patroness of • *, i > 

for my opinion, as I hate putt 

either with themselves, or lb- * 

as if one did it on purpOHe. ilu- pmtj wcJil od 
very well, and the fish wa.H verv much to .-ny kukIo. 
But we got up too soon after the women ; and Mp 
Coriniie always lingers so long after dinner, thatw* 
wisli her in — the diawing-rt»oin. 

" To-d.iy C. called, and, while hitti; :.ra* 

Merivale. ' Dining our colloi|ny, C "i*! 

M. was the writer) abused the * inn" *..':• 

ns 



Quarterly Uevicw of tirimm"'* Cori' 
(knowing the secret) chMUK<'d thi- 
soon as I ctmld ; anu C v. 
of h.i\in« niiide the mi' 
his new at(|niiintancc. 



uood-natiiicd fellow, or 
been eiigcntlercd from s 



tve 

,>ot 

look at him while this w.i p. ■• r^ — ''^* 

a coiil,— for 1 like Merivaii", a» well aa Uie arUol»i« 

queation. 

^ • • • • • • 

•• Attked to Lady Krilh'a to-morrow rvruintJ— I 
think 1 will go ; Uiit it Ih the Hr^t party inviution I 
hn>e aceeptcd this * acaHOU.' ub the l«<iruril Flrtcbei 
oailed It, when tlmt youugebt brai of Lady • • aoul 



992 



BTRC'T'S '^GEK«. 



»ny eye and cheek open with a misdirected pe> hie — i 
* Never mind, my lord, the scar will be gone before j 
the season ; as if one's eye was of no importance in 
the mean time. | 

" Lord Erskine called, and gave me his famov.s i 
pamphlet, with a marginal note and corrections ivi 
Lis. handwriting. Sent it to be bound superbly, and 
shall treasure it. 

" Sent my fine print of Napoleon to be framed. — 
It is framed ; and the emperor becomes his robes 
as if he had been hatched in them. 

" Match 7. 

'< Rose at seven — ready by half-past eight— went 
to Mr. Hanson's, Berkley square — went to charch 
with his eldest daughter,' Mary Anne, (a good girl, 7 
and gave her away to the Earl of Portsmouth. — 
Saw her fairly a countess — congratulated the family 
and groom (bride) — drank a bumper of wine (whole- 
some sherris) to their felicity, and all that, — and 
came home. Asked to stay to dinner, but could 
not. At three sat to Phillips for faces. Called on 
Lady M. — I like her so well, that I always stay too 
long. (Mem.— to mend of that.) 

"Passed the evening with Hobhouse, who has 
begun a poem, which promises highly ; wish he 
would go on with it. Heard some curious extracts 
from a life of Morosini, the blundering "Venetian, 
who blew up the Acropolis at Athens with a bomb, 
and be d — d to him ! Waxed sleepy, — just come 
home, — must go to bed, and am engaged to meet 
Sheridan to-morrow at Rogers's. 
. ♦• Queer ceremony that same of marriage — saw 
many abroad, Greek and Catholic — one, at hornet 
many years ago. There be some strange phrases in 
the prologue, (the exhortation,) which made me 
turn away, not to laugh in the face of the surplice- 
man. Made one blunder, when I joined the hands 
of the happy — rammed their left hands, by mistake, 
into one another. Corrected it — bustled back to 
the altar -rail, and said ' Amen.' Portsmouth re- 
sponded as if he had got the whole by heart ; and, 
if any thing, was rather before the priest. It is 
now midnight, and « ♦ * * 

" March 10, Thor's Day. 

" On Tuesday dined with Rogers — Mackinto.sh, 
Sheridan, Sharpe — much talk, and good — all, ex- 
cept my own little prattlement. Much of old times 
— HorneTooke, — the Trials, — evidence of Sheridan, 
— and anecdotes of those times, when I alas ! was 
an infant. If I had been a man, I would have made 
an English Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 

" Set down Sheridan at Brookes's — where, by-the- 
by, he could not have well set down himself, as he 
and I were the only drinkers. Sherry means to 
stand for Westminster, as Cochrane (the stock- 
jobbing hoaxer) must vacate. Brougham is a can- 
didate. I fear for poor dear Sherry. Both have 
talents of the highest order, but the youngster has 
yet a character. We shall see, if he lives to Sherry's 
age, how he will pass over the red-hot ploughshares 
of public life. I don't know why, but I hate to see 
the old ones lose ; particu) irly Sheridan, notwith- 
gtarding all his mechancett. 

" Received many, and the kindest, thanks from 
Lady Portsmouthji p^re and rri're, for 'my match- 
making. I don't regret it, as she looks the count- 
ess well, and is a very good girl. It is odd how well 
she carries her new honors. She looks a different 
woman, and high-bred, too. I had no idea that I 
could make so good a peeress. 

'' Went to the play with Hobhouse. Mrs. Jordai* 
superlative in Hoyden, and Jones well enough in 
Foppington. What plays! what wit ! — helas ! Con- 
greve and Vanbrugh are your only comedy. Our 
society is too insipid now for the like copy. Would 
not go to Lady Keith's. Hobhouse thought it odd. 
I wonder he should like parties. If one is in love, 
and wants to break a commandment and covet any 
hing that is there, they do very well. But to go 
out among the mere herd, without a motive, pleas 



■are, cr pursuit — 'sdeath ! * I'' I none of it. He told 
'jj.c an odd report ; that / am the actual Conrad, tht 
vcrit?.ble Corsair, and that part of my travels are 
supf o'jcd to have passed in piracy. Um ! people 
som'g^imes hit near the truth ; out never the whole 
tvxVu. H. don't know what I was about the year 
lict he left the Levant ; nor does any one — nor— 
nor— nor — however, it is a lie ; but, ' I doubt the 
equivocation of the fiend that lies like truth ! ' 

'.' I shall have letters of importance to-morrow.— 
Which, * *, or * * ? heigho ! — * * is in my heart, 
* * in my head, * * in my eye, and the single one^ 
heaven knows where. All write, and will be an- 
sAvered. ' Since I have crept in favor with myself> 
I must maintain it ; ' but / never ' mistook my per- 
son,' though I think others have. 

"* * called to-day in great despair about his 
mistress, who has taken a freak of * * *. He 
began a letter to her, but was obliged to stop short 
— I finished it for him, and he copied and sent it. — 
If he holds out and keeps to my instructions of 
affected indifference, she will lower her colors. If-. 
she don't, he will, at least, get rid of her, and she 
don't seem much worth keeping. But the poor 
lad is in love — and if that is the case, she will win. 
When they once discover their power, finita e la 
tnusica. 

" Sleepy, and must go to bed. 

«« Tuesday, March 15. 

"Dined yesterday with R., Mackintosh, antt 
Sharpe. Sheridan could not come. Sharpe told 
several very amusing anecdotes of Henderson, the 
actor. Stayed till late, and came home, — ^having 
drank so much tea, that I did not get to sleep till 
six this morning. R. says that I am to be in this 
Quarterly — cut up, I presume, as they ' hate ua 
youth.' N'importe. As Sharpe was passing by the 
doors ot some debating society (the Westminster 
Forum) in his way to dinner, he saw r\ibricked on 
the walls, Scott's name and mine-^' Which is the 
best poet ? ' being the question of the evening ; 
and I suppose all tne Templars and would-bes took 
our rhymes in vain, in the course of the controversy. 
Which had the greater show of hands, T neither 
know nor care ; but I feel the coupling of the names 
as a compliment, — though I think Scott deserves 
better c?)mpanv. 

****** 

"W. W. called— Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, 
&c., &c. Wrote to * * the Corsair report. Shetsaya 
she don't wonder, since ' Conrad is so like.' It ia 
odd that one, who knows me so thoroughly, should 
tell me this to my face. However, if sAe don't know, 
nobody can. 

*' Mackintosh is, it seems, the writer of the de- 
fensive letter in the Morning Chronicle. If so, it is 
very kind, and more than I did for myself. 

****** 

" Told Murray to secure for me Bandello's Italian 
novels at the sale to-morrow. To me they will be 
7iuts. Redde a satire on myself, called ' Anti-Byron, 
and told MuiTay to publish it, if he liked. The ob 
ject of the author is to prove me an Atheist and a 
systematic conspirator against law and government. 
Some of the verse is good ; the prose I don't quite 
understand. He asserts that my ' deleterious 
works ' have had an ' effect upon civil society, which 
requires, &c., &c., &.,' and his own poetry. It is a 
lengthy poem, and a long preface, with an harmo 
nious title-page. Like the fly in the fable. I seem ti 
have got upon a wheel which makes much dust ;— 
but, unlike the said fly, I do not take it all for my 
own raising. 

" A letter from Bella, which I answered. I shall 
be in love with her again, if I don't take care. 
****** 

** I shall begin a more regular system of reading 
soon. 

" Thursday, March 17. 

♦* I have been sparring with Jackson for cxercis* 
this morning ; and mean to continue and renew my 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL. 



99.i 



iCQuaintance rntY the muffles. My chest, and arms, | To me it is the same who are in or out , — we want 



ana wind are in very good plight,, and I am not in 
flesh. I used to be a hard hitter, and my arms are 
•^ery long for my height (5 feet 8 1-2 inches.) At 
any rate, exercise is good, and this the severest of 
all ; fencing and the broadsword never fatigued me 
half so much. 

" Redde the ' Quarrels of Authors * (another sort 
of sparrimj) — a new work, by that most entertain- 
ing and researching writer, Israeli. They seem to 
be an irritable set, and I wish myself well out of it. 
* I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's 
flat.' What the devil had I to do with scribbling ? 
It is too late to inquire, and all regret is useless. — 
But, an' it were to do again, — I should write again, 
I sup pose. Such is human nature, at least my share 
of it ; — though I shall think better of myself, if I 
have sense to stop now. If I have a wife, and that 
wife has a son — by any body — I will bring up<mine 
heir m the most anti-poetical way — make him a 
lawver, or a pirate, ox — any thing. But if he writes 
too. I shall be sure he is none of mine, and cut him 
cti" w th a bank-token Must write a letter — three 
c clock. 

"Sunday, March 20. 

" I intended to go to Lady Hardwicke's, but won't. 
I always begin the day with a bias towards going to 

parties ; but as the evening advances my stimulus 
fails, and I hardly ever go out — and, when I do, al- 
ways regret it. This might have been a pleasant 
one ; — at least the hostess is a very superior wo- 
man. Lady Lansdowne's to-morrow — Lady Heath- 
cote's Wednesday. Um ! — I must spur myself into 
going to some of them, or it will look like rudeness, 
and it is better to do as other people do — confound 
them ! 

♦• Redde Machiavel, parts of Chardin, and Sis- 
mondi, and Bandello,— by starts. Redde the Edin- 
burgh, xliv., just come out. In the beginning of 
the article on ' Edgeworth's Patronage,' I have got 
ten a high compliment, I perceive. Whether this 
is creditable to me, I know not ; but it does honor 
to the editor, because he once abused me. Many a 
man will retract praise; none but a high-spirited 

-mind will revoke its censure, or can praise the man 
it has once attacked. I have often, since my return 
to Englaiid, heard Jeffrey most highly commended 
by those who know him for things independent of 
his talents. I admire him for this — not because he 
has praised me (I have been so praised elsewhere 
and abused, alternately, that mere habit has ren- 
dered me as indifferent to both as a man at twenty- 
six can be to any thing), but because he is, perhaps, 
the only man who, unoer the relations in which he 
and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, 
would have had, the liberality to act thus ; none but 
a great soul dared hazard it. The height on whicli 
he stands has not made him piddy ;— a little scrib- 
bler would have gone on cavilling to the end of the 
chapter. As to the justice of his panegyric, that is 
matter of taste. There are plenty to question it, 
and glad, too, of the opportunity. 

•• Lord Krskine called to-day. He means to carry 
down his reflections on the war — or rather wars— to 
the present day. I trust that he will. Must send 
to Mr. Murrav to get the binding of my copy of his 
pamplilet fiiifshod, as Lord E, has promised mo to 
correct it, and add some marginal notes to it. Any 
thing in his handwriting will be a treaHure, which 
will gather compound interest from years. Erskine 
has high expectations of Mackintosh's promined 
history. Undoubtedly it must be a classic, when 
finished. 

•• Snarred with Jackson again yesterday morning, 
and shall to-morrow. I feel all the better for it. in 
spirits, thoutih my arms and shoulders are very stiff 
from it. Mem.— to attend the pugilistic dinner 
Marquis Huntley is in the -hair. 



son. ething more than a change of ministers, and 
some day we will have it. 

I remember, in riding from Chrisso to Castri 
(Delphos) along the sides of Pernassus, I saw bix 
eagles in the air. It is uncommon to see so many 
together ; and it was the number — not the species, 
which is common enough — that excited my atten- 
tion. 

The last bird I ever fired at was an eaqlet, on ♦he 
shore of the Gulf of Lepanto, near Vo*:titza. It 
was only wounded, and I tried to save it, the pyo 
was so bright; but it pined, and died in a few day's; 
and I never did since, and never will, attempt the 
death of another l)ird. I wonder what put these 
two things into my head just now ? I have been 
reading Sismondi, and there is notfiing there that 
could induce the recollection. 

'* I am mightily taken with Braccio di Montone, 
Giovanni Galeazzo, and Ecccllino. But the last is 
not Bracciaferro, (of the same name,) Count of Ra- 
venna, whose history I w^nt to trace. There is t 
fine engraving in.Lavater,'frora a picture by Fuseli, 
of that Ezzelin, over the-oody of Mednna, punished 
by him for a hitch in her constancy during his ab- 
sence in the Crusades. He was right — but I want 
to know the story. 



" Tuewlar, Maieb 22. 

" Last night, party at Lansdowne House. To 
night, party at Lady Charlotte Greville's — depict a« 
ble wast? of time, and something of temper. No- 
thing imparted — nothing acquired — talking without 
ideas — if any thing like thoui/ht in my mind, it was 
not on the sul)jects on wliich we were gabblinjj 
Heigho ! — and in this way half London pass what is 
called life. To-morrow there is Lady Heathcote's— 
shall I go ? yes — to punish myself for not having a 
pursuit. 

•' Let me see — what did I see ? The only person 
who much struck me was Lady S • • d's eldest 
(daughter. Lady C. L. They say "she is not pretty. 
I don't know-^very thing is pretty that pleases ; 
but there is an air of sonl about her — and her cclcr 
changes — and there is that shyness of the antel po 
(which I delight in) in her manner so much, that I 
observed her more than I did any other woman in 
the rooms, and only looked at any thing else Tl-ft 
I thought slie might perceive and feel embara^^ed 
by my scrutiny. After all, there nmv b»« .something 
of association in this. She is a friend of Augusta's 
and u^atever she loves, I can't help liking. 

" ifer motlier, the marohiduess, talked to me a 
little ; and I was twenty times on the point of a*k 
ing her to introduce me to sa fillr, hut I stopced 
short. This comes of that afTrny with the CarlisUs. 

" Earl Grey told me, laughingly, of a paragraph 
in the last Monitvur, which has stated, among i»th«>r 
symptoms of rebellion, some particulars of the .*«»«- 
.v«//o/» occasi«)ned in all our govcrt\mnit saitettoH by 
the 'tear' lines,— o»i/y amplifying, in its restate- 
ment, an epigram (hy-the-by, no rnigrnm except in 
the Greek acceptation of the word) into a tionutn. 
I wonder the Couriers, (<e., dtc, have not translntwl 
that part of the Moniteur, with additional com- 
ments. 

" The Princess of Wales has rrd o 

paint from ' the Corsair ; ' leaving " 

of unv passage for the subject: ■" i* 

me. Tired, jaded, scinau, and supiue— «uu»i jji- to 
bed. 

'• Rotmn, at least Rnmawf, mr^ ^ ' - " ' "'^ 

times, as in the Spanish. I fu 

Moniteur's meaning, unless he h.i-^ h 

•the Corsair.' .. _^_ 

This night got Into my new apartments, rented 
lease of seven years. Spa- 



.,,,_- , of Lord Althorpe. on a lease of seven years. 

'LoidErskine thinks that ministers must bo in cious. «nd room for my b,.ok. ^'\^**^J^*'.J'l^^ 

»eril of Koing out " ** *^' K«*»«r for him. I Aous*. too. another adtantage. Ihe last few d»T» 

** 125' 



So much the better for him. Iaow*«, too, another adtantage. 



994 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



01 -whole week, have been very abstemious, regular | 
In eiercise, and yet very wnwell. 
^ '• Yesterday, dined Ute-a-tete at the Cocoa with 
; Scrope Davies — sate from six till midnight— drank 
■ between us one bottle of champagne and six of claret, 
neither of which wines ever affect me. Offered to 
••vke Scrope home in my carriage ; but he was tipsy 
i.nd pious, and I was obliged to leave him on his 
knees, praying to I know not what purpose or paged. 
No headache, nor sickness that night nor to-day. 
Got up, if any thing, earlier than usual — sparred 
, with Jackson ad sudorem, and have been much bet- 
ter than for many days. I have heard nothing more 
from Scrope. Yesterday paid him four thousand 
eight hundred pounds— a debt of some standing, 
and which I wished to have paid before. My mind 
is much relieved by the removal of that debit. 

" Augusta wants me to make it up with Carlisle. 
I have refused every body else, but I can't deny her 
any thing ; so I must e'en do it, though I had as 
lief ' drink up Ei^el — eat a crocodile.' Let me see — 
Ward, the Hollands, the Lambs, Rogers, &c., &c., 
—every body more or less, have been trying for the 
last two years to accommodate this couplet quarrel 
to no purpose. I shall laugh if Augusta succeeds. 

" Redde a little of many things — shall get in all 
my books to-morrow. Luckily, this room will hold 
them — with ' ample room and verge, &c., the charac- 
ters of hell to trace.' I must set about some em- 
ployment soon ; my heart begins to eat itself again. 

" April 8. 

" Out of town six days. On my return, find my 
'poor little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal; 
I the thieves are in Paris. It is his own fault. Like 
Milo he would rend the oak ; but it closed again, 
wedged his hands, and now the beasts — lion, bear, 
down to the dirtiest jackal — may all tear him. That 
Muscovite winter icedged his arms ; ever since, he 
has fought with his feet and teeth. The last may 
Btill leave their ma,rks ; and ' I guess now (as the 
Yankees say) that he will yet play them a pass.' 
He is in their rear — between them and their homes. 
Query — will they ever reach them ? 

<• Saturday, April, 9 1814. 

'* I mark this day ! 

' " Napoleon Bonaparte has abdicated the throne 

of the world. 'Excellent well.' Methinks Sylla 

iia better ; for he revenged, and resigned in the 

height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his 

for»s — the finest instance of glorious contempt of 

; the rascals upon record. Diocletian did well too — 

I Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a 

dervise — Charles the Fifth but so, so — but Napoleon, 

worst of all. What ! wait till they were in his 

capital, and then talk of his readiness to give up 

' what is already gone ! ! * What whining monk art 

\ thou — what holy cheat ? ' 'Sdeath ! Dionysius at 

Corinth was yeta king to this. The ' Isle of Elba ' 

to retire to ! Well — if 't had been Caprea, I should 

•uve mai-velled les? • I see men's ninds are but a 



parcel of theii fortunes.' I am utterly bewildf ie<< 
and confounded. ' 

' I don't know — ^but I think J, even T, (an insi c*^ 
compared with this creature,) have set my life on 
casts not a millionth part of this man's. But, aftel 
all, a crown may be not worth dying for. Yet, to 
outlive Lodi for this ! ! ! Oh that Juvenal or John- 
son could rise from the dead ! * Expcnde — quot 
libras in duce sunimo invenies ? ' I knew they were 
light in the balance of mortality ; but I thought 
their living dust weighed more carats. Alas ! this 
imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly 
fit to stick in a glazier's pencil ; the pen of the his- 
torian won't rate it worth a ducat. 

" Psha ! 'something too much of this.' But I 
won't give him up even now ; though all his admi/ 
rers have, 'like the Thanes, fall'n. from him.' '■ 



" I do not know that I am happiest when alone ; 
but this I am sure of, that I never am long in the 
society even of her I love, (God knows too well, anfl 
the Devil probably too,) without a yearning'for the 
company of my lamp and my utterly-confused and 
tumbled-over librai-y. Even in the day, I send away 
my carriage oftener than I use or abuse it. Per 
esempio., — I have not stirred out of these rooms for 
these four days past :Jfout I have sparred for exer- 
cise (windows open) with Jackson an hour daily, to 
attenuate and keep up the ethereal part of me. 
The move violent the fatigue, the better my spirits 
for the rest of the day ; and then, my evenings 
have that calm nothingness of languor, which I most 
delight in. To-day I have boxed one hour — written 
an ode to Napoleon Bonaparte — copied it — eaten 
six biscuits — drank four bottles of soda-water — redde 
away the rest of my time — besides giving poor * * 
a world of advice about this mistress of his, who is 
plaguing him into a phthisic and intolerable tedi- 
ousness. I am a pretty fellow truly to lecture about 
' the sect.' No matter, my counsels are all thrown 
away. 

" April 19, 1814. 

"There is ice at both poles^ north and south — a.!] 
extremes are the same — misery belongs to the high- 
est and the lowest only, — to the emperor and ths 
beggar, when unsixpenced and unthroned. There 
is, to be sure, a damned insipid medium — an equi- 
noctial line — no or e knows where, except upoii 
maps and measurement. 

•And all our yesterdays hare lighted foola 
The way to dusty death.' 

I will keep no further journal of tl at same hesternal , 
torchlight ; and, to prevent me from returning, like ^! 
a dog, to the vomit of memory, I tear out the re- / 
maining leaves of this volume, and write, in ipecacuh / 
anha, — ' that the Bourbons are restored ! ! ! ' ' Hnng/ 
up philosophy.' To be sure, 1 have long despised 
myself and man, but I never spat in the fact' oi my 
species before — ' fool ! I shall go mad.' " 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 



IN SWITZERLAXD. 



" September 18, 1816. 

"Testerday, September 17th, I set out with Mr. 
Bol^houBe on an excursion of some days to the 
Oflountains. 

" September 17. 

. ** Rose at five ; left Dioduti about seven, in one of 
the country carriages, (a char-a-banc,) our servants 
on horspback. Weather very fine ; the lake calm 
and clear; Mont Blanc and the Aiguille of Ar- 
eenticres both very distinct ; the borders of the 
lake beautiful. • Reached Lausanne before sunset ; 

etopped and slept at . Went to bed at nine ; 

tlept till five o'clock. 

" September 18. 

" Called by my courier ; got up. Hobhouse walk- 
ed on before. A mile from Lausanne, the road 
overfiowcd by the lake ; got on horscbacV and 
rode till within a mile of Vevay. The colt young, 
but went very well. Overtook Hobhouse, and re- 
sumed the carnage, Avhich is an open one. Stopped 
at Yevay two hours, (the second time I had visited 
it ;) walked to the church; view from the church- 
yard superb : \vithin it General Ludlow (the regi- 
cide s) monument — black marble — long inscription 
—Latin, but simple ; he was an exile two-and-thirty 
years — one of King Charles's judges. Near him 
— 'Broughton (who read King Charles's sentence to 
Charles Stuart) is buried, with a queer and rather 
canting, but still a republican inscription. Ludlow's 
house shown ; it retains still its inscription — 'Omne 
Bolum forti patria.' Walked down to the lake side ; 
servants, carriage, saddle-horses — all set off and 
left us plantrs la, by some mistake, and we walked 
on after them towards Clarens ; Hobhouse ran on 
before, and overtook tlicm at last. Arrived the 
Becwnd time (first time was by water) at Clarens. 
Went to Chillon through scenery worthy of I know 
not whom ; went over the Castle of Chillon again. 
On our return, met an English party in a carriage; 
ft lady in it fast asleep — fast asleep in the most anti- 
narcotic spot in the world — excolle;it ! I rememl)er 
ftt Chamouni, in the very eyes of Mont Hlanc, hear- 
ing anotlier woman, English also, exclaim to her 
j party, ' Did you ever see any tiling more ntralf — 
I &B if it was Ilighgate, or Hampstead, or Brompton, 
I or Ha^is — ' Rural ! ' (|Uotha } rocks, pines, torrents, 
I glaciers, clouds, and summits of eternal hiiovv far 
' nbove them — and ' rural ! ' 

*' After a slight and short dinner we visited the 
Chateau de Clarens ; * an English woman has rented 
It recently ; (it was not let when I saw it first ;) the 
roH"s are gone with Iheir summer; the family out, 
but the servants desired us to walk over the interior 
of the rannsion. Saw on the table of the siiloon 
Blair's Sermons, and somebody else (I forgot who's) 



• Sof ChlJe IlMold, eiinw Ul., 



sermons, and a set of noisy children. Saw a fl worth 
seeing, and then descended to the ' Bosqiet de 
Julie,' &c., ttc; our guide full of Rcusseau, whom 
he is eternally confounding with St. Preaux, and 
mixing the man and the book. Went again as fat 
as Chillon to re-^isit the little torrent from the hill 
behind it. Sunset reflected in the lake, ilave to 
get up at five to-morrow to cross the mountains on 
horseback; carriage to be sent round; lodged at my 
old cottage — hospitable and comfortable; tired with 
a longish ride on the colt, and the subsequent jolting 
of the char-a-banc, and my scramble in the hot sun. 
"Mem. The corporal who showed the wonders of 
Chillon was as drunk as Bliuher ; he was deaf al«o, 
and thinking every one else so, roared out tho 
legends of the castle so fearfully. — However, w* saw 
things from the gallows to the dungeons,* (the 
pot cure and the cachots,) and returned to Clarens 
with more freedom than belonged to the fifteenth 
century. 

•' S.>pC*n)l<rr 19. 

" Rose at fi#B. Crossed thejjiountains to Mont 
bovon on horseback, and on mxli's, and, by dint ot 
scrambling, on foot also ; the whole route beauti- 
ful as a dream, and now to me almost as indistinct. 
I am so tired : — for, though healthy, 1 have not the 
strength 1 possessed but a few years ag»). At "^i -•■' 
bovon we breakfasted ; afterward, on a steep 
dismounted ; tuml)k'd down ; cut a finger 
the f>aggage also got loose and fell down ti ru'i--, 
till stopped by a large tree; reeovt-red bagirage ; 
horse tired and drooping: mounted nnilo. At the 
appr'Mch of the summit of Dont Juuieiitf dis 
mounted again ^'ith Hotihouse and «U1 tho p.irt> 
Arrived at a lake in the very l)osom of the nu>UD- 
tains ; left our iuadruj)eds with a, shepherd, and 
ascended farthei ; eanu- to some snow in putchenj 
upon which mj forehead's perspir.ition fell like 
rain, making tLe same dints as in a sie\e; the chill 
of the wind and the si:ow turned me giddy, hut 1 
si-rambled on and upwards, Hobhouse went to the 
highest pinnacle ; I did not, but naused, within a 
few yards (at an opening of the clitf.) In coming 
down, the guide tumbled three tunes; I fell « 
laughing, and tumlded too — the descent liukily soft, 
though steep and slinpeiy : Hobhouse it 

nobody hurt. The whole f the moui. 
A shepherd on a very stt'Wf* and liigh w 

upon his yjj/x"; + very ditr«rent from . -I' • 

I saw the pastors with a long musket .i 

crook, and pist<ds in their girdles. On 
herd's pipe was sweet, aiul his tunc 
saw a cow Htrayed ; am told that the 



1 
their necks on' and over the crags. Dc»cvuJ(*d to 



• PrlMMMT or ChlUoti, nolo ftt, 
r t>«ii( >!• J •iiMii. 

{ M.u>l'<«l. AM I.. »mm II. 



996 



BYRO"N'S WORKS. 



pretty, scraggy village, with a wild 



Montbovon 

river and a wooden bridge. Hobhouse went to fish 
— caught one. Our carriage not come ; our horses 
mules, &c., knocked up ; ourselves fatigued. 

''The view from the highest points of to-day's 
journey comprised on <me side the greatest part of 
Lak'» Leman : on the other, the valleys and moun- 
tain of the canton of Fribourg, and an immense 
plain, with the lakes of Neufchatel and Morat, and 
all which the borders of the Lake of Geneva in- 
herit ; we had both sides of the Jura before us in 
jne point of view, with Alps in plenty. In passing 
a ravine the guide recommended strenuously a 
r)uickenijig of pace, as the stones fall with great 
rapidity ind occasional damage ; the advice is ex- 
cellent, but, like most good advice, impracticable, 
the road being so rough that neither mules, nor 
mankind, nor horses, can make any violent pro- 
gress. Passed without fractures or menace thereof. 

'* The music of the cow's bells* (for their wealth, 
like the patriarch's, is cattle) in the pastures, which 
reach to a height far above any mountains in Britain, 
and the shepherds shouting to us from crag to crag, 
and playing on their reeds where the steeps appeared 
almost inaccessible, with the surrounding scenery, 
realized all that I have ever heard or imagined of a 
pastoral existence : — much more so thaii Greece or 
Asia Minor ; for there we are a little too much of 
the sabre and musket order, and if there is a crook 
In one one hand, you are sure to see a gun in the 
other : — but this was pure and unmixed — solitary, 
savage, and patriarchal. As we went, they played 
the Rans des Vaches ' and other airs, by way of 
farewell. I have lately repeopled my mind with 
nature. 

" September 20. 

•'.Up at six ; off at eight. The whole of this day's 
journey at an average of between from two thousand 
seven hundred to three thousand feet above the level 
of the sea. This valley, the longest, narrowest, and 
considered the finest of the Alps, little traversed by 
iravellers. Saw the bridge of La Roche. The bed 
of the river very low and deep, between immense 
rocks, and rapid as anger ; — a man and mule said to 
have tumbh d over without damage. The people 
looked free, and happy, and rich (which last implies 
neither of the former) ; the cows superb ; a bull 
nearly leaped into the char-a-banc — ' agreeable com- 
panion in a post-chaise ; ' goats and sheep veiy 
thriving. A mountain, with enormous glaciers, to 
the right— the Klitzgerberg ; farther on, the Hock- 
thorn— nice names— so soft \—Stockhorn, I believe, 
very lofty and scraggy, patched with snow only ; no 
glaciers on it, but some good epaulettes of clouds. 

" Passed the boundaries, out of Vaud and into 
Berne canton ; French exchanged for bad German ; 
the district famous for cheese, liberty, property, and 
no taxes. Hdbhouse went to fish — caught none. 
Strolled to the river ; saw boy and kid ; kid followed 
him like a dog ; kid could not get over a fence, and 
bleated piteously ; tried myself, to help kid, but 
nearly overset both self and kid into the i vex. 
Arrived here about six in the evening. Nine 
j'clock— going to bed ; not tired to-day, but hope 
-p sleep, nevertheless. 

" September 21. 

" Off early. The valley of Simmenthal as before. 
Entrance to the plain of Thoun very narrow ; high 
rocks, wooded to the top ; river ; new mountains, 
with fine glaciers. Lake of Thoun ; extensive plain 
with a girdle of Alps Walked down to the Cha- 
teau de Schadan ; view along the lake ; crossed the 
river in a boat rowed by women. Thoun a very 
pretty town. The wh jle day's journey Alpine and 
Droua. 

" September 28. 

*• Left Thoun in a boat, which carried us the 
Uingth of the lake in three hours. The lake small ; 

• Manfred, Act 1., Scene U. 



but the banks fine. Rocks down to the water'! 
edge. Landed at Newh^se ; passed Interlachen . 
entered upon a range of scenes beyond all descrip- 
tion, or previous conception. Passed a rook ; in 
scription — two brothers — one murdered the other 
just the place for it. After i variety of windino^i 
came to an enormous rock. Arrived at the foot o 
the mountain, (the Jungfrau, that is, the Maiden ;) 
glaciers; ton-en ts; one of these tox\ ants, nine hnn- 
dred feet in height of visible descent. Lodged at 
the curate's. Set out to see the valley ; heard ud 
avalanche fall, like thunder; glaciers enormous •■ 
storm came on, thunder, lightning, hail ; all in per- 
fection, and beautiful. I was on horseback; guide 
wanted to carry my cane; I was going to ^ive il 
him, when I recollected that it was a sword-stick, 
and I thought the lightning might be attracted 
towards him; kept it "myself: a good deal encum- 
bered with it, as it was too heavy for a whip, and 
the horse was stupid, and stood with every other 
peal. Got in, not very wet, the cloak being stanch. 
Hobhouse wet through ; Hobhouse took refuge in 
cottage ; sent man, umbrella, and cloak (from the 
curate's when I arrived) after him. Swiss curate's 
house very good indeed — much better than most 
English ^icarages. It is immediately opposite the 
torrent I spoke of. The torrent is in shape curving 
over the rock, like the tail of a white horse stream- 
ing in the wind, sxich as it might be conceived 
would be that of the ' pale horse ' on which Death- 
is mounted in the Apocalypse* It is neither mist 
nor water, but a something between both ; its im 
mense height (nine hundred feet) gives it a wave oi 
curve, a spreading here, or condensation there, won- 
derful and indescribable. I think, upon the whole, 
that this day has been better than any of this pres- 
ent excursion. 

" September 23. 

" Before ascending the mountain, went to the 
torrent (seven in the morning) again ; the sun upon 
it, forming a rainhowf of the lower part of all 
colors, but principally purple and gold ; the bow 
moving as you move ; I never saw any thing like 
this ; it is only in the sunshine. Ascended the 
Wrngen mountain ; at noon reached a valley on 
the summit ; left the horses, took off my coat, and 
went to the summit, seven thousand feet (English 
feet) above the level of the sea, and about five 
thousand above the valley we left in the morning. 
On one side, our view comprised the Jungfrau, with 
all her glaciers ; then the Dent d' Argent, shining ^ 
like truth ; then the Little Giant, (the Kleine ■ 
Eigher;) and the Great Giant, (the Grosse Eigher,) 
and last, not least, the Wetterhorn. The height of 
the Jungfrau is thirteen thousand feet above the 
sea, eleven thousand above the valley : she is the 
highest of this range. Heard the avalanches fall- 
ing every five minutes, nearly. From whence we 
stood, on the Wengen Alp, J we had all these in 
view on one side ; on the other, the clouds rose 
from the opposite valley, curling up perpendicular 
precipices like the foam of the ocean of hell, durine 
a spring tide— it was white and sulphury, ano 
immeasurably deep in appearance. The side we 
ascended was (of course) not of so precipitous a 
nature ; but on arriving at the summit, we looked 
down upon the other side upon a boiling sea oj 
cloud, dashing against the crags on which we 
stood, (these crags on one side quite perpendicu- 
lar.) Stayed a quarter of an hour; began to de- 
scend; quite clear from cloud on that side of the 
mountain. In passing the masses of snow, I mad* 
a snowball and peltod Hobhouse with it. 

Got down to our horses again ; eat something : 
remounted ; heard the avalanches still ; came to a 
morass ; Hobhouse dismounted to get over well : 



* MiMifred, Act II., Scene II. 
t Manfred, Act 11., Scene II. 
t Maolred, A« I.. Hwm U. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN SWITZERLAND. 



i»7 



( tried 10 pass my horse over ; the horse sunk up 
la the chin, and of course he and I were in the 
Baud together; bemired, but not hurt; laughed, 
and rode on. Arrived at the Grindelwald ; dined, 
mounted again, and rode to the higher glacier — 
like a frozen hurricant* Starlight, beautiful, but 
B d^vil of a path ! Never mind, got safe in ; a little 
lightning, but the whole of the day as fine in point 
of weather as the day on which Paradise was made. 
Passed whole woods of icithered pines, all withered ;f 
trunks stripped and lifeless, branches lifeless; done 
by a single winter. 

" September 24. 

" Set off at seven ; up at five. Passed the black 
glacier, the mountain Wetterhorn on the right ; 
crossed the Scheideck mountain ; came to the Rose 
glacier, said to be the largest and finest in Switzer- 
land. / think the Bossons glacier at Chamouni as 
fine ; Hobhouse does not. Came to the Reichen- 
bach waterfall, two hundred feet high; halted to 
rest the horses. Arrived in the valley of Oberland ; 
rain came on ; drenched a little ; only four hours' 
rain, however, in eight days. Came to the lake of 
Brientz, then to the town of Brientz ; changed. 
In the evening, four Swiss peasant girls of Ober- 
hasli came and sang the airs of their country ; two 
of the voices beautiful^the tunes also ; so wild and 
original, and at the same time of great sweetness. 
The singing is over ; but below stairs I hear the 
notes of a fiddle, which bode no good to my night's 
rest ; I shall go down and see the dancing. 

" September 25. 

•"Ihe wnole town of Brier tz were apparently 
gathered together in the rooms below ; pretty 
music and excellent waltzing : tlie dancing much 
better than in England ; the English can't waltz, 
never could, never will. One man, with his pipe 
in his mouth, but danced as well as the others ; 
Bome ether dances in pairs and in fours, and very 
good. 1 went to bed, but the revelry continued 
below lat? and early. Brientz but a village. Rose 
early. Embarked on the lake of Brientz ; rowed 
by the wtunen in a long boat ; presently we put to 
ahore, and another woman jumped in. It seems it 
b the custom here for the boats to be manned by 
u>omen ; four or five men and three women in our 
bark, all the women took an oar, and but one man. 

♦« Got to Interlachen in three hours ; pretty lake ; 
Dot BO large as that of Thoun. Dined at Intcr- 
Uchen. Girl gave me some flowersj and made rae 



• Manfretl, Act 11., Scene 111. 

\ Manfred, Act I., Scene 11. 

X >'Ukla Harold, Gasto Ul.— Seng aAor 



a speech in German, of which I know nothing; 1 
do not know whether the speech was prettv, but aa 
the woman was, I hope so. Reerabarked on the 
lake of Thoun ; fell asleep part of the way ; s^nt 
our horses round ; founa people on the shor*;, 
blowing up a rock with gunpowder ; they blew it 
up near our boat, only telling us a minute urlire;— 
mere stupidity, but they might have broken om 
noddles. Got to Thcrun in the evening; the wet • 
ther has been tolerable the whole day. But as tb"! 
wild part of our tour is finished, it don't matter 5c 
us ; in all the desirable part, we have been the m-tat 
lucky in warmth and clearness of atmosphere. 

" Scptpmbei 28. 

*' Being out of the mountains, my journal must 
be as flat as my journey. From Thoun to Berne, 
good road, hedges, villages, industry, properly, and 
all sorts of tokens of insipid civilization. From 
Berne to Fribourg ; difterent canton ; Catholics ; 
passed a field of battle ; Swiss beat the French in 
one of the late wars against the French republic. 
Bought a dog. The greater part of this tour haa 
been on horseback, on foot, and on mule. 

" September 28. 

" Saw the tree planted in honor of the battle of 
Morat ; three hundred and forty years old ; a good 
deal decayed. Left Fribourg, but first saw the 
cathedral; high tower. Overtook the baggage ol 
the nuns of La Trappe, who are removing to Nor- 
mandy, afterward a coach, with a quantity of nuns 
in it. Proceeded along the banks of the lake of 
Neufchatel ; very pleasing and soft, but not so 
mountainous — at least, the Jura, not appearing 
so, after the Bernese Alps. Reached Yveiduu in 
the dusk ; along line of large tret- ■)n the border 
of the lake ; tine and sombre ; the Auberge nearly 
full — a German Princess and scite ; got i.^jins. 

" September "29. 

"Passed through a fine and flourishing country, 
but not mountainous. In the evening reached Au 
bonne, (the entrance and bridge something like thai 
of Durham,) which commands bv far the fairest 
view of the Lake of Geneva; twiliglit ; the moon 
on the lake; a grove on the height, and of vorj 
noble trees. Here Tavernicr (the caslfrn travoll.'r) 
bou<}ht (or built) the chateau, because the site le 
senibled and equalled thai of Eriian, a frontier citj 
of Persia ; here he finished his voyages, and I thii 
little excursion, — for I am within a few hours ol 
DioJati and b»ve little more to see, and no more tc 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL 

IN ITALY. 



" Ravenna, January 4, 1821. 

'• * A 5T7DDEX thought Strikes me.' Let me begin a 
lournal once more. The last I kept was in Swit- 
serland, in record of a tour made in the Bernese 
Alps, which I made to send to my sister in 1816, 
and I suppose that she has it still, for she wrote to 
me that she was pleased with it. Another, and 
longer, I kept in 1813-1814, which I gave to Thomas 
Moore in the same year. 

" This morning I gat me up late, as usual — 
weather bad — bad as England — worse. The snow 
of last week melting to the siroc-co of to-day, so 
that there were two d — d things at once. Could not 
even get to ride on horseback in the forest. Stayed 
at home all the morning — looked at the fire — won 
iered when the post would come. Post came at 
the Ave Maria, instead of half-past one o'clock, as 
it ought. Galignani's Messengers, six in number — 
a letter from Faenza, but none from England. — 
Very sulky in consequence, (for there ought to have 
been letters,) and ate in consequence a copious din- 
ner ; for when I am vexed, it makes me swallow 
quicker — but drank very little. 

" I was out of spirits — read the papers — thought 
what fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that 
' Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, 
flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to 
some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter 
(I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of Pamela, 
which he was tearing for waste paper, &c., &c. In 
the cheese was found, &c., and a • leaf of Pamela 
wrapped round the bacon ! ' What would Richardson , 
the vainest and luckiest of living authors (i. e. while 
alive) — he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophecy 
and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the 
prose Homer of human nature) and of Pope (the 
most beautiful of poets) — what would he have said 
could he have traced his pages from their place on 
the French prince's toilets (see Boswell's Johnson) 
to the grocer's counter and the gipsy-murderess's 
bftcon ! ! ! 

" What would he have said ? what can any body 
say, save what Solomon said long before us .' After 
all, it is but passing from one counter to another, 
from the bookseller's to the other tradesman's — 
jroc.^r or pastry-cook. For my part, I have met 
with most poetry upon trunks ; so that I am apt 
to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of author- 
Bhip. 

'• Wrote five letttrs in about half an hour, short 
and savage to all my rascally correspondents. Car- 
riage came Heard the news of three murders at 
Faenza and ForU — a carabinier, a smuggler, and an 
attorney — all last night. The first two in a quarrel, 
the latter by ])remeditation.* 

"Three weeks ago — almost a month — the 7th it 



See Letter ccodxv.. Ac. 



was — 1 picked up the commandant, mortally wotu d 
ed, out of the street ; he died in my house r assas- 
sins unknown, but presumed political. His brethren 
wrote from Rome last night to thank me for having 
assisted him in his last moments. Poor fellow ! it 
was a pity ; he was a good soldier, but imprudent.— 
It was eight in the evening when they killed him. 
We heard the shot ; my servants and I ran out, and 
found him expmng, with five wounds, two whereol 
mortal — by slugs they seemed. I examined him, 
but did not go to the dissection next morning. 

" Carriage at eight or so — went to visit La Contessa 
G. — found her playing on the pianoforte — talked 
till ten, when the Count, her father, and the no less 
Count, her brother, came in from the theatre.— 
Play, they said, Alfieri's Filippo — well received. 

" Two days ago the King of Naples passed 
through Bologna on his way to congress. My ser- 
vant Luigi brought the news. I had sent him to 
Bologna for a lamp. How will it end ? Time will 
show. 

*' Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the 
road and weather are comformable, mean to ride to- 
morrow. High time — almost a week at this work — 
snov/, sirocco, one day — frost and snow the other- 
sad climate for Italy. But the two seasons, last and 
present, are extraordinary. Read a Life of Leonardo 
da Vinci, by Rossi — ruminated — wrote this much, 
and will go to bed. 

" January 5, 1821. 

" Rose late — dull and drooping — the weather drip- 
ping and dense. Snow on the ground, and sirocco 
above in the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to the 
horse's belly, so that riding (at least for pleasure) is 
not very feasible. Added a postscript to my letter 
to Murray. Read the conclusion, for the fiftieth 
time (I have read all W. Scott's novels at least fifty 
times) of the third series of ' Tales of my Land- 
lord,' — grand work — Scotch Fielding, as well as 
great English poet — wonderful man ! I long to get 
drunk with him. 

" Dined versus six o' the clock. Forgot that 
there was a plum-pudding, (I have added, latoly, 
eating to my ' family of vices,') and had dined befure 
I I new it. Drank half a bottle of some sorts oi 
spiiits — of wine;^br what they call brandy, rum 
&c &c., here is nothing but spii'its of wine, colored 
accordingly. Did not eat two apples, which were 
placed, by way of dessert. Fed the two cats, the 
hawk, and tame (but not tamed) crow. Read Mit- 
ford's History of Greece — Xenophon's Retreat of 
the Ten Thousand. Up to this present momeue 
wTiting, six minutes before eight o' the cl'.ck-* 
French hours, not Italian. 

" Hear the carriage — order pistols and great coat, 
as usual — necessary articles. Weather cold — car- 
riage open, and inhabitants somewhat savage — rathe* 
treacherous and highly inflamed bv politics. Fins 



EXTlvACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



999 



iell;)ws, though, — good materials for a nation. Out 
©f chaos God made a world, and out of high passions 
comes a people. 

" Clock strikes — going out to make love. Some- 
what perilous, but not disagreeable. Memorandum 
— a new screen put up to-day. It is rather antique, 
but will do with a little repair. 

" Thaw continues — hopeful that riding may be 
practicable to-morrow. Sent the papers to Alii — 
grand events coming. 

*' Eleven o' the clock and nine minutes. Visited 
La Contessa G. Nata G. G. Found her beginning 
cry letter of answer to the thanks of Alessio del 
P}nto of Ptome for assisting his brother, the late 
commandant, in his last moments, as I had begged 
her to pen my reply for the purer Italian, I being an 
ultra-montane, little skilled in the set phrase of 
Tuscany. Cut short the letter — finish it another 
day. Talke~d""6f Italy, patriotism, Alfieri, Madame 
Albany, and other branches of learning. Also Sal- 
lust's Conspiracy of Catiline, and the war of Jugur- 
tha. At nine came in her brother, II Conte Pietro — 
at ten, her father, Conte Ruggiero, 

"Talked of various modes of warfare — of the 
Hungarian and Highland modes of broadsword ex- 
ercise, in both whereof I was once a moderate ' mas- 
ter of fence.' Settled that the R. will break out on 
the 7th or Sth of March, in which appointment I 
should trust, had it not been settled that it was to 
have broken out in October, 1820. But those Bo- 
lognese shirked the Romagnuoles.- 

" ' It is all one to Ranger.' One must not be par- 
ticular, but take rebellion when it lies in the way. 
Came home — read the ' Ten Thousand ' again, and 
will go to bed. 

" Mem. — Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this 
afternoon) to copy out seven or eight apothegms 
of Bacon, in which I liave detected such blunders as 
a school-boy might detect, rather than commit. — 
Buch are the sages ! What must they be, when such 
as 1 can stunible on their mistakes or mistatcments ? 
I will go to bed, for I find that I grow cynical. 

"Januarys, 1821. 

•'Mist — thaw — slop — rain. No stirring out on 
horseback. Read Spcnce's Anecdotes. Pope a fine 
fellow— always thought him so. Corrected blunders 
in tdne apothegms of Bacon — all historical — and 
read Mitford's Greece. Wrote an epigram. Turned 
to a passage in Guinguene — ditto, in Lord Hol- 
land's Lope de Vega. Wrote a note on Don Juan.* 

" At eight went out to visit. Heard a little music 
—like music. Talked with Count Pietro G. of the 
Italian comedian Vestris, who is now at Rome — 
have seen him often act in Venice — a good actor— 
rery. Somewhat of a mannerist ; but excellent in 
broad comedy, as well as in sentimental patlietic. He 
has made me frequently laugh and cry, neith-r of 
wliich is now a very easy matter — at least, for a 
player to produce in hie. 

" Thduglit of tlie state of women under the ancient 
Qreeks — couvenient eiunigli. Present state, areni- 
aant of the barbarism of tlie diivalry and feudal 
jge^ — artificial and unnatural. They ought to luind 
Jjyine— and be well fed and clothi-d— but not mixed 
in society. Well educated, too, in ndigion— but to 
read neither poetry nor jjolitics— nothing but books 
of piety and cookery. Musii — drawing— danciiiK— 
also a little gardening and ploughing now and then. 
I have se<m them mending the road in Kpiius with 
good succe-<s. Why not, as well us hay-makmg and 

milking i , . . i j 

" rjame home, and readMitford again, and nluyed 
with my mastili— gave him his sunper. Made un- 
othei reading to the epigram, but tlu' turn the same. 
To-night at the tluMtic, there being a prince «»n his 
♦hron' in the Inst sceJie of the comedy ,— tlie uudi- 
tjnce hmghed, and asked him for a Cun'Hituttcn.— 
Ihitt shows the state of the public mind heie, an 



Dott Jiufl, BO(a 8, 10 CmiI0 v. 



well as the assas.sinations. It won't do. There must 
be a universal republic, — and there ought to be. 

" The crow is lame of a leg — wonder how it hap- 
pened — some fool trod upon his toe, I suppoRe.— 
The falcon pretty brisk — the cats large and noisy— 
the monkeys I have not looked to since the cold 
weather, as they suffer by being brought up. Horsea 
must be gay — get a ride as soon as wt ather serves. 
Deused muggy still — an Italian winter is a sad thing, 
but all the other seasons are charming. 

" What is the reason that I have been, all my 
lifetime more or less emmy^l and that, if any tLing, 
I am rather less so now than I was at twenty, aj fal 
as my recollection serves ? I do not know how to 
answer this, but presume that it is constitutional,— 
as well as the waking in low spirits, which I have 
invariably done for many years. Temperance and 
exercise, which I have practised at times, and for a 
long time together vigorously and violently, made 
little or no difference. Violent passions did;— ^ 
when under their immediate influence — it is odd, | 
but — I was in agitated, but iiot in depressed spirits. ' 

"A dose of salts has the eifect of a temporary 
inebriation, like light champagne upon me. But 
wine and spirits mu,ke me sullen and savage to fe- 
rocity — silent, however and retiring, and not quai- 
relsome, if not spoken to. Swimming also raises 
uiy spirits, — but in general they are low, and get 
daily lower. That is hopehss ; for I do not think 
I am so much ennxiij<^ as I was at nineteen. — 
The proof is, that then I must game, or drink, 
or be in motion of some kind, or I was miser- 
able. At present, I can mope in quietness ; and 
like being alone better than any company —except 
the lady's whom I serve. But I feel a something, 
which makes me think that, if I ever reach near to 
old age, like Swift, ' I shall die at top ' tirst. Only 
1 do not dread idiotism or madness so much as he 
did. On the contrary, I think some quieler stage* 
of both must be preferable to much of what men 
think the possession of their senses. 

"Janiuuy 7, llf.M, Sim.Uy. 

" Still rain — mist — snow — drizzle — and all the in- 
calculable combinations of a climate, where luatand 
cold struggle for mastery. Read Spence, and turned 
over Roscoe, to find a passage I have not found.— 
Read the fourth vol. of W. Scott's second series of 
♦Tales of my Landlord.' Dined. Read the Lugano 
Gazette. Read— 1 forget what. At eight went to 
conversazione. Found there the Countess Gi-l- 
trude, Betti V., and her husband, and others.— 
Pretty black-eyi d woman that — oni\j twenty-two— 
same age as Teresa, who is prettier, though. 

"The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that 
the Patriots have had notice from Poili (twmly 
miles off) that to-night the governmiMil and Ita 
party mean to strike a stroki — that the Caulitial 
here' has had ijrders to make several arrests imiiio- 
diately, and that, in consequence, the Liberal* are 
arming, and have posted patrols in the stricta, to 
sound the alarm and give notice to light tor it. 

"lie a.skttl me * what should be dniir ? ' — I an- 
swered, ' light t\u- it, rather than be tak. il ;' 
anil ottered, if any of theyi tuo in inr. i' 
iiension of arrest, to receive them »> 
(which is defensible,) and to defend i. ▼ 
servants and themselvcK, (wc have an i- 
nition,) as long as we ean.^nir to ti^ u 
awav >inder cloud t)f night. On going ! J 
him' the pist»)l8 winch I had about i. "'• 
fused, hut said he would eomc otf to luc m . a>c ol 
aeeidentH. 

" It wants half an hour of midnight, and rnm« ;— 
Its (iibbet »ays, *a tine night for their enleruriM>— 
dark us hell, and blowK like the devil." If the row 
ilont happen uoxr, it must so«>n. 1 thought thai 
Ibcir sv^limof shooting people would noon prodm^ 
a ic.ution— and now it ««eem» coming. I will do 
i what I can in the way of eoml.at. though a little out 
' ol exorcive. The causiu \a a Kccd ou« 



1000 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"Turned 3ver and over half a score of books for 
the passage in question, and can't find it. Expect 
to hear the drum and the musketry momently (for 
they swear to resist, and are right) — but I hear no- 
.Hing, as yqi;t, save the splash of the rain and the 
gusts of the wind at intervals. Don't like to go to 
Bed, because I hate to be waked, and would rather 
sit up for the row, if there is to be one. 

" Mended the fire — have got the arms — and a 
book or two, which I shall turn over. I know little 
of their numbers, but think the Carbonari strong 
enough to beat the troops, even here. "With twenty 
men, this house might be defended for twenty-four 
hours against any force to be brought against it, 
now in this place, for the same time ; and, in such a 
tiir\e, the country would have notice, and would 
lise, — if ever they will rise, of which there is some 
doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read as do 
any thing else, being alone. 

"January 8, 1821, Monday. ^ 

" Rose, and found Count P. G. in my apartments. 
Sent away the servant. Told me that, according to 
the best information, the government had not issued 
orders for tbe an-ests apprehended ; that the attack 
in Forli had not taken place (as expected) by the 
Sanfedisti — the opponents of the Carbonari or Lib- 
erals — and that, as yet, they are still in apprehension 
only. Asked me for some arms of a better sort, 
which I gave him. Settled that, in case of a row, 
the Liberals were to assemble here, (with me.) and 
that he had given the word to Vincenzo G. and 
others of the Chiefs for that purpose. He himself 
and father are going to the chase in the forest ; but 
V. G. is to come to me, and an express to be sent off 
to him, P. G., if any thing occurs. Concerted opera- 
tions. They are to seize — but no matter. 

" I advised them to attack in detail, and in differ- 
ent parties, in different places, (though at the same 
time,) so as to divide the attention of the troops, 
who, though few, yet being disciplined, would beat 
any body of people (not trained) in a regular fight — 
unless dispersed in small parties, and distracted 
with different assaults. Offered to let them assem- 
ble here, if they choose. It is a strongish post — 
narrow street, commanded from within — and tenable 
walls. * * * 

" Dined. Tried on a new coat. Letter to Mur- 
ray, with corrections of Bacon's Apothegms and 
an epigram — the latter not for publication. At eight 
went to Teresa, Countess G. * * * * At nine 
and a half came in II Conte P. and Count P. G. 
Talked of a certain proclamation lately issued. 
Count R. G. had been with * * (the * *), to sound 
him about the arrests. He, * *, is a trimmer, and 
deals, at present, his cards with both hands. If he 
don't mind, they'll be full. ** pretends (/doubt 
him — they don't, — we shall see) that there is no such 
order, and seems staggered by the immense exer- 
tions of the Neapolitans, and the fierce spirit of the 
Liberals here. The truth is, that * * cares for little 
but his place (which is a good one) and wishes to 
play pretty with both parties. He has changed his 
mind tliirty times these last three moons, to my 
knowledge, for he corresponds with me. But he is 
not a bloody fellow — only an avaricious one. 

"It seems that, just at this moment (as Lydia 
Languish says) there will be no elopement after all. 
I wish that I had known as much last night — or, 
rather, this morning — I should have gone to bed 
two hours earlier. And yet I ought not to com- 
plnin ; for, though it is a sirocco, and heavy rain, I 
na>e not i/atvned (or these two days. 

"Came home — read History of Greece — before 
dinner had read Walter Scott's Rob Roy. Wrote 
address to the letter in answer to Alessio del Pinto, 
who has thanked me for helping his brother (the 
late commandant, murdered here last month) in his 
last moments. Have told him I only did a duty of 
humanity — as is true. The brother lives at Rome. 

" Mended the fire with some ' sgobole,' (a Romag- 
Q':oie word,) and gave the falcon some water. — 



Drank some Seltzer- water. Mem. — ^received to-day 
a print, or etching of the story of Ugolino, by ux 
Italian painter — different, of course, from Sir Joshua 
Reynolds's, and I think (as far as recollection go as) 
no worse, for Reynolds is not good in history. Tor? 
a button in my new coat. 

*' I wonder what figure these Italians will makb 
in a regular row. I sometimes think that, like the 
Irishman's gun, (somebody had sold him a crooked 
one,) they will only do for ' shooting round a cor- 
nei ; ' at least this sort of shooting has been the late 
tenor of their exploits. And yet, there are mate- 
rials in this people, and a noble energy, if well di- 
tected. But who is to direct them I ' No matter 
Out of such times heroes spring. Difficulties are 
the hot-beds of 'high spirits, and Freedom the mothei 
of the few virtues incident to human nature. 

•< Tueiday, January 9, 1821. 

" Rose — the day fine. Ordered the horses, but 
Lega (my secretary an Italianism for steward or 
chief servant) comii-.^ to tell me that the painter haa 
finished the work in fresco, for the room he has been 
employed on lately, I went to see it before I set out. 
The painter has not copied badly the prints from 
Titian, &c., considering all things. 

****** 

" Dined. Read Johnson's * Vanity of Human 
Wishes,' — all the examples and mode of giving 
them sublime, as well as the latter part, with the 
exception of an occasional couplet. I do not so 
much admire the opening. I remember an observa- 
tion of Sharpe's (the conversatio7iist, as he was called 
in London, and a very clever man), that the first line 
of this poem wa« superfluous, and that Pope (the 
very best of poets / think) would have begun a 
once, only changing the punctuation — 

' Survey mankind from China to Peru I ' 

The former line. ' Let observation,' &c., is certainh 
heavy and useless. But 'tis a grand poem — and so 
true ! — true as the 10th of Juvenal himself. The 
lapse ot ages changes all things — time — language — 
the earth — the bounds of the sea — the stars of the 
sky, and every thing * about, around, and under- 
neath ' man, except man himself, who has always 
been, and always will be, an unlucky rascal. The' 
infinite variety of lives conducts but to death, and, 
the infinity of wishes leads but to disappointment. 
All the discoveries which have yet been made have 
multiplied little but existence. An extirpated dis- 
ease is succeeded by some new pestilence ; and a 
discovered world has brought little to the old one, 
exc:ept the p-^ first and freedom afterward — the latter 
a tine thing, particularly as they gave it to Emopc 
in exchange for slavery. But it is doubtful whether 
' the sovereigns ' would not think the Jirst the best 
present of the two to their subjects. 

" At eight went out — heard some news. They say 
the king of Naples has declared, by couriers from 
Florence, to the powtrs (as they call now those 
wretches with crowns) that his constitution was 
compulsive, &c., &c., and that the Austrian barba- 
rians are placed again on war pay, and will march. 
Lwt them — 'they come like sacrifices in tlieir trim,' 
the hounds of hell !* Let it still be a hope to se« 
their bones piled like those of the human dogs at 
Morat, in Switzerland, which I have seen. 

" Heard some music. At nine the usual visiters 
— news, war, or rumors of war. Consulted with P. 
G., &c., ike. They mean to instirrect here, and are 
to honor me with a call thereupon. I shall not fall 
back ; though I don't think them in force or heart 
sufficient to make much of it. But oaioard ! — it is 
now the time to act, and what signifies self, if a 
single spark of that which would be worthy of the 
past can be bequeathed unquenchedly to the future ? 
It is not one man, nor a million, but the spirit of 
liberty, which must be spread. The waves w. ich 



Childe liuold, Caoto 111., stanza Ixiii.. and note It. 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



luul 



iash tt^ion the shcti ai-e, one jy one, broken, but 
yet the (^cean conquers, nevertheless. It overwhelms 
the Arma la, it wears the rock, and, if the Neptic- 
niaiis are to be believed, it has not only destroyed, 
but made a world. In like manner, whatever the 
Bacrificc of individuals, the great cause will gather 
strength, sweep down what is rugged, and fertilize 
(for sea-weed is manure) what is cultivable. And 
60, the mere selfish calculation ought never to be 
made on such occasions ; and, at present, it shall 
not be computed by me. I was never a good arith- 
metician of chances, and shall not commence now. 

" January 10, 1821. 

" Day fine — ^rained only in the moi-ning. Looked 
Drer accounts. Read Campbell's Poets — marked 
errors of Tom (the author) for correction.* Dined 
—went out — music — Tyrolese air, with variations. 
Sustained the cause of the original simple air against 
the variations of the Italian school. 

* * * * « * ' 

** Politics somewhat tempestuous, and cloudier 
daily. To-morrow being foreign post-day, probably 
something more will be known. 

"Caiufj home — read. Corrected Tom Campbell's 
slips of the pen. A good work, though — style af- 
fected — but his defence of Pope is glorious. To be 
sure, it is his own cause, too, — but no matter, it is 
very good, and does him great credit. 

" Midnight. 

^- " I have been turning over different Lives of the 
Poets. I rarely read their works, unless an occa- 
sional flight over the classical ones. Pope, Dryden, 
Johnson, Gray, and those who approach them near- 
est, (I leave the rant of the rest to the cant of the 
I day,) and — I had made several reflections, but I feel 
sleepy, and may as well go to bed. 

" January 11, 1821. 

" Read the letters. Corrected the tragedy and 
the ' Hints from Horace.' Dined, and got into bet- 
ter spirits. Went out — returned — finished letters, 
five in number. Read poets, and an anecdote in 
Spence. 

"All' w'rites to me that the Pope, and Duke of Tus- 
cany, and King of Sardinia have also been called to 
Cojigfess ; but the Pope will only deal there by 
proxy. So the interests of millions are in the hs'n/^;. 
of about twenty coxcombs, at a place called Let 
bach I 

" I should almost regret that my own aflTairs went 
well, when those of nations are in peril. If the in- 
terests of mankind could be essentially bctteied, 
(particularly of these oppressed Italians,) I should 
not so much mind my own * snia' peculiar.' God 
grant us all better times, or philosophy. 

"In reading, I have iust chanced upon an expres- 
sion of Tom Campbell's; — speaking of Collins, he 
pays that ' no reader cares an.y more about the c/iar- 
ucteristic manners of l«s eclogues than about the 
authenticity of the tale of Troy.' 'Tis false— -we do 
care about 'the authenticity of the tale of Troy." 
I h;ive stood upon tlie plain daily, for more than a 
nionth in 1810; and, if any thing dimniishcd my 
pleasure, it was that tlie blackguard liryant had 
uiij 'igned its veracity. It is true 1 read ' Homer 
Travt.i :ied,' (the first twelve books,) because llob- 
houst and others bored me with tlieir learned locali- 
ties, and I h)ve quizzing. But I still venerated the 
grand original as the truth of histury (in the mate- 
rial yitc^i) and of place. Otherwise it would liuvc 
fivcn me no delight. Who will prrsuade nu-, when 
reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it did not 
contain a hero ?— its very magnitude provt-d this. 
Men do not labor over tlie ignoble and petty dead — 
uid why should not the dead be Ilomcr'a de«d ? 
The secret of Toui Campbell's di-fence «)f inaccuracy 
In costume and description ib, that his Gerlrudi', 
kc - has no more locality in common with Peiiiisyl-I 
Aaia JL»n with Penm'uumuur. It is titoriouitly 

■ I km Juau, boit •. le CiiiU> V. 



full of grossly false scenery, as all Americans de- 
clare, though they praise parts of the poem. It ii 
thus that self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, 
to sting any thing which happens, even accidentally, 
to stumble upon it, 

"January 12, 1921. 

" The weather still so humid and impracticable, 
that London, in its most oppressive fogs, were a 
summer-bower to this mist and sirocco, which haa 
now lasted, (but with one day's interval,) checked 
with snow or heavy rain only, since the 30th ol 
December, 1820. It is so far" lucky that I have a 
literary turn ; but it is very tiresome not to be able 
to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, 
for so many days. The roads are even worse than 
the weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy 
soil, and the growth of the waters. 

" Read the poets — English, that is to say — out of 
Campbell's edition. There is a good deal of tutfeta 
in some of Tom's prefatory phrases, but his work ij 
good, as a whole. I like him best, though, in his 
own poetry. 

" Murray writes that they want to act the tT.\gedy 
of Marino Faliero ; more fools they — it was written 
for the closet. I have protested against this piece 
of usurpation, (which, it seems, is legal for mana 
gers over any printed work, against the autlior'i 
will,) and I hope they will not attempt it. Wh^ 
don't they bring out some of the numberless aspi- 
rants for theatrical celebrity, now encumbering theii 
shelves, instead of lugging me out of the lii)raiy ? 
1 have written a fierce protest against any such at- 
tempt, but I still would hope that it will not \t 
necessary, and that they will see, at once, that it is 
not intended for the stage. It is too regular — the 
time, twenty-four hours — the change of place not 
frequent — nothing me/o-dramatic — no surprises, no 
starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities * for lo^^ins 
their heads and kicking their heels ' — and no lovtt— 
the grand ingredient of a modern play. 

"I have found out the seal cut on Murray's let 
ter. It is meant for Walter Scott — or >V/- Walter- 
he is the first poet knighted since Sir Kieburd 
Blackmore. But it does not do him justice. Sott'a 
— particularly when he recites — is a very inteUigeut 
countenance, and this seal says nothing. 

"Scott is certainly tlie most wondenul writer of 
the day. His novels are a new literature in thtm- 
selves, and his poetry as good as any — if not b<-Uei 
(only on an erroneous system) — aiuioi:!. 
be so popular, because the vulgar learui >. 
of hearing ' Aristides called the Just,' .. i 

Scott the Best, and ostracised hiin. 

" I like him, too, lor his manUness of character, 
for the extreme pleasantness of his convirsation, 
and his good nature towards myself, personall).— 
May he pn)sj)er I — for he deserves it. 1 know no 
reading to which 1 fall with such alacrity us a work 
of W. Setjtt's. I shall give the seal wah lii> bust 
on it, to Madame hi Coiitessa G. this evening, who 
will be curious to have the etiigieb of a man s» icle- 
bruted. 

•• How strange are my thought.^ ! — The reivdingoi 
the song of Milton, *'Sabrinu fair,' ..as biough* 
back upon me — 1 know not how or v 'ly — the h.ip- 
uiist, perh.ijis, days of my life (always exeepling, 
here and there, a Harrow holyd.iy in tlie two l.ittei 
summers of my stay there, J which liviUK at C.iiu- 
bridge with Kdward Noel Long, oftcrwurd t»f th« 
tJuaids, — who, after having served honorably lit th» 
expeditiiui to Copenhagen, l»>f whieh two or three 
thousand scoundrels yet survive in plight .nul p.iy.^ 
was drowned early in ISOl), on hi.-* p.i-Nav.i to 1 ,s ..n, 
with his regiment in the St. (ieorg- 
was rtm foul of, in the night, by .ij 

We were ri\al hwimmers — fonu of i „ 

and t)f conviviality. Wo had been at Harrow to 
gitlier; but— .'Af-r-r, rtt l.>!»-*t— bin \v«« a Iwm bui«l#- 
rous spirit I ■ • . 'k, tinn— 
ivl.rlling— : '*>«' 

ruwmg, a ill luuei w 



1002 



BYKON'S WOHKS. 



tnischieis , wliile he was more sedate and polished. 
At Cambiidge — both of Trinity — my spirit rather 
softened, or his roughened, for we became very great 
friends. The description of Sabrina's seat reminds 
me of our rival feats in diving. Though Cam's is 
not a very ' translucent wave,' it was fourteen feet 
deep, where we used to dive for, and pick up — hav- 
ing thrown them in on purpose — plates, eggs, and 
even shillings. I remember, in particular, there 
was the stump of a tree (at least ten or twelve feet 
deep) iti the bed of the river, in a spot where we 
bathed most commonly, round which I used to 
cling, and ' wonder how the devil I came there.' 

" Our evenings we passed in music (he was musi- 
cal, and played on more than one instrument, flute 
and violincello), in which I was audience; and 1 
think that our chief beverage was soda-water. In 
the day we rode, bathed, and lounged, reading occa- 
aionally. I remember our buying, with vast alacrity, 
Moore's new quarto, (m 1806,) and reading it to- 
gether in the eveuhigs. 

"We only passed the sunimer together; — Long 
had gone into the Guards auring the year I passed 
in Notts., away from college. His friendship and a 
violent, though /?«^re, love and passion — which held 
me at the same period — were the then romance of 
the most romantic period of my life. 

* * • * * « * I 

" I remember that, in the spring of 1809, II * * 
laughed at my being distressed at Long's death, 
and amused himself with making epigrams upon his 
name, which was susceptible of a pun — Lomj, slwrt, 
&c. But three years after he had ample leisure to 
repent it, when our mutual friend, and his, ^. * *'s, 
p uticular friend, Charles Matthews, was d]-owned 
also, and he, himself, was as much affected by a sim- 
ilar calamity. But / did not pay him back in puns 
and epigrams, for I valued Matthews too much, 
myself, to do so ; and, even if I had not, I should 
have respected his griefs. 

" Long's father wrote to me to write his son's epi- 
taph. I promised, — but had not the heart to com- 
plete it. He was such a good, amiable being as 
rarely remains long in this world ; with talent and 
accomplishments, too, to make him the more re- 
gretted. Yet, although a cheerful companion, he 
Had strange melancholy thoughts sometimes. I 
remember once that we were going to his uncle's, 
i think, — I went to accompany him to the door 
merely, in some Upper or Lower Grosvenor or 
Brook street, I forgot which, but it was in a street 
leading out of some square, — he told me that, the 
nigiit before, he ' had taken up a pistol — not know- 
ing ur examining whether it was loaded or no — and 
had snapped it at his head, leaving it to chance 
whether it might, or might not, be charged.' The 
letter too, which he wrote me, on leaving college, 
to join the Guards, was as melancholy in its tenor 
as it could well be on such an occasion. But he 
showed nothing of this in his deportment, being 
mild and gentle ; — and yet with much turn for the 
LuT'ious in his disposition. We were both much 
at.}, h'^d to Harrow, and sometimes made excursions 
ther3 together froix> london, to revive our schoolboy 
recoil actions. 

" Midnight. 

'• itead the Italian translation of Guide Sorelli of 
the German Grillparzer — a devil of a name, to be 
sure, for posterity ; but they must learn to pro- 
nounce it. AVith all the allowance for a translation, 
and, above all, an Italian translation (they are the 
very worst of translators, except from the' Classics 
— Annibale Caro, for instance — and there the bas- 
tardy of their language helps them, as, by way of 
lookiny legitimate, they ape their father's tongue) — 
but with every allowance for such a disadvantage, 
ilie tragedy of Sappno is superb and sublime ! 
There is no denying it. The man has done a 
great thing in writing that play. And who is he f 
I.k-^o'V him not; but ages will. 'Tia a high intel- 
lect. 



" 1 must premise, however, that 1 have read ru 
thing of Adolph Mnllner's, (the author of Guilt,', 
and much less of Goe'-he, and Schiller, aid Wie* 
land than I could wish. I only know them througli 
the. medium of English, French, and Italian trans- 
lations. Of the real language I know absolutely 
nothing — except oaths learned from postillions and 
officers in a squabble, I can swear in Gemaan p'*- 
tently, waen I like — 'Sacrament — Verflutcher — 
Hundsfott ' — and so forth ; but I have little of theil 
less energetic conversation. 

" I like, however, their women, (I was once so 
desperately in love with a German woman, Con- 
stance,) and all that I have read, translated of their 
writings, and all that I have seen en the rihine ol 
their country and people — all. except the A'istriana, 
whom I abhor, loathe, and — I cannot find' words for 
my hate of them, and should be sorry to find deeds 
correspondent to my hate ; for 1 abhor cruelty more 
than I abhor the Austrians' — except on an impulse, 
and then Lam savage — but not deliberately so. 

" Grillparzer is grand- -antique — not so sitnple as 
the ancients, but very simple for a modern — too 
Madame de Stael-/«A now and then — but altogether 
a great and goodly tvn''.er. 

"January 13, 1821, Saturday. 

" Sketched the outline and drams, pers. of an 
intended tragedjy of Sardanapalus, which I have for 
some time medit.ited. Took the names fi'om Dio 
dorus Siculus, (I know the history of Sardanapalus, 
and have known it since I was twelve years old,) 
and read ever a passage in the ninth vol. octavo ol 
Mitford's Greece, where he rather vindicates the 
memory of this last of the Assyrians. 

"Dined — news come — the pnicers mean to war 
with the peoples. The intelligence seems positive 
— let it be so — they will be beaten in the end. The 
king-times are fast finishing. There will be blood 
shed like water, and tears like mist; but the peo 
pies will conquer in the end. I shall not live to see 
it, but I foresee it. 

" I carried Teresa the Italian translation of Grill- 
parzer's Sappho, which she promises to read. She 
quarrelled with me, because I said that love was not 
t)ie loftiest theme for true tragedy ; and. having the 
advantage of her native language, and natural fe- 
male eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. 
I believe she was right. I must put more love 
into ' Sardanapalus ' than I intended. I speak, ol 
course, ?'/' the times will allow me leisure. Thatsj' 
will hardly be a peacemaker. 

"January 14, 1821. 

" Turned over Seneca's tragedies. Wrote the 
opening lines of the intended tragedy of Sardanap- 
alus. Rode out some miles into the forest. Misty 
and rainy. Returned — dined — wrote some moid ol 
my tragedy. 

" Read Diodorus Siculus — turned over Seneca, 
and some other books. W»ote some more of the 
tragedy. Took a glass of grog. After having rid- 
den hard in rainy weather, and scribbled, and scrib- 
bled again, the spirits (at least mine) need a little 
exhilaration, and I don't like laudanum now as I 
used to do. So I have mixed a glass of strong 
waters and single waters, wliich I shall noAv proceed 
to empty. Therefore and thereunto I conclude this 
day's diary. 

" The efifect of all wines and spirits upon me ife 
however, strange. It settles, but it makes me gloomy \ 
— gh)omy at the very moment of their effect, ana V 
not gay hardly ever. But it composes for a time, 
though sullenly. 

" January 15, 1821. 

"Weather fine. Received visit. Rc,^ out into 
the forest — fired pistols. Returned home — dined— 
dipped into a volume of Mitford's Greece — wrote 
part of a scene of 'Sardanapalus.' Went out-< 
heard some music — heard some politics. 'More 
ministers from the other Italian powers gone to 
Congress. War seems certain — in t'nat case, it wil' 
be a savage one. Talked over various importauf 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IM ITALt 



IJO^ 



natters with one of the initiated. At ten and half 
returned home. 

" I have just thought of something odd. In the 
year 1814, Moore (' the poet,' par excellence, and he 
deserves it) and I were going together, in the same 
carriage, to dine with Earl Grey, the Capo Politico 
of the remaining whrgs. Murray, the magnificeut, 
fthe illustrious publisher of that name,) had just 
sent me a Java gazette — I know not why or wh«e- 
fore. Pulling it out, by way of curiosity, we found 
it to contain a dispute (the said Java gazette) on 
Moore's merits and mine. I think, if I had been 
fchere, that I could have saved them the trouble of 
disputing on the subject. But, there is fame for 
you at six-and-twenty ! Alexander had conquered 
India at the same age ; but I doubt if he was dis- 
puted about, or his conquests compared with those 
of Indian Bacchus, at Java. 

*' It was great fame to be named with Moore ; 
greater to be compared with him ; greatest — pJeasure, 
at least — to be with him ; and, surely, an odd coin- 
cidence, that we should be dining together while 
they were quarrelling about us beyond the equinoc- 
tial line. 

"Weil, the same evening I met La^vrence, the 
painter, and heard one of Lord Grey's diiughtt-rs 
(a fine, tall, spirit-looking girl, with much of the 
patricia?i thowuffh-bred look of her father, wliich I 
dote upon) play on the harp, so modestly and in- 
genuously, that she looked music. Well, I would 
rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked 
deliglitfuUy) and heard the girl, than have had all 
the fame of Moore and me put together. 

" The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the 
cvay to pleasure ; and the more intellectual our plea- 
sure, the better for the pleasure and for us too. It 
was, however, agreeable to have heard our fame 
before dinner, and a girl's harp after. 

" January 16, lb'21. 

"Read — rode — fired pistols — returned — dined — 
wrote — visited — heard music — talked nonsense — and 
went home. 

"Wrote part of a tragedy — advance in act 1st 
with 'all deliberate speed.' B<mght a blanket. 
The weather is still muggy as a London May — 
mist, mizzle, the air replete with Scotticisms, which, 
though fine in the descriptions of Ossian, are some- 
what tiresome, in real, prosaic perspective. Poli- 
tics still mysterious. 

" J,„iuiiry 17, Ib-il. 

"Rode i' the forest— fired pistols— dined. Ar- 
rived, a packet of books from England and Lom- 
bardy— English, Italian, French, and Latin. Read 
till eight— went out. 

"To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. 
Read letters- only two gazettes, instead of twelve 
n^w due. Made Lcga write to tliat lu-gligent Galig- 
nani, and added a postscript. Dined. 

" At eight proposed to go out. Le^a came in 
with a letter al)out a bill unpaid at Venice, whu'h 1 
thought paid months ago. I flew into a i)ar()xysm 
of rage, which almost made nu- faint. I have not 
been W(;ll ever since. I deserve it for being surh a 
fool—but it was provoking— a set of scoundrels. 
U ia, howoA^or, but tive-;uul-t\v(iilv pounds. 

"J<iiiii,i.y 19, la-Jl. 

"Rode Winter's win<t somrwliat more unkind 
than ingratitude itself, ihungli Shakspeare says 
otherwise. At least, 1 am so much more uc- 
customed to meet with ingratitude than the lyr h 
wind, that I thought the latter tlie sharper <• the 
two. I had met witli l)oth in llie couiso ol the 
twenty-four hours, so could judge. 

"Thou<'ht of a plan of education for my daugh- 
ter Allegl-a, who ouk'ht to begin noon with her 
studies. Wrote a letter— afterw ird a postHcript. 
Rather in low npirits — certain (y hippiah — Uvcr 
louciM'd— will take u dose of uulU. 



"I have been reading the Liic, oy »imsL>lf an4 
daughter, of Mr. R. L. Edgeworth,' the father ol 
the Miss Edgeworth. It is altogether a great name 
In 1813, 1 recollect to have met them in the fai»h- 
ionable world of London (of which I then formed 
an item, .a fraction, the segment of a circle, the 
unit of a million, the nothing of something) in the 
assemblies of the hour, and at a breakf;u>t of Sii 
Humphrey and Lady Davy's, to which I was invited 
for the nonce. I had been the lion of 1812 ; Misa 
Edgeworth and Madame de Sta<'l, with ' the Cos- 
sack,' towards the end of 1813, were the exhibitions 
of the succeeding year. 

" I thought Edgeworth a fine old fellow, of « 
clarety, elderly, red complexion, but active, crisk, 
uid endless. He was seventy, but did not look 
fifty — no, nor forty-eight even. I had seen y.oor 
Fitzpatrick not very long before — a man of ple.iaure, 
wit, eloquence, all things. He tottered — but >tili 
talked like a gentleman, though feebly. Egdeworth 
bounced about, and talked loud and long; but lie 
seemed neither weakly nor decrepit, and hardly old. 

"He began by telling 'that he had given Dr. 
Parr a dressing, who had taken him for au Irish 
bog-trotter,' ike, Ac. Now I, who know Dr. Pan, 
ami who know (not by experience — for I never 
should have presumed so far as to contend with 
him — but by hearing him icith others, and ©/"others) 
that it is not so easy a matter to ' dress him,' 
thought Mr. Edgeworth an assertor of what waa 
not true. He could not have stond before Pan an 
instant. For the rest, he seemed intelliLjcnt, vehe- 
ment, vivacious, and full of life. Ue bids fair fur a 
hundred years. 

" He was not much admired in London, and I 
remember a ' ryghte mcrrie ' and conceited jest 
which was rife among the gallants of the d.iy,— vix., 
a paper hid been presented for the n-ralf o/ Mr$. 
Sid</4)/ui to the stape, (she having lately taken leave, 
to the loss of ages, — for nothing ever was, or c;in 
be, like her,) to which all men had been called to 
subscribe. Whereupon, Thomas Moore, of i)r<ir.»u*» 
and poetical memory, did prouose that a siniil.ir 
paper should be .v/z/iscribed and cirrniuMrihcd * for 
the recall of Mr. Edgeworth to Ireland.** 

"The fact was — every body cared more nUmt fmr. 
She was a nice little unassuming *Je..i 
looking bodie,' as we Scoti-h say — and. > i 

some, certainly not ill-looking. Her ^ i 

was a ijuiet as herself. One would 
guessed she could write her luunf ; \' 

father talked, nut as if he could write i.> ,., ;, 

but as if nothing else was worth writing. 

"As for Mr.->. Edgeworth, I f.nget— <'XoeMt thut I 
think she Wiis the yuungest of i' "' - 

gether, they were an excellent . 
and succeeded for two monlhi, i 1 

Madame de Sta<'l. 

"'lo turn from them to their workn, I udmtro 
them; but they excite no r.>.-i-..' •■ i '' .^ i. «« 
no love — except for sume Iri 
llowi'ver, the impression ol . 
is profound — juid may be uselul. 

•• Jjii.wrT 1», IMI. 

«• flode — fired pint«)lii. Rend from t ,. , nn.'s (\if^ 
lesiiondence. Dined — went out- 
turned — wrote u letter to the !.<•, ; » 
requesl liim to prevent the t'. 

lug the ' Diige,' which tlie I * 

ihev are going to oet. Thi • ' 

willioul unking my consent, and even m ^iip i.%;uuu 
to it ! • 

" Fine, rlenr, fronty day — thiit \* U> 1 

ian frost, for (heir wintershtirdly «ot b 
for which reaMon nobody knowi* how ; i 

skail)— a Dutch and I'.nglish »ivou.; 



• III thb, I mihnr think M wm uOaUit ' 
li- In UW JMI, t iMVa IMS M (M M I MSI 



. ttMl dtlM**ll 



1004 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Rode 01 t, as usual, and fired pistols. Good shoot- 
ing — broke four common, and rather small, bottles, 
in four shots, at fourteen paces, with a common pair 
of pistols and indifferent powder. Almost as good 
wafering or she 3ting — considering the diiference of 
powder and pistols — as when in 1809, 1810, 1811, 
1812, 1813, 1814, it was my luck to split walking- 
sticks, waters, half-crowns, shillings, and even the 
eye of a walking-stick, at twelve puces, with a sin- 
gle bullet — and all by eye and calculation ; for my 
hand is not steady, and apt to change with the very 
weather. To the prowess which I here note, Joe 
Manton and others can bear testimony; — for the 
former taught and the latter have seen me do, these 
feats. 

" Dined — visited — came home — read. Remarked 
on an anecdote in Grimm's Correspondence, which 
Bays that ' Regnard et la pliipart des poetes comi- 
ques (tatient gens bilieux et m'4ancoliques ; et que 
M. de Voltaire, qui est tres gai, n'a jamais fait que 
des tragedies — et que la comedie gaie est le seul 
genre oii il n'ait point reussi. C'est que celui qui 
rit et celui qui fait rire sont deux hommes fort dif- 
ferens.' — Vol. vi. 

"At this moment a feel as bilious as the best 
comic writer of them all, (even as Regnard himself, 
the next to Moliere, who has written some of the 
best comedies in any language, and who is supposed 
to haTe committed suicide,) and am not in spirits 
, to continue my proposed tragedy of Sardanapalus, 
ivhirh I have, for some days, ceased to compose. 

" To-morrow is my birth-day — that is to say, at 
twelve o' the clock, midnight, i. e. in twelve min- 
utes, I shall Lave completed thirty and three years 
of age ! ! ! — and I go to my bed with a heaviness of 
heart at having lived so long, and to so little pur* 
pose. • 

*' It is three minutes past twelve. — ' 'Tis the mid- 
dle of night by the castle clock,' and I am now 
thirty-three. 

' Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, 
Labuiitur anni ; ' — 

bit I don't regret them so much for what I have 
d ine, as for what I might have done. 

" Through life's road, so dim and dirty, 
I hive dragged to three-and thirty. 
What have these years left to me .' 
Nothing except thirty-tlxree. 

"January 22, 1821.* 



1821. 

HERB LIBS, 

INTERRED IN THE ETERNITY 

OF THE PAST, 

FROM WHENCE THERE IS NO 

RESURRECTION 

FOR THE DAYS — WHATEVER THERE MA^ BE 

FOR THE DUST — « 

THE THIRTY-THIRD YEAR 

OF AN ILL-SPENT LIFE, 

WHICH AFTER 

▲ LINGERING DISEASE OF MANY MONTHS, 

SUNK. INTO A LETHARGY, 

AND EXPIRED 

JANUARY 22d, 1821, A. D. 

LEAVING A SUCCESSOR 

INCONSOLABLE . 

FOR THE VERY LOSS WHICH 

OCCASIONED ITS 

EXISTENCE. 



" January 23, 1821. 

" Fine day. Read — ^rode — fired pistols, and re 
turned. Dined — read. Went out at eight — made 
the usual visii. Heard of nothing but war, — ' th<; 

* See letter ffcff.lnil. 



cry is still. They come.' The Car'- seem to have n< 
plan — nothing fixed among themselves, how, when, 
or what to do. In that case, they will make nothing 
of this project, so often postponed, and never putii. 
action. 

' Came home, and gave some necessary orders, in 
case of circumstances requiring a change of place. 
I shall act according to what may seem proper^ 
when I hear decidedly what the Barbarians mean to 
do. * At present, they are building a bridge of boats 
over the Po, which looks very warliVe A few days 
will probably show. I think of retiring towards 
Ancona, nearer the northern frontier ; that is to 
say, if Teresa and her father are obliged to re 
tire, which is most likely, as all the family are Lib 
erals. If not, I shall stay. But my movementfl 
will depend upon the lady's wishes, for myself, it ia 
much the same 

" I am somewhat puzzled what to do with my lit- 
tle daughter, and my effects, whioh are of some 
quantity and value, — and neither of them do in the 
seat of war where I think of going. But there is 
an elderly lady who will take charge of Aer, and T. 
ays that the Marchese C. will undertake to hold the 
chattels in safe keeping. Half the city are getting 
their affairs in marching trim. A pretty Carnival ! 
The blackguards might as well have waited till 
Lent. 

"January 24, 1821. 

"Returned — met some masques in the Corso — 
* Vive la bagatelle ! ' — the Germans are on the Po, 
the Barbarians at the gate, and their masters in 
council at Leybach, (or whatever the eructation ol 
the sound may syllable into a human pronuncia- 
tion,) and lo ! they dance and sing and make merry, 
' for to-morrow they may die.' Wh ^ can say that 
the Arlequins are not right ? Like the Lady Baus- 
siere, and my old friend Burton — I * rode on.' 

" Dined — (dam.n this pen !) — beef tough — there 
is no beef in Italy worth a curse ; unless a man 
could eat an old ox with the hide on, singed in the 
sun. 

" The principal persons in the events which may 
occur in a few days, are gone out on a shooting party, 
If it were like a ' Highland hunting,' a pretext oi 
the chase for a grand reunion of counsellors and 
chief, it would be all very well. But it is nothing 
more or less than a real snivelling, popping, small- 
sh'it, water-hen waste of powder, ammunition, and 
shot, for their own special amusement : — a rare set 
of fellows for ' a man to risk his neck 'with,' as 
' Marishal Wells ' says in the Black Dwarf. 

" If they gather, — ' whilk is to be doubted,' — they 
will not muster a thousand men. The reason of 
this is, that the populace are not interested, — only 
the higher and middle orders. I wish that the 
peasantry tvere : they are a fine savage race of two- 
legged Teopards. But the Bolognese won't — the 
Roman gnuoles can't without them. Or, if they 
try, what then ? They will try, and man can do no 
more — and, if he would but try his utmost, much 
might be done. The Dutch, for instance, against 
the Spaniards — then, the tyrants of Europe — since, 
the slaves — and, lately, the freedmen. 

" The year 1829 was not a fortunate one for the 
individual me, whatever it may be for the aations. 
I lost a lawsuit, after two decisions in my favor.— 
The project of lending money on an Irish mortgage 
was finally rejected by my wife's trustee, after a 
year's hope and trouble. The Rochdale lavA'suit had 
enduried fifteen years, and always prospered till I 
married ; since which, every thing has gone wrong— 
with me, at least. 

" In the same year, 1820, the Countess T. (i. nata 
Ga. G'. in despite of all I said and did to pre- 
vent it, ivould separate from her husband, II Cava- 
lier Commeddatore G'. &c., &c., &c., and all on th« 
I account of ' P. P. clerk of this parish ' The c*hei 
j little petty vexations of the year — overturns in car- 
iriages — the murder of people before one's door, and 
'dying in one's beds-^the cramp in swimminK-* 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



100; 



t;»Ur8 — iDdigestione and bilious attacks, &c., &c., 
%c - - 

• Manf iinall aniens make up a mm, 
Ami hey ho for Caleb Uuotem, oh I ' 

" January 25, 182:. 

* Received a letter from Loid Sidney Osborne, 
state secretary of the Seven Islands — a fine fellow — 
clever — dished in England five years ago, and came 
abroad to retrench and renew. He wrote from An- 
cona, in his way back to Corfu, on some matters of 
«iur own. He is son of the late Duke of Leeds by 
* I second marriage. He wants me to go to Corfu. 
Why not ? — perhaps I may, next spring. 

" Answered Murray's letter — read— lounged. — 
Scrawled this additional page of life's log-book. 
One day m'ire is over, of it and of me ; — but ' which 
is best, life or death, the gods onlv know,' as Socra- 
tes said to his judges, on the breaking up of the tri- 
bunal. Two thousand years since that sage's decla- 
ration of ignorance have not enlightened us more 
upon this important point ; for, according to the 
Christian dispensation, no one can know whether he 
is sure of salvation — evei the most righteous — since 
a single slip of faith may throw him on his back, 
like a skater, while gliding smoothly to his paradise. 
Now, therefore, whatever the certainty of faith in 
the facts may be, the certainty of the individual as 
to his happiness or misery is no greater than it was 
under Jupiter. 

" It has been said that the immortality of the 

soul, is a ' grand peutOtre ' — but still it is a grand 

/one. Every body clings to it — the stupidest, and 

dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still 

\ persuaded that he is immortal. 

"January 26, 1821. 

** Fine day — a few mares' tails portending change, 
but the sky clear, upon the whole. Rode — fired 
pistols — good shooting. Coming back, met an old 
man. Charity — purchased a shilling's worth of sal- 
/ation. If that was to be bought, I have given 
more to my fellow-creatures in this life — sometimes 
:br vice, but, it not more often, at least more consid- 
eraUly, for virtue — than I now possess. I never in 
my life gave a mistress so much as I have some- 
times given a poor man in honest distress ; — but, no 
matter. The scoundrels who have all along perse- 
cuted me* ^with the help of** who has crowned their 
efforts) will triumph ; — and, when justice is done to 
me, it will be when this hand that writes is as cold 
as the hearts which have stung me. 

" Returning, on the bridge near the mill, met an 
old woman. I asked her age — she said, ' Trecroci.' 
I asked my groom (though myself a decent Italian) 
what the devil her three crosses meant. He said, 
ninety years, and that she had five years more to 
boot ! ! I repeated the same three times, not to 
mistake— ninetv-five years ! ! !— and she was yet 
rather active — heard my question, for she answered 
it — <iaw me, for she advanced towards me ; and did 
not appear at all decrepit, tliough certainly touched 
with years. Told her to come to-morrow, and will 
examine her myself. I love phenomena. If she /« 
ninety-five years old, she must recollect the Cardinal 
Alberoni, who was legate here. 

" Ou dismounting, found Lieutenant E. just ar- 
rived fronx Faenza. Invited him to dine with me 
to-morrow. Did rwt invite him for to-duy, be 
cause there was a small ttirhot, (Friday, fast rcgu 
lar'v and religiously,) which I wanted to cat all my 
sell. Ate it. . 

•• Went out— found Teresa as usual— music. Iho 
gentlemen, who make revolutions, and are pone 
on a shooting, are not yet returned. They don t 
return till Sunday— that is to say, they have hct-ii 
out for five days, buffooning, while the interests of 
a whoU country are at stake, and even they thcm- 
■elves compromised. 

" It is a difficult part to play among such a set of 



assassins and blockheads — ^but, wlrn the scum ii 
skimmed otf, or has boiled over, good may come ol 
it. If this country could but be freed, what would 
be too great for the accomplishment of that desire ? 
for the extinction of that Sigh of Ages ? Let u« 
hope. They have hoped these thousand years. The 
very revolvement of the chances may bring it — it ia 
upon the dice. 

'• If the Neapolitans have but a single Md.s8ani- 
ello among them, they will beat the bloody butchen 
of the crown and sabre. Holland, in worse circum- 
stances, beat the Spains and Philips ; America beat 
the English ; Greece beat Xerxes ; and Frarc* 
beat Europe, till she took a tyrant ; South An ^ri'Ji 
beats her old vultures out of their nest ; and, if 
these men are but firm in themselves, there is 
nothing to shake them from without. 

«" Jxniiiirr 28, 1821. 

*' Lugano Gazette did not come. Letters from 
Venice. It appears that the Au^itrian brutes have 
seized my three or four pounds of English powder 
The scoundrels ! — I hope to pay them in ball for that 
powder. Rode out till twilight. 

" Pondered the subjects of four tragedies to b€ 
written, (life and circumstances permitting.) to wit, 
Sardanapalus, already begun ; C.ain, a metaphysical 
subject, something in the style of Manfred, but in 
five actj, perhaps, with the chorus ; Frani-i-sra of 
Rimini, in five acts ; and I am not sure that I would 
not try Tiberius. I think that I could ixtract a 
something, of my tragic, at least, out of the glv'omy 
sequestration and old age of the tyrant — and even 
out of his sojourn at Caprea — by softening tue de- 
tails, and exhibiting the despair which mu^t have 
led to those very vicious pleasures. For lu-ne but 
a powerful and gloomy mind overthrown wnuld 
have had recourse to such solitary honors, — being 
also, at the same time, old, and tne master of th« 
world. 

" Memoranda. 

" What is poetry ?— The feeling of a Former 
world and Future. 

'• Tliought Second. 
" Why, at the very height of desire " n 

pleasure, — worldly, social, amoroJis, .r r 

even avaricious,— ^oes there mingle a i ■ '• 

of doubt and sorrow — a fear of what in u> k'uu — a 
doubt of what is — a retrospect to the past. liMding 
to a prognostic-ation of the future.' (! ' ■ ' ' f 
Prophets of the Future is the P»'st.) \^ 
or tliesc r — 1 know not, exrriiT that n 
we are most susceptible ot 
never fear falling except frc 
cr, the more awful, and ;:. 

therefore, I am not sure that fear i» not a j.l.M-.i.ia- 
ble sensation ; at least Hope is ; and ich(U //o/x u 
there without a deep leaven of Fear ? and wliut mmi- 
sation is so delightful as Hiipe ? and. if it wrro not 
for Hope what would the Futur. (>.• '—in hr\] It it 
useless to say irArrr the Pi. > 

know ; and as for the I'ast 

meiuorv ? — Uo{>e bajfi<^. Ki^ 

it is Houe^Hope — ^llone. I allow tiixtrrn uuuul.*, 
though I never counteil them, to any aivru or -.up- 
posed possession. From whatever place wo >-..m- 
mence, we know where it all must end. And \ <t, 
what good is there in knt)wing it ? It d «■ t 
make nun better or wiser. Dn • 

horrors of the greatest plnRues, 
ence, for cxuiuple — «w 'InucvJi- '• 

velli.) men wore more cruel and protligatr th*ii r*fr. 
It is all a invst.-ry. 1 feel most Hung-, but I kno« 
nothing, except — — 



TbiM in*rk«t. vMl Map 



Mratai ^ m fmt. 



C«aae VU-^\, Caato IV.. lUnn •»»«»«.. mkI no. to Ui« Two PoHUt. •rt«»i. 



1006 



BYRON S WORKP. 



Thoiight for a speech of Lucifer, in the tragedy of 
Lam : — 

" Weio, Death an evil, would / let thee liiMi ? 
Fool I ii»e as I live — as thy father lives, 
A 'I thy son's sons shall live for ever more. 

" Past Mi'lnight. One o' the clock. 

*'t nare been reading W. F. Schlegel (brother to 
the othei of the name) till now, and I can make out 
aothing. He evidently shows a great power of 
Wv^rds, h\ t there is nothing to be taken hold of. He 
Is Ike Hazlitt, in English, who tai/cs pimples — a red 
and white corruption rising up, (in little imitation 
of mountains upon maps,) but containing nothing, 
ar^i '.:lischarging nothing, except their own humors. 

'• i dislike him the worse, (that is, Schlegel,) be- 
cause he al w^ays seems upon the verge of meaning ; 
and., lu, he goes down like sunset, or melts like a 
rninbow, leaving a rather rich confusion, — to which, 
ht wever, tlie above comparisons do too .much honor. 

** Continuing to read Mr. F. Schlegel. He is not 
sr.ch a fool as I took him for, that is to say, when 
he speaks of the North. But still he speaks of 
things all over the tcor'd with a kind of authority 
that a philosopher would disdain, and a man of 
common sen-se, feeling, and knowledge of his own 
ignorance, would be ashamed of. The man is ev 
dently wanting to make an impression, like his 
brother, — or like George in the Vicar of Wakefield 
who found out that all the good things had been 
said already on the right side, and therefore ' dressed 
up some paradoxes ' upon the v;rong side — inge- 
nious, but false, as he himself says — to which 'the 
learned world said nothing, nothing at all, sir.' Th 
* learned world,' however, has said something to the 
brothers Schlegel. 

" It is high time to think of something else 
What they say of the antiquities of the North is 
best. 

"Jaminry 29th, 1821. 

"Yesterday the woman of ninety-five years of 
age v.'as with me. She said her eldest son (if now 
alive) would have been seventy. She is thin — short, 



but active — hears, and sees, and talks incessantly. 
Several teeth left — all in the lower jaw, and single 
front teeth. She is very deeply wrinkled, and has a 
sort of scattered gray beard over her chin, at least 
as long as my mustachios. Her head, in fact, 
resembles the drawing in crayons of Pope the poet's 
mother, which is in some editions of his works. 

" I forgot to ask her if she remembered Alberoni, 
(legate here,) but will ask her next time. Gave her 
a louis — ordered her a new suit of clothes, and put 
her upon a weekly pension. Till now, she had'worked 
at gathering wood and pine-nuts in the forest, — 

Sretty woi k: at ninety-five years old ! She had a 
ozen children, of whom some are alive. Her name 
is Maria Montanari. 

" Met a company of the sect (a kind of Liberal 
club) calK'>d the ' American! ' in the forest, all armed, 
and singing, with all their might, in Romagnuole — 
• Sem tutti soldat' per la liberta,' (' we are all soldiers 
I'or liberty.') They cheered me as I passed — I re- 
turned their salute, and rode on. This may show 
the spirit of Italy at present. 

*' My to-day's journal consists of what I omitted 
fpslrrday. To-day was much as usual. Have luither 
& 'octter opinion of the writings of the Schlegels 
than 1 had four-and-twenty hours ago ; and will 
amend it still farther, if possible. 

"They say, that the Piedmontese have at length 
risen — (;a ira. 

" Read Schlegel. Of Dante he says that ♦ at no 
time has the greatest and most national of all Ital- 
ian poets ever been much the favorite of his coun- 
trymen.' 'Tis false ! There have been more edit- 
ors and commentators (and imitators, iltimately) of 
Dante than of all their poets put togetlier. Not a 
favorite ! Why, they talk Dante — write Dante — and 
vhink and dream Dante at this moment (1821) to an 
ezcesp, which would be ridiculous, but that he de- 
serves \. 



" In the same style vhis German talks of gondi/ 
las on the Arno— a precious fellow to dare to speaJr 
of Italy ! 

" He says also that Dante's chief defect is a want 
in a word, of gentle feelings. Of gentle feelings !— 
and Francesca of Rimini — and the father's feelings 
in Ugolino — and Beatrice — and ' La Pia ! ' Why, 
there is a gentleness in Dante beyond all gentle 
ness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating ol 
the Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not much 
scope or site for gentleness — but who but Dante 
could have introducid any 'gentleness' at all intv 
Hell? Is there any in Milton's ? No — and Dante" »• 
Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty. < 

" I o'cioek. 
" I have found out, however, where the German 
is right — it is about the Vicar of Wakefield. '01 
all romances in miniature, (and perhaps, this is the 
best shape in which romance can appear,) t.ie Vicat 
of Wakefield is, I think, the most exquisite.' He 
thinks ! — he might be sure. But it is very well for 
a Schlegel. I feel sleepy, and may as well get me 
to bed. To-morrow there will be fine weather. 

' Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.' 



"Januar)' 1?, 1821. 

" The Count P. G. this evening (by commission 
from the C'-) transmitted to me the new loorcl^ foi 
the next six months. * * * and * * *. The new 
sacred word is * * * — the reply * * * — the rejoinder 
* * *. The former word (now changed) was * * * — 
there is also * * * — * * *.f Things seem fast com- 
ing to a crisis — qa ira ! 

" We talked over various matters of moment and 
movement. These I omit ; — if they come to any 
thing, they will speak for themselves. After these, 
we spoke of Kosciusko. Count R. G. told me that 
Jie has seen the Polish officers in the Italian war 
burst into tears on hearing his name. 

" Something must be up in Piedmont — all the let- 
ters and papers are stopped. Nobody knows any 
thing, and the Germans are concentrating neai 
Mantua. Of the decision of Lay bach, nothing is 
known. This state of things cannot last long. The 
fernaent in men's minds at present cannot be con- 
ceived without seeing it. 

"Jan. 31,1821. 

"For several days I have not written anv thing 
except a few answers to letters. In momentary ex- 
pectation of an explosion of some kind, it is not 
easy to settle down to the desk for the higher kinds 
of composition. I could do it, to be sure ; for, last 
summer, I wif)te my drama in the very bustle of 
Madame la Contesse G.'s divorce and all its process 
of accompaniments. At the same time, I also had 
the news of the loss of an important lawsuit in Eng- 
land. But these were only private and personal 
business ; the present is of a different nature. 

" I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion 
that it may be laziness, which prevents me from 
writing ; especially as Rochefoucault says that ' lazi- 
ness often masters them all' — speaking of th.e pas- 
sio7is. If this were true, "t could hardly be said that 
idleness is the root of all evil,' since this is sup- 
posed to spring from the passions only ; ergo, that 
which masters all the passions (laziness, to wit) 
would in so much be a good. Who knows ' 

" Midnight. 

' I have been reading Grimm's Correspondence. 
He repeats frequently, in speaking of a poet, or ol 
a man of genius in any department, even in music, 
(Gretry, for instance,) that he must have *une amc 
qui se tourmente un esprit violent.' How far this 
may be true, I know not ; but if it were, I should ot 
a poet ' per eccellenza ; ' for I have always had * un* 



In tbe original MS. tbeae watobVords are blo'ted over, to u to be iJiegt^ 



EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



1007 



ame,' which not only tormented itself but every 
body else in contact with it ; and an ' esprit violent,' 
which has almost left me without any ' esprit ' at 
all. As to defining what a poet should be, it is not 
worth while, for what are they worth ? what have 
they done ? 

*' Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and lit- 

/ erary historian. His Corrospondcnts form the an- 

\ nals of the literary part of that age of France, with 

- much of her politics, and still more of her ' way of 

life.' He is as valuable, and far more entertaining 

than Miiratori or Tiraboschi — I had almost said, 

than Guingenc — but there we should pause. How- 

erer, 'tis a great man in its line. 

" Monsieur St. Lambert has 

• Et lo -yju'i »es regards la lumiere est nvie, 
II n'a plus, en mouraiit, k perdre que la vie,' 

This IS, word for word, Thomson's 

' And (lying, all we can resign is breath,' 

without the smallest acknowledgement from the 
Lorraine of a poet. M. St. Lambert is dead as a 
man, and (for any thing I know to the contrary) 
damned as a poet, by this time. However, his Sea- 
sons have good things, and, it may be, some of his 
own. 

" Pebruary 2, 1821. 

'•' I have been considering what can be the reason 
why I alwavs wake at a certain hour in the morn- 
ing, and always in very bad spirits— I may say, in 
a.'^tual (.lospair and despondency, m all respects — 
even of ^^t which pleased me o,ver night.- In about 
an hour m- two, this goes off, and I compose either 
to sleep afijain, or at least, to quiet. In England, 
five yearns ago, T had the same kind of hypochondria, 
but accompanied with so violent a thirst that I have 
irank as manv as fifteen bottles of soda-water in 
one night, after going to bed, and been still thirsty 
— calciilating, however,,, some lost from the bursting 
out and eirervc'^cence and overflowing of the soda- 
water, in drawiTig the corks, or striking off the 
necks of the bottles from mere thirsty impatience. 
At presr7it, I have not the thirst ; but the depres- 
sion of spirits is no less violent. 

" I read in Edgcworth's Memoirs of something 
similar (except that his thirst expanded itself on 
tmall beer) in the case of Sir F. B. Dclaval ;— but 
then he was, at least, twenty years older. What is 
it?— liver .=> In England, Le Man (the apothecary) 
cured me of the thirst in three days, and it had 
lasted ar. many years. L suppose that it is all hypo- 
chondria. 

" What I feel most growing upon mc are laziness 
and a disrelish move powerful than indifTorence. If 
/ I rouse, it is into fury. I presume that I shall end 
(if not earlier by accident, or some such tcrmiiui- 
tion) like Swift—' dying a top.' 1 confess I do not 
contemjjlate this witli so ra,.ch horror as he rti)pa- 
rentlv did for some years before it happrn(>d. but 
Swift had liardlv heoun life at the very period (thirty- 
tl.rcf*) when I feel quite an old sort of fetl. 

" Uh ! there is an organ jjlaying in the street — a 
waltz, too ! I must leave olf to listen. They arc 
playing a wailz. whicli I have heard ten thousnnd 
tiines at the balls in Loudon, betwcn 181*2 and IHlo. 
MuHic is a strange thing. ,, ^^^^^ ^^ ,^,_ 

"At last, 'the kiln's in a low.' The Gcrinnns 
urc ordered to inarch, and Italy is, for the ton thou- 
landth time, to become a field of battle. Last niKht 
the news came. 

•' This afternoon. Count P. O. came to me to con- 
.nlt upon divers matters. We rode out togcthor. 
They have sent off to the C. for orders, lo-morrow 
the decision ought to arrive, and then something 
will be done. Returned— dined— read— went out- 
talked over matters. Made a purchono of ntnne 
-^miR for the new enrolled Americani, who nr« all on 



tiptoe to march. Gave orders for sc rae iamesa ano 
portmanteaus for the horses. 

"Read some of Bowles's dispute aoout Pope 
with all the replies and rejoii;dcrs Perceive thai 
my name has been lugged iuto the controversy, but 
have not time to state what I know of the subject 
On some ' piping day of peace ' it is probable that 1 
may resume it. 

" Frbnury 9, IKl. 

" Before dinner wrote a little ; also, before I rode 
out, Count P. G. called upon me, to let me know 
the result of the meeting of the C>- at F. and at B. 

* tj**^^^"'"''^ ^^•'^* night. Ever)^ thing was combined 
nnac;r the idea that the Barbarians would pass the 
Po on the l-'ith inst. Instead of this, frr m some 
previous information or otherwise, they have hasten- 
ed their march and actually passed two days ag;/ ; 
so that all that can be done at present in Roinagi.a 
is, to stand on the alert and wait for the advance ol 
the Xeapolitans. Every thing was ready, and the 
Neapolitan** had sent on their own instructions and 
intentions, and calculated for the frnih and I'lereitth, 
on which days a general rising was to take place, 
under the supposition that the Barbarians could 
not advance before the loth. 

*' As it is, they have but fifty or sixty thousand 
troops, a number with which they might as well 
attem]it to conquer the world as secure Italv in it? 
present state. The artillery marches last, and done, 
and there is an idea of an atteni])t to cut jiart ol 
them otf. All this will much ilepcud upon the first 
steps of the Neapolitans. Here, the public spirit is 
excellent, provided it be kept up. This will be seen 
by the event. 

• " It is probable that Italy will be delivered from 
the Barbarians, if the Neapolitans will but st;md 
firm, and are united amoug themselves. Jlere ihej 
appear so. 

"Felirmry 10, IS21. 

"Day passed as usual — nothing new. Barbari- 
ans still in march — not well equippid, and, ol 
course, not well received on their route. There if 
some talk of a commotion at Paris. 

"Rode out between four and >' - ' 
letter to Murray on Bowles's ]> 
postscript. Passed the evening ;>- 
eleven — and subsequently at home. 

" Febnwrr II, I'- : 

"Wrote— had a copv taken of an extract from 
Petrarch's Letters, with referonoe to the couj»piraejr 

of the Dog*-, M. Faliero, c ' • ' ' t*.s 

n])ini()n of tlie matter. 11. ^' .°' 

cannon towards Comacchio^ '.<- 

ing for their priucijial pig'^ 
morrow — or Saint dav— 1 fi" 

a ticket for the first hall to-i.i ; - 

to the first, but inteud going to tne second, as uUo 
to tlie Veglioni. 

" To-dny read a little in Ix^uis B 
have writti-n nothing Minco the i< 
letter on the Popp controversv. P«.hti.> *ur qiuu 
misty for the nrcsent. The Barbarians still upon 
their inarch. It is not easy to divine what the Itiil* 
ians will now do. 

" Was elected yesterdny ' Sorin • of the rrnni*il 
ball society. 'lUU is tl: ' 

piSKcd. In the four fo; 

Inthe nr..K..,.t, I 1>.>N. 

horse', r 



fV(«vvy l«, IMi. 



tv*. Joiurit rnuiiT* 6. liUl. 



" Mui-n a.M M-^n !i '\\ rotr, i>ru<-r 
of a sconce <»f ' SurdanapaluN." Th 
flnished. l In- rest of the day and 
— partly wittmut, in oonvorh.i 

•* Heard the p.irtiiulars ol ! 

i\ tnwM not «>'^- 1 

I^iiuri) and 
Willi's it. 1 
at a feud. A I u l all, ihr x.'UUk'rr y 



1008 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



lies forget their quarrels, and dance together. An 
old man cf one of them enters, and reproves the 
young men for dancing mth the females of the op- 
posite family. The male relatives of the latter 
resent this. Both parties rush home, and arm 
themselves. They meet directly, by moonlight, in 
the public way, and fight it out. Three are killed 
on the spot, and six wounded, most of them danger- 
ously, — pretty well for two families, methinks — and 
all fact, of the last week. Another assassination 
has taken place at Cesenna, — in all dihout forty in 
IlDmagna within these last three months. These 
p»-ople retain much of the middle ages. 

" February 15, 1821. 

••Last night finished the first act of Sardanapa- 
lus. To-night, or to-morrow, I ought to answer 
letters. 

" February 16, 1821. 

" Last night II Conte P. G. sent a man, with a 
bag full of bayonets, some muskets, and some hun- 
dreds of cartridges to my house, without apprizing 
me, though I had seen him not half an hour before. 
About ten days ago, when there was to be a rising 
here, the Liberals and my brethren C'. asked me to 
purchase some arms for a certain few of our raga- 
muffins. I did so immediately, and ordered ammuni- 
tion, &c., and they were armed accordingly. Well 
— the rising is prevented by the Barbarians march- 
ing a week sooner than appointed ; and an order is 
issued, and in force, by the Government, that all 
persons having arms concealed, &c., &c., shall be 
liable to,' &c., &c. — and what do my friends, the 
patiiots,-xio two days afterAvard ? Why, they throw 
back upon my hands, and into my house, these very 
arms (Avithout a word of warning previously) with 
which I had furnished them at their own request, 
and at my own peril and expense. 

" It was lucky that Lega was at home to receive 
them. If any of the servants had (except Tita and 
F. and Lega) they would have betrayed it 'immedi- 
ately. In the mean time, if they are denounced, or 
discovered, I shall be in a scrape. 

" At nine went out — at eleven returned. Beat 
the crow for stealing the falcon's victuals. Read 
' Tales of my Landlord ' — wrote a letter — and mixed 
a moderate beaker of water with other ingredients. 

" February 18, 1821. 

" The news are that the Neapolitans have broken 
a bridge, and slain four pontifical carabiniers, whilk 
carabiniers, wish to oppose. Besides the disrespect 
to neutrality, it is a pity that the first blood shed in 
this German quarrel should be Itab'an. However, 
the war seems begun in good earnest ; for, if the 
Neapolitans kill the Pope's carabiniers, they will 
not be more delicate towards the Barbarians. If it 
be even so, in a short time, * there will be news o' 
thae craws,' as Mrs. Alison Wilson says of Jenny 
Blane's ' unco cockernony ' in the Tales of my 
Landlord. 

*' In turning over Grimm's Correspondence to- 
day, I found a thought of Tom Moore's in a song 
of Maupertuis to a female Laplander. 

' £t toua lea lienx, 
Oil lont tea yeiix, 
Font la Zone brQUnte.' 

This is Moore's — 

< And tiKMe eye* make my cUinate, wbererer 1 roam.' 

but I am sure that Moore never saw it ; for this 
long was published in Grimm's Correspondence in 
1813, and I knew Moore's by heart in 1812. There 
Is alao another but an antitheti«al coincidence. 

< Le Mleiin Ink, 
Oes joun lana nuk 
BienidtUDMMdMdiM; 
Maia cea loofi Joun 
Benint \n^ cc'tfta. 



" This is the thought, reversed, of the last stanSA 
of the ballad on Charlotte Lynes, given in Miss 

Seward's Memoirs of Darwin, which is pretty I 

quote from memory of these last fifteen years. 

• For my firrt night I'll go 

To tho8C regions of snow, 
Where the sun for six months ne»er shines; 

And think, even then, 

He too soon came again, 
To disturb me with fair Charlotte Lynea.' 

" To-day I have had no communication with ray 
Carbonari cronies ; but, in the mean time, ray lower 
apartments are full of their bayonets, fusils, car- 
tridges, and what not. I suppose that they con- 
sider me as a depot, to be sacrificed, in case of 
accidents. It is no great matter, supposing that 
Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed. 
It is a grand object — the very poetry of politics. 
Only think — a free Italy ! ! ! Why, there has been 
nothing like it since the days of Augustus. I 
reckon the times of Caesar ( Juhus) free ; because 
the commotions left every body a side to take, and 
the parties were pretty eq"ua*l at the set out. But, 
afterward, it was all Pretorian and legionary busi- 
ness — we shall see, or at least, some will see, what 
card will turn up. It is best to hope, even of the 
hopeless. The Dutch did more than the<c fellows 
have to do, in the Seventy Years' War. 

* " February 19, 1821. 

" Cameiiome solus — very high wind — lightning- 
moonshine — solitary stragglers muffled in cloaks — 
women in masks — white houses — clouds hurrying 
over the sky, like split milk blown out of the pail — 
altogether very poetical. It is still blowing hard — 
the tiles flying, and the house rocking — rain splash 
ing — lightning flashing— -quite a fine Swiss Alpine 
evening, and the sea roaring in the distance. 

" Visited conversazione. *A11 the women fright- 
ened by the squall : they looii't go to the masquerade 
because it lightens — the pious reason ! 

" Still blowing away. A, has sent me some news 
to-day. The war approaches nearer and nearer. Oh 
those scoundrel sovereigns ! Let us but see them 
beaten — let the Neapolitans but have the pluck of 
the Dutch of old, or of the Spaniards of now, or of 
the German Protestants, the Scotch Presbyterians, 
the Swiss under Tell, or the Greeks under Theniis- 
tocles — all small and solitary nations, (except the 
Spaniards and German Lutherans,) and there is ye* 
a resurrection for Italy, and a hope for the world 

" February 30, 1821. 

** The news of the day are, that the Neapolitans 
are full of energy. The public spirit here is cei 
tainly well kept up. The ' Americani ' (a patriotic 
society here, an underbran«^h of the * Carbonari ') 
give a' dinner, in the Forest in a few days, and have 
invited me, as one of the C '. It is to be in t?ie 
Forest of Boccaccio's and Dryden's ' Huntsman's 
Ghost ; ' and, even if I had not the same political 
feelings, (to say nothing of my old con^-ivial turn, 
which every now and then revives,) I would go as a 
poet, or, at least, as a lover of poetry. I shall ex- 
pect to see the spectre of ' Ostasio* degli Oncsti ' 
(Dryden has turned him into Guido Cavalcanti— an 
essentially diff"erent person, as may be found in 
Dante) come * thundering for his prey 'f in the 
uiidst of the festival. At any rate, whether h« 
does or no, I will get as tipsy and patriotic as pos- 
sible. 

' Within these few days I have read, bat not 
written. 

" Febrauy 31, IBSI. 

^ Aa usual, rode — ^visited, &c. Business begimi 



* In Boccaccio, the name U, I think, Neatagta. 
t See Doa Juan, Caoto Ul , er. aorl orl 



TIXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL IN ITALY. 



lOOb 



LO thicken Thr Vir,f fl.as printed a declaration 
^g^inst the patriots, u\j , he says, meditate a rising, 
r'lie co/iseqaoijje r( al! this will be, that, in a fort- 
night, the vhoVt jrrntiy will be np. The procla- 
mation is not yei published, but printed, ready for 
distribution. * * p.eat me a copy privately — a sign 
that he d'jes not know what to think. When he 
Krants to be well with the patijots, he sends to me 
some civil message or other. 

" For my own part, it seems to me, that nothing 
but the most decided success of the Barbarians can 
prevent a general and immediate rise of the whole 
nation. 

" February 23, 1821. 

*' Almost ditto with yesterday — ^rode, &c. — visited 
wrote nothing — read Roman History. 
** Had a curious letter from a fellow, who informs 
one that the Barbarians are ill-disposed towards me. 
He is probably a spy, or an impostor. But be it so, 
even as he says. Their cannot bestow their hostili- 
ty on one who loathes and execrates them more than 
I do, or who will oppose their views with more zeal, 
when the opportunity offers, 

"February 24. 1821. 

"Rode, &c., as usual. The secret intelligence 
tirrived this morning from the frontier to the C'. is 
as bad as possible. The plan has missed — the chiefs 
are betrayed, military as well as ci^^l — and the Nea- 
politans not only have not moved, but have declared 
to the P. government, and to the Barbarians, that 
they know nothing of the matter ! ! ! 

" Thus the world goes ; and thus the Italians are 
always lost for lack of union among themselves. 
What is to be done here, between the two fires, and 
cut off from the N". frontier, is not decided. My 
opinion was, better to rise than be taken in detail ; 
but how it will be settled now, I cannot tell. Mes- 
sengers are despatched to the delegates of the other 
cities to learn their resolutions. 

" I always had an idea that it would be bungled ; 
but was willing to hope, and am so still. Whatever 
I can do by money, means, or person, I will venture 
freely for their freedom ; and have so repeated to 
them (some of the chiefs here) half an hour ago. I 
have two thousand five hundred scudi, better than 
five hundred pounds, in the house, which I offered 
to begin witn. 

" February 25, 1821. 

"Came home — my head aches — plenty of news, 
but too tiresome to set down. I have neither read, 
nor written, nor thought, but led a purely animal 
life all day. I mean to try to write a page or two 
before I go to bed. But, as Squire Sullen says, 
* My head aches consumodly : Scrub, bring me a 
iram ! ' Drank seme Imola wine, and some punch. 

Log-book continued.* 

" February 37, 1821. 

••I have been a day without continuing the log, 
because I could not find a blank book. At length 
I recollected this. 

•' Rode, &c., — dined — wrote down an occasiona! 
stanza for the /ith canto of D. J., which I had com- 
posed in bed this morning. Visited V Arnica. We 
are invited on the night of the Vcglione, (next 
Uomenica) with the Marchesa Clwlia Cavelli and 



the Countess Spinelli Rusponi. I promised to go 
Last night there was a row at the ball, of which 1 
am a ' socio.' The vice-legate had the impv.dent 
insolence to introduce three of his servants in mask 
— loithout tickets, too ! and in spite of remonstrance*. 
The consequence was, that the young men of tht 
ball took it up, and were near throwing the vice 
legate out of the window. His servants, seeing tht 
scene, ■withdrew, and he after them. His reverence 
Monsignore ought to know, that these are not times 
for the predominance of priests over decorum. Two 
minutes more, two steps farther, and the whole city 
would have been in arms, and the government driven 
out of it. 

" Such is the spirit of day, and these fellows ap- 
pear not to perceive it. As far as the simple fact 
went, the young men were risrht, servants being pro 
hibited always at these festivals. 

" Yesterday wrote two notes on the ' Bowles and 
Pope controversy,' and sent them off to Murray by 
the post. The old woman whom I relieved in the 
forest (she is ninety-four years of age*) brought me 
two bunches of violets. ' Xan \\to. gaudet raortua 
floribus.' I was much pleased with the pres»nt. 
An Englishwoman would have presented a paii ol 
worsted stockings, at least, in the month of Fchra- 
ary. Both excellent things ; but the former are 
more elegant. The present, at this season, renxinda 
one of Gray's stanza, omitted from his elegy. 

• Here iciiHer'd oft, 'Jie earliiH of the year, 

By haiidi unt>een, are ■Iiowiti ot riolett found; 
Tlie redbreast leva to build and wartile here, 
And liuie tboutepi lightly print the ground.' 

As fine a stanza as any in his elegy. I wonder that 
he could have the heart to omit it. 

" Last night I suffered horribly — ftom an indiges- 
tion, I believe. I 7iever sup — that is, never at 
home. But, last night, I was prevailed upon by 
the Countess Gamba's persuasion, and the strenu- 
ous example of her brother, to swallow, at supptw, 
a quantity of boiled cockles, and to dilute them, ttoi 
reluctantly, with some Imola wine. When I caiue 
home, apprehensive of the consequences, I sw.ii- 
lowed three or four glasses of spirits, which nica 
(the venders) call brandy, rum, or Hollmd-*, but 
which gods would entitle spirits of n^ • I or 

sugared. All was pretty well till I ^nm 

I became somewhat swo'len, and i _> mt- 

tiginoiis. I got out, and mixing son»e hoda-i>o\vder«, 
drank them oif. This brought on temnorary relief. 
I returned to bed ; but grew sick and sorry onc« 
and again. Took more 8oda-w%ter. At last I foil 
into a dreary sleep. Woke, and w;is ill ;ill day. till 
I had galloped a few miles. Query — w;is it the 
cockles, or what I took to correct them, that rauMMi 
the commotion ? I think both. I remarked in my 
illness the complete inertion, inaction, and doBtruc- 
tion of mv chief mental facultioB. I tried to r«)u»e 
Iheni, and yet could not — and this is the Soul ! .' .' I 
should l)elu've that it was married to the body, if 
they did not sympathize so iniu h with oirh otlin 
if the one rose, when the v i i>o « 

•ipn that they longed for the n >rr9 

But, as it is, they uecm to di.:>. ... - puat 

horites. 

" Let us hope the best— it is the grand poMO» 
sion." 



•mi^mmi.h^m. 



UI7 



DETACHED THOUGHTS, 



[EXTRACTED FROM VARIOUS JOURNALS, MEMORANDUMS, &c. &o, 



" Ox the first leaf of his " Scriptores Graeci " is, 
to his schoolboy hand, the follo'wing memorial : — 
" George Gordon Byron, Wednesday, June 26th, 
L. D. lyOo, three quarters of an hour past three 
o'clock in the afternoon third school, — Calvert, 
monitor, Tom "Wildman on my left hand, and Long 
on my right. Harrow on the Hill." On the same 
leaf, written five years after, appears this comment : 

" Ehue fiiffacea, PMthume I Posthume I 
Labunlur anai. 

"B. January 9th, 1809. — Of the four persons 
whose names are here mentioned, one is dead, 
another in a distant climate, all separated, and not 
five years have elapsed since they sat together in 
school, and none are yet twenty-one years of age." 

In some of his other school-books are recorded 
the date of his entrance at Harrow, the names of 
the boys who were at that time monitors, and the 
list of his fellow-pupils, under Doctor JDrury, as 
follows : 

" Byron, Harrow on the Hill, Middlesex, Alum- 
nus Scholse Lyoneusis primus in anno Domini 1801, 
Ellison Duce." 

"Monitors, 1801. — Ellison, Royston, Hunxman, 
Rashleigh, Rokeby, Leigh." 

" Drury's PupiJs, 1804. — Byron, Drury, Sinclair, 
Hoare, Bolder, Annesley, Calvert, Strong, Acland, 
Gordon, Drummo<d." 

* * * * * « 

** For several years of my earliest childhood, I 
was in Aberdeen, but have never revisited it since I 
was ten years old. I was sent, at five years old or 
earlier, to a school kept by a Mr. Bowers, who was 
called ' Bodsy Bowers,' by reason of his dapperness. 
It was a school for both sexes. I learned little there 
except to repeat by rote the first lesson of Monosyl- 
lables (' God made man — 'Let us love him ') by 
hearing it often repeated, without acquiring a letter. 
Whenever proof was made of my progress at home, 
i repeated these words with the most rapid fluency ; 
but on turning over a new leaf, I continued to 
repeat them, so that the narrow boundaries of my 
first year's accomplishments were detected, my ears 
boxed, (which they did not deserve, seeing it was by 
ear only that I had acquired ray letters,) and my 
intellects consigned to a new preceptor. He was a 
very devout, clever little clergyman, named Ross, 
afterward minister of one of the kirks, (East, I 
think.) Under him I made astonishing progress 
and I recollect to this day his mild manners and 
good-natured pains-taking. The moment I could 
read, my grand passion was history, and, why I 
know not, but I was particularly taken with *he 
battle near the Lake Regillus in the Roman His- 
tory, put intc my hands first. Four years ago, 
when standing on the heights of Tusculum, and 



looking down upon the little round lake that waf 
once Regillus, and which dots the immense expanfii 
below, I remembered my young enthusiasm and my 
Qld instructor. Afterward I had a very serious, 
saturnine, but kind young man, named Fatersoit. 
for a tutor. He was the son of my shoemaker, but 
a good scholar, as is common with the Scotch. Ho 
was a rigid Presbyterian also. With him I began 
Latin in Ruddiman's grammar, and continued till I 
went to the ' Grammar school ' fScotice, ' Schule ; ' 
Abeirlonice, ' Squeel,') where I threaded all the 
classes to the fourth, when I Avas recalled to 
England (where I had been hatched) by the demist! 
of my uncle. I acquired this hand^ATiting, which I 
can hardly read myself, under the fair copies of Mr. 
Duncan of the same city : I don't think he would 
plume himself much upon my progress. However, 
I wrote much better then than I have ever done 
since. Haste and agitation of one kind or another 
have quite spoiled as pretty a scrawl as ever scratched 
over a frank. The grammar school might consist of 
a hundred and fifty of all ages under age. It was 
divided into five classes taught by four masters, the 
chief teaching the fourth and fifth himself. As in 
England, the fifth, sixth forms, and monitors, are 
heard by the head masters." 

****** 

" I doubt sometimes whether, after all, a quiet 
and unagitated life would have suited me ; yet I 
sometimes long for it. My earliest dreams (as most 
boys' dreams are) were martial ; but a little later 
they were all for love and retirement, till the hope- 
less attachment toM***C*** began and con- 
tinued (though sedulously concealed) very early in 
my teens ; and so upwards for a time. This threw 
me out again * alone on a wide, wide sea.' In the 
year 1804, I recollect meeting my sister at General 
Harcourt's in Portland Place. I was then 07ie thing, 
and as she had always till then found me. When 
we met again in 1805, (she told me since,) my tem- 
per and disposition were so completely altered that 
I was hardly to be recognized. I was not then 
sensible of the change ; but I can believe it, and 
account for it." 

*«*«*♦ 

"In all other respects," (he says, after mention- 
ing his infant passion for Mary Duff,) *' I differed 
not at all from other children, being neither tall nor 
short, dull nor witty, of my age, but rather Hvely — 
except in my sullen moods, and then I was always a 
devil. They once '(in one of my silent rages) 
wrenched a knife from me, which I had snatched 
from table at* Mrs. B.'s dinner, (I always dined 
earlier,) and applied to my breast; — bi:t this w&c 
three or four years after, just before the late. Lord 
B.'s decease. 

" My ostensible temper has certainly improrod in 
later yevs ; but I shudder, and must to my latest 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1011 



nour regret the consequence of it and my passions 
ec-mbmed. One event — but no matter — there are 
others not much better to think of also — and to 

.kem I give the preference 

*• But I hate dwelling upon incidents. My temper 
Is now under management — rarely loud, and, when 
[oud, never deadly. It is when silent, and I feel my 
forehead and my cheek pa/in</, that I cannot control 

it ; and then but unless there is a woman (and 

net any or every woman) in the way, I have sunk 
into tolerable apathy." 

" My passions were developed very early — so 
early that feAv would believe me if I were to state 
the period and the facts which accompanied it. 
Perhaps this was one of the reasons which caused 
the anticipated melancholy of my thoughts, — 
having anticipated life. My earlier poems are the 
/ thoughts of one at least ten years older than the 
' ; age at which they were written, — I don't mean for 
their solidity, but their experience. The first two 
cantos of Childe Harold were completed at twenty- 
two ; and they are written as if by a man older than 
I shall probably ever be." 

****** 

" My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. 
It was the ebulliton of a passion for my first cousin, 
Margaret Parker, (daughter and granddaughter of 
the two Admirals Parker,) one of the most beauti- 
ful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten 
the verses, but it would be difficult for mo to forget 
her — her dark eyes — her long eyelashes — her com- 
pletely Greek cast pf face and figure! I was then 
about twelve — she rather older, perhaps a year. She 
I died about a year or two afterward, in consequence 
) of a fall, which injured her spine, and induced con- 
; sumption. Her sister Augusta (by some thought 
; still more beautiful) died of the same malady ; and 
it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
with the accident which occasioned her own death. 
My sister told me, that wlien she went to see her, 
• shortly before her death, upon accidentally mention- 
■ i ing my name, Margaret colored through the pale- 
/ ness of mortality to the eyes, to the great astonish 
i ment of my sister, who (residing with her grand- 
I mother, Lady Holderness, and seeing but little of 
I me, for family reasons) knew nothing of our attach- 
/ ment, nor could conceive why my name shtnild 
affect her at such a time. I know nothing of liei 
illness, being at Harrow and in the country, till she 
was gone. Some years after, I made au attempt at 
an elegy — a very dull one.* 

C- " I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to 
the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the 
sweetness of her temper, during the short period oi 
our intimacy. She looked as if she had been made 
out of a rainbow— all beauty and peace. 
^ My passion had its usual clfects upon mo — I 
/ eould not sleep- 1 could not eat— I c«)uld not rest; 
' and although 1 had reason to know that she loved 
me, it was the texture of my life to think of the 
tin e which must elapse before we cc.uld meet n^iww 
— bciig usually about twelve hours of 8ei)!iration ! 
But 1 waa a fool then, and am not much wiser now." 
• *♦*♦• 

"When 1 was fifteen years of ago, it happened 
ihat, in a cavern in Derbyshire, I luul to cross in u 
boat, (in which two people only eould be down.) n 
stream which Hows under a rock, witli the i>)ck h(» 
-lose upon the water as to admit the boat only to be 
oushei on Ity a ferryman (a sort of Charon) who 
Wildes at the stern, stooping all the time. '1 ho 
companion of my transit was Mary Anne Chaworth, 
with whom I had been hmg in love and never told 
it, thoiigli she had discovered it without. I rccol- 
if -t my seivsations, but cainutt dosoribe thorn, itnd 
It IS as wf U. Wo wore a party, a Mr. W., two Miss 
W.'s, Mr and Mrs. CI— ke, Miss R. and viy M. A. 
C. Alas why do 1 say my? Our uuiou wuuWl 

• Hm prf«e«llnr McinornniU, on pajT" W9. 



have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by 
our fathers, it would have joined lands bioad ar^ 
rich, it would have joined at least one heart, and 
two persons not ill niatchcd in years, (she is twc 
years my elder,) and — and — and — what has been 
the result ? " 

*«♦*•» 

" When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good 
actor. Besides 'Harrow Speeches,' (in which I 
shone,) I enacted Penruddock, in the ' "Wheel o! 
Fortune,' and Tristram Fickle in AUingham's farce 
of the ' "Weathercock,' for three nights, (the dura- 
tion of our compact,) in some private theatricals at 
Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The occa- 
sional prologue for our volunteer play was also o! 
my composition. The other performers were yrjims 
laclies and gentlemen of the nniLrhborhood, and tl;c 
whole went off with great eiiuct upon our good- 
natured audience." 

*♦♦•♦• 

'* "When I first went up to college, it was a new 
and a heavy-hearted scene for me : firstly, I so mu«.b 
disliked leaving Harrow, that though it was time, 
(I being seventeen,) it broke my verv rest for the 
last quarter with counting the days that remained. 
I always hatetl Harrow till the last year and a haK, 
but then I liked it. Secondly, I wished to go to 
Oxford and not to Cambridge. Thirdly, I w5s so 
completely alone in this new world, that it haH 
broke my spirits. My companions were not unso- 
cial, but the contrary — lively, hos])itable, of ranK 
ai;d fortunS, and gay far bevond my gaycty. I 
mingled with, and dined and supped, kc, with 
them ; but, I know not how, it was one of the 
deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to feel 
that 1 was no i- nger a boy," 

"From that fc«oment " (he adds) "T " 
grow old in my own esteem, and in m\ 
is not estimable. I took my gradation«- 
with great promptitude, but they were not to my 
taste ; for my early passions, though violent in the 
extreme, were concentrated, and hated di\ision or 
spreading abroad. I could have left or lost the 
whole world with, or for, that which I 1 •vr-'. ; Vn*. 
though my temperament was naturall> 1 

could not share in the common-place li i 

the place and time withmit disgust. .\ 
very disgust, and my heart thrown back up'-i, 
threw me into excesses nerhaps more fut. i 
those from which I shrunk, as fixinz upon uii- i... 
a time) the i>assions whii-h spread an ong many 
would have hurt only mystdf." 

• * ' • ■ • • • 

"Till I was eighteen years old (odd as it may 
seem) I had never road a Hoviow, BtU while at 
Harrow, my genetJil informatioTi was so great on 
modern topics as to imlme a suspici(»n tb \\ I o» ?H 
only colloot so mm-h information Uo- 
because I was nover xrnt rcitdins.?, but 
and in mischief, «»r at play, 'I lie tnii 
read eatingi rend in bod, read when nu «>in' » >t 
read, and nad read all sorts of reiiding sinrr I i».»R 
five voars old, and yet never ntrt with a Uevicr. 
whi( h is the only ri-ason I know of why I nhould 
not have read them. Miit it i« true ; ff>r 1 rfr.-nv 
bor when Ilunlrr and ("iirron. in i ■ 
opinion at lliuruw, 1 mad<' thorn 
iMous astt)uisliniont in nskiiiM ; 
Review ?* To bo nuro, lb 

mon. In three yearn niorr, i 

with that same; but the li.>i i ^^-i •« ••• "••■' •« 
lH(lti-7. , ^ , 

"At school I WTS (ns T bnvo snitM rrtnnrVcd fof 
the extent and \< ' > 

but in nil olb'i 

'don oxiitiuns. i ' 

ain<ter«, of c«>urse with mu 
(;.•>!.) hilt of fi>w i-iiiitintioii 



i012 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Ml orator, from my fluency, my turbulence, my 
voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my ac- 
tion. I remember that my fir?i declamation aston- 
ished him into some unwonted (for he was economi- 
cal of such) and sudden compliments, before the 
declaimers at our first rehearsal. My first HarroAV 
verses, (that is, English, as exercises,) a translation 
of a chorus from the Prometheus of ^^schylus, were 
received by him but coolly. No one had the least 
notion that I should subside into poesy. 

••Peel, the orator and statesman, ('that was, or 
is, or is to be,') was my form-fellow, and we were 
both at the top of our remove, (a public-school 
phrase.) We were on good terms, but his brother 
was my intimate friend. There were always great 
Hopes (^f Peel, among us all, masters and scholars — 
and he has not disappointed them. As a scholar he 
was griatly my superior ; as a declaimer and actor, 
I was reckoned at least his equal ; as a schoolboy 
tmt of school, I was always in scrapes, and he never; 
and in school, he ahoays knew his lesson and I 
rarely— but when I knew it, I knew it nearly as 
well. In general information, history, &c., &c., I 
think I was his superior, as well as of most boys of 
my standing. 

'• The prodigy of our school-days was George Sin- 
clair-, (son of Sir John ;) he made exercises for half 
the school, (literally,) verses at will, and themes 
without it. * * * He was a friend of mine, and in 
the same remove, and used at times to beg me to 
let him do my exercise, — a request always most 
readily accorded upon a pinch, or when I wanted to 
do something else, which was usually once an hour. 
On the other hand, he was pacific and I savage; so 
I fought for him, or thrashed others for him, or 
thrashed himself to make him thrash others, when 
it was necessary, as a point of honor and stature, 
that he should so chastise ; or we talked politics, for 
he was a great politician, and were very good friends. 
I have some of his letters, written to me from school, 
still.* 

•'Clayton was another school-monster of learn- 
ing, and talent, and hope ; but what has become of 
lim I do not know. He was certainly a genius. 

"My school friendships were with me passions, 
(for I was always violent,) but I do not know that 
there is one which has endured (to be sure some 
have been cut short by death) till now. That with 
Lord Clare began one of the earliest and , lasted 
longest — being only interrupted by distance — that I 
know of. I never "hear the word ' Clare ' without a 
beating of the heart even noic, and I write it with 
the feelings of 1803-4-5 ad infinitum. 

" At Harrow I fought my way fah-ly. I think I 
lost but one battle out of seven ; and that was to 

H ; and the rascal did not win it, but by the 

unfair treatment of his own boarding-house, where 
we boxed — I had not even a second. I never for- 
gave him, and I should be sorry to meet him now, as I 
am sure we should quarrel. My most memorable 
combats were with Morgan, Rice, Rainsford, and Lord 
Jocelyn, — but we were always friendly afterward. I 
was a most unpopular boy, but led latterly, and have 
retained many of my school friendships, and all my 
dislikes — except to Doctor Butler, whom I treatea 
rebelliously, and have been sorry ever since. Doc- 
tor Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently too, was the 
was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend 
I ever had — and I look upon him still as a father. 

*• P. Hunter, Curzon, Long, and Tatersall, were 
my principal friends. Clare, Dorset, C^- Gordon, 
De Bath, Claridge, and J"°- Wingfield, were my 
juniors and favorites, whom I spoiled by indulgence. 
Of all human beings, I was, perhaps, at one" time, 
the most attached to poor Wingfield, who died at 
Coimbra, 1811, before I returned to England." 
« « * * « ♦ 

" 1 have been thinking over, the other day, on the 
rarious compari^ns, good or evil, which I have seen 



Bea Childe Hanld, Cuto J 



published of myself in different journals, Englisl; 
ind foreign. This was suggested to me Dj acci* 
dently turning over a foreign one lately, — for I have \ 
made it a rule latterly never to search for any thing / 
of the kind, but not to avoid the perusal if pre 
sented by chance. 

" To begin, then : I have seen miyself compared 
personally or poetically, in English, French, Ger- 
man, (as interpreted to me,) Italian, and Portu* 
guese, within these nine years, to Rousseau, Goethe, 
Young, Aretine, Timonof Athens, Dante, Petrarch, 
'an alabaster vase, lighted up within,' Satan, Shak- : 
speare, Bonaparte, • Tiberius, ^Eschylus, Sophocles, / 
Euripides, Harlequin, the Clown, Sternhold and / 
Hopkins, to the phantasmagoria, to Henry the 
Eighth, to Chenier, to Mirabeau, to young R. Dal- 
las", (the schoolboy,) to Michael Angelo, to Raphael, 
to a petit-maitre, to Diogenes, to Childe Harold, to 
Lara, to the Count in Beppo, to Milton, to Pope, to 
Dryden, to Burns, to Savage, to Chatterton, to ' oft 
have I heard of thee, my Lord Biron,' in Shak- 
speare, to Churchill, the poet, to Kean, the actor, to 
Alfieri, &c., &c., &c. 

•• The likeness to Alfieri was asserted very seri- 
ously by an Italian who had known him in his 
younger days. It of course related merely to oui 
apparent personal dispositions. He did not assert 
it to me, (for we were not then good friends,) but in 
society. 

" The object of so many contradictory compari- 
sons must probably be like something different from 
them all ; but what that is, is more than / know, oi ' 
any body else." 

****** 

•• My mother, before I was twenty, would have i< 
that I was like Rousseau, and Madame de StaCi 
used to say so, too, in 1813, and the Edinburgh Re- 
view has something of the sort in its critique on the 
fourth canto of Childe Harold. I can't see any 
point of resemblance : — he wrote prose ; I verse : he 
was of the people ; I of the aristocracy :* he was a 
philosopher ; I am none : he published his first work 
at forty ; I mine at eighteen : his first essay brought 
him universal applause ; mine the contrary : he 
married his housekeeper ; I could not keep house 
with my wife : he thought all the world in a plot 
against him ; my little world seems to think me in 
a plot against it, if I may judge by their abuse in 
print and coterie : he liked botany ; I like flowers, 
herbs, and trees, but know nothing of their pedi- 
grees : he wrote music ; I limit my knowledge of it 
to what I catch by ear — I never could learn any 
thing by study, not even a languaqe — it was all by 
rote, and ear, and memory : he had a had memory ; 
I had, at least, an excellent one, (ask Hodgson, the 
poet — a good judge, for he has an astonishing one :) 
he wTOte with hesitation and ( are ; I with rapidity, 
and rarely with pains : he could never ride, nor 
swim, nor ' was cunning of fence ; ' / am an excel- 
lent swimmer, a decent, though not at all a dashing, 
rider, (having staved in a rib at eighteen in th« 
course of scampering,) and was sufficient of fence, 
particularly of the Highland broadsword, — not a 
bad boxer, when I could keep my temper, which 
was difficult, but which I strovt to do ever since 1 
knocked down Mr, Purling, and put his kneepan 
out, (with the gloves on,) in Angelo's and Jackson'a 
rooms, in 1806, during the sparring, — and I was be- 
sides a very fair cricketer — one of the Ha-row eleven, 
when we played against Eaton in 1805. Besides, 
Rousseau's way of life, his country, his manners, 
his whole character, were so very different, that \ 
am at a loss to conceive how such a comparison 
could have arisen, as it has done three several time^, 
and all in rather a remarkable manner. I forgot to 
say that he was also shortsighted, and that hitherto 
my eyes have been the contrary, to such a degree, 
that in the largest theatre of Bologna I distin- 
guished and read some busts and '.nscriptions painted 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1013 



Dwar the stage fmm a box so distant and so darkly 
lighted, that none of the company (composed of 
jrouTig and very bright-eyed people, some of them 
m the same box) could make out a letter, and 
thought it was a trick, though I had never been in 
that theatre before. 

"Altogether, I think myself justified in thinking 
the comparison not well founded. I don't say this 
out of pique, for Rousseau was a great man, and the 
thing, if true, were flattering enough ; — but I have 
no idea of being pleased with a chimera." 

****** 

" I have been thinking of an odd circumstance. 

My daughter, (1) my wife, (2) iny half-sister, (3) my 

^mother, (4) my sister's mother, (o) my natural 

vdaughter, (6) and myself, (7) are, or were, all only 

ichildren. My sister's mother (Lady Conyers) had 

/only my half-sister by that second marriage, (her- 

fself, too, an only child,) and my father had only 

■ me, an only child, by his second marriage with my 

mother, an only child too. Such a complication of 

tnily children, all tending to one family, is singular 

enough, and looks like fatality almost. But the 

fiercest animals have the fewest numbers in their 

litters, as lions, tigers, and even elephants, which 

are mild in comparison."* 

****** 

**I have a notion (he says) that gamblers are 
as happy as many people, being always excited 
Women, wine, fan e, the table, — even ambition, 
sate now and then ; but every turn of the card and 
cast of the dice keeps the gamester alive; besides, 
one can game ten times longer than one can do any 
thing else. I was very fond of it when young, that 
is to say, of hazard, fo/ I hate all card games, — even 
faro. When macco (or whatever they spell it) was 
Introduced, I gave up the whole thing, for I loved and 
missed the rattle and dash of the box and dice, and 
the glorious uncertainty, not only of good luck or 
bad luck, but of any luck at all, as one hud some- 
times to throw q/W to decide at all. I have thrown 
as many as fourte m mains running, and carried (^ff 
all the cash upon the table occasionally ; but I had 
no coolness, or judgment, or calculation. It was the 
delight of the thing that pleased me. "Upon the 
whole, I left off in time, without being much a 
winner or loser. Since one-and-twenty years of 
age, I have played but little, and then never above 
a hundred, or two, or three." 

** LIST OF HISTORICAL WRITERS WHOSE WORKS I 
HAVE PKUU813U IN DIFFKREXT LANGUAGES. 

''History of Enr/land. — ilnme, Rapin, Henry, 
Bmol'lpt, Tlndal, Belsham, Bisset, Adolphus. Hol- 
Ingshed, Frois.^art's Chronicle's, (belonging properly 
to France.) 

" Nroi!/anfi?.— Buchanan, Hector Boethius, both in 
the Latin. 

'* Ire/and. — Gordon. 

u Rome—Uiyokv, Decline and Fall by Gibbon, 
Ancient Historv bv Rollin, (including an account 
nf the Carthaginians, i^c.,) besides Livy, Tacitus, 
Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, Julius Caesar, Arrian, 
f'lllU'^t. , , ,, ,,, .,. 

" Gz-m-e. — Mitford's Greece, Leland s I hilip, 
Plutarch, Potter's Antiquities, Xcnophon, Thucy- 
dides, Herodotus. 

" France. — Mezeray, Voltaire. 

'* Spain.— I chielly derived my knowledge of oM 
Spanish History from a book called tiie Atlas, now 
otjsoletc. The modern history, from the intrigues 
uf Albcroni down to the rriuee of reaee, I learned 
from its connexion with Kuropcan polities. 

" Portuqat.—Vionx Vi-rlot ; as also his account of 
the Si»gp"of Rhodes,— though the last is his own 
Invention, the real facts being totally dillerent — So 
^uch l( r his Knights of Malta. 

♦• Turkey.- -I have read KnuUos, Sir Paul Rycaut, 



Hm LBlwr disxrL 



and Prince Cantemir, bes I gee a more mciem his 
tory, anonymous. Of the Ottoman History 1 knon 
every event, from Tangralopi, and afterward Oth 
man I., to the peace of Passarowitz, in 1718, — the 
battle of Cutzka, in 1739, and the treaty between 
Russia and Turkey, in 1790. 

•' Russia. — Tooke's Life of Catherine II., Vol 
taire's Czar Peter. 

"Sweden. — Voltaire's Charles XII., also Nor- 
berg's Charles XII., — in my opinion the best of th« 
two. — A translation of Schiller's Thirt]^ Years' 
War, which contains the exploits of Gustavus Adol- 
phus, besides Harte's Life of the same prince. I 
have somewhere, too, read an account of Gustarua 
Vasa, the deliverer of Sweden, but do not reraeraoer 
the author's name. 

" Prussia. — I have seen, at least, twenty Lives ol 
Frederick II., the only prince worthy recording in 
Prussian annals. Gillies, His own Works, and 
Thiebalt, — none very amusing. The last is paltry, 
but circumstantial. 

" Denmark I know little of. Of Norway I under- 
stand the natural history, but not the chronological. 

" Germany. — I have read long histories of the 
house of Suabia, Wenceslaus, and, at length, Ru- 
dolph of Hapsburgh and his thick-lipped Austrian 
descendants. 

" Switzerland. — Ah ! William Tell, and the battle 
of Morgarten, where Burgundy was slain. 

' Italy. — Davila, Guicciardini, the Gnelphs and 
Ghibellines, the battle of Pa\'ia, Massaniello, th» 
revolutions of Naples, &c., (Src. 

" Hindustan. — Ornie and C unbridge, 

''America. — Robertson, Andrews' American War. 

" Africa. — Merely from travels, as Mungo Park, 
Bruce. 

" BIOGRAPHY. 

" Robertson's Charles* V.,— Cirsar, Sallnst, (Cati- 
line and Jugurth*,) Lives of Marlboi ut;h and 
Eugene, Tekeli, Bonnard, Bonaparte, all the Brit- 
ish Poets, both by Johnson and Anderson, Ros- 
seau's Confessions, Life of Cromwell, British Plu 
tarch, British Nepos, Campbell's Liv(<s of the Ad- 
mirals, Charles XII., Czar Peter, Catherine II., 
Henry Lord Kaimes, Marn.ontel, Teignmouth's Si» 
William Jones, Life of Newton, Belisaire. wi/»» 
thousands not to be detailed. 

" LAW. 

" Blackstone, Montesquieu. 

" PHILOSOPHY. 

" Paley, Locke, Bacon, Hume, Berkeley. Drum 
mond, Beattie, and Bolingbrokc. Hobbes'l dete«l. 

•' GEOGRAPHY. 

" Strabo, Ccllarius, Adams, Pinkerton, an« 
Guthrie. 

•• POETRY. 

*' All the British Classics, as hefoip detailed, with 
most of the living poets. Seott. Soulhey, \e — ^..ra» 
French, in the original, o( which the C'id in my fun 
rite. — Little Italian. — (iroek and Latin without 
number —these last I sh.tll give up in future.—! 
have translated a good deal from both 'Migaages* 
verse as well us prose. 

" ELOQUKNCl. 
*' Driiicsihenes, Cicero, Quintilinn, Shrridili 
|\ijsfii\*s (Miironomin, and Piirlian\ontAry Debater, 
7rotii til.' Revolution to the year 171'-' 

|>IVIN1TY. 

•' Hl.ur. I nireus. l'ill<»t«On. Ii<- ■..— .li s.rj 

tirenome. I abhor book!* of reliniou, th.Ml^h 1 trv 
ereiiee and love my (lod, witht)ut the t)lasj,|i.Mn.»u» 
notions of Heetaricii, or iM'licf in their ulmnrd au« 
damnable hcresici*, my»tcrje», and Tbirly-uin* Arti 
clc«. 



1014 



BYRON'S ^ORKS. 



' MISCELLANIES. 

"Spfclator, Eambler, World, &c., &c.— Novels 
by the thousand 

" All the books here enumerated I have taken 
iown from memory. I recollect reading them, and 
ran quote passages from any mentioned. I have, of 
course, omitted several in my catalogue ; but the 
greater part of the above I perused before the age 
of fifteen. Since I left Harrow, I have become idle 
and conceited, from scribbling rhyme and making 
love to women. " B. — Nov. 30, 1807. 

"I have also read (to my regret at present) above 
fciir thousand novels, including the works of Cer- 
vantes, Fielding, Smollet, Richardson, Mackenzie, 
Sterne, Rabelais, and Rousseau, &c., &c. The book, 
in my O] inion, most useful to a man who wishes to 
acquire 1 he reputation of being w ell read, with the 
least troi ble, is, •Bu.rjqn^ Anatomy of Melan- 
choly.' th; most amusing an3~instructive medley of 
quotations and classical anecdotes I ever perused. 
But a superficial reader must take care, or his intri- 
cacies will hewilder him. If, however, he has pa- 
tience to go through his volumes, lie will be more 
improved for literary conversation than by the peru- 
sal f f any twenty other works with which I am ac- 
quainted — at least, in the English language," 

In the same book that contains the above record 
of his studies, he has written out, also from memo- 
ry, a " List of the different poets, di-amatic or oth- 
erwise, who have distiuLTuished their respective lan- 
guages by their productions." After enumerating 
the various poets, both ancient and modern, of Eu- 
rope, he thus proceeds with his catalogue through 
other quarters of the world : — 

^'Arabia. — Mahomet, whose Koran contains most 
sublime poetical passages, ftir surpassing European 
poetry. • 

^'Persia. — Ferdousi, author of the Shah Nameh, 
the Persian Iliad, — Sadi, and Hafiz, the immortal 
Hafiz, the oriental Anacreon. The last is reverenced 
beyond any bard of ancient or modern times by the 
Persians, who resort to his tomb, near Shiraz to cel- 
ebrate his memory. A splendid copy of his works 
is chained to his monument. 

^* America. — An epic poet has already appeared in 
that hemisphere, Barlow, author of the Columbiad, 
— not to be compared with the works of more pol- 
ished nations.' 

** Iceland, Denmark, Norway, were famous for 
their Skalds. Among these Lodburg was one of the 
most distinguished. His Death-Song breathes fe- 
rocious sentiments, but a glorious and impassioned 
strain of poetry. 

'* Hinclostanis undistinguished by any great bard, 
^at least, the Sanscrit is so imperfectly known to 
Europeans, we know not what poetical relicts may 
exist. 

" The B'.rman Etnpire. — Here the natives are 
passionately fond of poetry, but their bards are un- 
known. 

" China. — I never heard of any Chinese poet but 
the Emperor Kirn Long, and his ode to Tea. What 
a pity tneir philosopher Confucius did not write po- 
etry, with his precepts of morality ! 

^'■Africa. — lu Africa some of the native melodies 
\rc plaintive, and the words simple and affecting ; 
but whether their rude strains o: natiu-e can be 
•las-ed with poetry, as the songs of the bards, the 
Skal Is of Europe, &c., &c., I know not. 

" This brief list of poets I have written down 
from memory, without any book of reference ; con- 
sequently some errors may occur, but I think, if 
any, very trivial. The«vorks of the European, and 
Bome of tlie Asiatic, I have perused, either in the 
original or translations. In my list of English, I 
have merely mentioned the greatest ; — to enumerate 
the minor poets would be useless, as well as tedious. 
Perhnps Gray, Goldsmith, and Collins, might have 
^eu added, as worthy of mention, in a cosmoj)olite 



account. But as ior the others, from Chaucer dowu 
to Churchill, they are ' voces et praeterea nihil ; '— 
sometimes spoken of, rarely read, and never witL 
advantage. Chaucer, notwithstanding the praisea 
bestowed on him, I think obscene and contempti- 
ble : — he owes his celebrity merely to his antiquity, 
which he does not deserve so well as Pierce, Plow- 
man, or Thomas of Ercildoune. English living 
poets I have avoided mentioning ; — we have none 
who will not survive their productions. Tajste it 
over with us; and another centiiry will sweep oui 
empire, our literature, and our name, from all bu^ ' 
a place in the annals of mankind. " BYaoN."//ij? y 

♦'November 30, 1807. _ _ . ' T / '^'- 

* * * * « ♦ 

"Knolles, Cantemir, De Tott, Lady M. W. MoQ- 
tague, Hawkins's Translation from Mignot's His- 
tory of the Turks, the Arabian Nights, all travels, '^ 
or histories, or books upon the East I could meet \ 
v/ith, I had read, as well as Rycaut, before I was I 
tefi years old. I think the Arabian Nights first. \ 
After these, I preferred the history of naval actions, I 
Don Quixote, and Smollet's novels, particularly 
Roderick Random, and I was passsionate for the 
Roman History. When a boy, I could never bear to 
read any poetry whatever without disgust and re J 
luctance. <:2>'C--^ 

****** 

" When I belonged to the Drury-Lane Commit- 
tee, and was one of the sub-committee of manage 
ment, the number of plays upon the shelves were 
about^fe hundi-jed. Conceiving that among these 
there must be some of merit, in person and by proxy 
1 caused an investigation. I do not think that of 
those which I saw, there was one which could be 
conscientiously tolerated. There never were such 
things as most of them ! Maturin was very kindly 
recommended to me by Walter Seott, to whom I had 
recourse, firstly, in the hope that he would do some- 
thing for us himself, and secondly, in my despair, 
that he would point out to us any young (or old) 
writer of promise. Maturin sent his Bertram and 
a letter icithout his address, so that at first I could 
give him no answer. When I at last hit upon his 
residence, I sent him a favorable answer, and some- 
thing more substantial. His play succeeded ; but I 
was at that time absent from England. 

" I tried Coleridge too ; but he had nothing fea- 
sible in hand at the time. Mr. Sotheby obligingly 
otfered all his tragedies, and I pledged myself, and 
notwithstanding many squabbles with my cominit- 
teed brethren, did get ' Ivan ' accepted, read, and the 
parts distributed. But, lo ! in the vtry heart of the 
matter, upon some tepidness on the part of Kean, or 
warmth on that of the author, Sotheby withdrew h'm 
play. Sir J. B. Burgess did also present four trage 
dies and a farce, and I moved green-room and sub- 
committee, but they would not. 

" Then the scenes I had to go th ough ! — the 
authors, and the authoresses, and the milliners, and 
the wild Irishmen, — the people from Brighton, from 
Blackwall, from Chatham, from Cheltenham, from 
Dublin, trorn Dundee, — who came in upon me ! to 
all of whom it was proper to give a civil answtr, 
and a hearing, and a reading. Mrs. Glover'a father; 
an Irish dancing-master of sixty years, called u]'or 
me to request to play Archer, dressed in silk sto. k 
ings, on a frosty morning, to show his legs, (which 
were certainly good and Irish for his age, and had been 
still better,) — Miss Emma Somebody with a play en- 
titled ' The Bandit of Bohemia,' or some such title oi 
production, — Mr. O'Higgins, then resident at Rich- 
mond, with an Irish tragedy, in which the unities 
could not fail to be observed, for the protagonist 
was chained by the leg to a pillar during the chiei 
part of the performance. He was a wild man of a 
salvage appearance, and the difficulty of not laugh- 
ing at him was only to be got over by reflecting upon 
the probable consequences of such cachinnation. 

" As I am really a civil and polite person, and do 
hate giving pain when it can be avoided, I sent thcffl 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1014 



up to Douglas Rmnaird, — who is a man of busi- 
ness, and sufficiently ready with a negative, — and 
left them to settle with him ; and, as the beginning 
of next year I went abroad, 1 have since been little 
aware of the progress of the theatres. 

j» « « » « « 

** Players are said to be an impracticable people. 
They are so : but I managed to steer clear of any 
disputes with them, and excepting one debate with 
the elder Byrne about Miss Smith's pas de — (some- 
thing — I forget the technicals,) — I do not remem- 
ber any litigation of my own. I used to protect 
Miss Smith, because she was like Lady Jane Ilarley 
in the face, and likenesses go a great way with me. 
Indeed, in general, I left such things to my more 
bustling colleagues, who used to reprove me seri- 
ously for not being able to take such things in 
hand without buffooning with the histrions, or 
throwing things into confusion by treating light 
matters 'vith levity. 

*' Then the committee ! — then the sub-commit- 
tee ! — we were but few, but never agreed. There 
was Peter Moore who contradicted Kinnaird, and 
Kiunaird who contradicted every body : then our 
two managers, Rae and Dibdin ; and our secretary, 
Ward ! and yet we were all very zealous and in earn- 
est to do good and so forth. * * * * furnished us 
with prologues to our revived old English plays ; 
but was not pleased with me for comi)limenting 
him as 'the Upton' of our theatre, (Mr. Upton 
is or was the poet who writes the songs for Ast- 
ley's,) and almost gave up prologuing in conse- 
quence. 

• •**♦• 

<' In the pantomine of 1815-16, there was a re- 
presentation of the masquerade of 1814 given by ' us 
youth ' of Watier's Club to Wellington and Co. 
Douglas Kinnaird, and one or two others, with rny- 
sefl", put on masques, and went on the stiige with 
the ^' TToXXoi, to see the effect of a theatre from the 
stage : — it is Vi^ry grand. Douglas danced among 
the figuranti too, and they were puzzled to find out 
who we were, as being mo»e than their number. It 
was odd enough that Doug "as Kinnaird and I should 
have been both at the rtia: masquerade, and after- 
ward in the mimic one of the same, on the stage of 
the Drury-Lane Theatre. 

* -^ * * ♦ ♦ * 
" In 1812," he says, " at Middleton, (Lord Jer 

sey's,) among a goodly company of lords, ladies 
and wits, &c., there was * ♦ ♦ 

*' Erhkine, too! Erskine was there; good, but 
^ intoleral)le. He jested, lie talked, he did every 
thing admirably, but then he would be api)lauded 
for the sanvJ thing twice over, lie would read his 
his own paragranh, and tell his own 
ana 



again 



tlien ' the trial bv 



own verses 

gtory, again and „ , 

jury ! ! ! ' I almost wislied it abolished, for 1 sat 

next him at dinner. As I had read his published 

speeches, there was no occasion to repeat them to 

«' C • ♦, (the fox-hunter,) nicknamed ' Cheek 
C * *,' and I, sweated the claret, beiuj^ the oiilv 
two who did so. C * ♦, who loves his bottle, and hud 
no notion of meeting with a ' bon-viv.uit ' in a 
scribliler, in making my eulogy to smn.l.ot v oiw 
evening, summed it up in—' By ti— d, hednnkb like 

"Nobody drank,. however, but C • • and I. To 
be Huri!, there waa little occasion, for wo nwopt ofl 
what was on tlie table (a most splendid board, as 
mav be supposed at Jersey's) very sulhciently. How- 
ever, we carried our liquor diBcruetly, hko the IJaron 
jf Uradwardino. ^ m m 



Norfolk,' (who was snoring away near us,) replied 
he: 'I don't think the negotiators have left anj 
thing else for us to do this turn.' 

" In the debate, or rather discussion, afterward n 
the House of Lords upon that very question, I sat 
immediately behind LordMoira, who was extremeh 
annoyed at Grey's speech upon the subject ; ana, 
while Grey was speaking, turned round to me re- 
peatedly, and asked me whether I agreed with him. 
It was an awkward question to me, who had no< 
heard both sides. Moira kept repeating to rae, 
' It was not so, it was so and so," iicc. I did not 
know very well what to think, but I sympathized 
with the acuteness of his feelings upon the sub- 
ject. 

" The subject of the Catholic claims was, it 14 
well knoAvn, brought forward a second time thia 
session by Lord Wellesley, whose motion for a 
futute consideration of the question was carried by 
a majority of one. In reference to this division, 
another rather amusing anecdote is thus related : — 
" Lord ♦ * affects an imitation of two very dif- 
ferent Chancellors, Thurlow and Loughborough, 
and can indulge in an oath now and then. On one 
of the debates on the Catholic question, when wo 
were cither equal or within one, (I forget which,) 
I had been sent for in great haste to a ball, which 
I quitted, I confess, somewhat reluctantly, to eman- 
cipate five millions of people. I came in late, and 
did not go immediatelv into the body of the House 
but stood just behind, the woolsack. • • turned 
round, and, catching my eye, immediately said to a 
peer, ^who had come to him for a few minutes on 
the woolsack, as is the custom of his friends,) 
' Damn them ! they'll have it now, — by G— d ! th«»- 
vote that is just come in wUl give it them.' 

• *♦♦*• 

*' When I came of age, some debys, on account 
of some birth and maniage certificates from Corn 
wall, occasioned me not to take mv seat for .several 
weeks. When these were over and I had taken the 
oaths, the Chancellor apologized to me for the de 
lay, observing, • that these forms were a part of hit 
dutt/.' I begged him to make no apology, and 
added, (as he certainly had sliown no violent hurry,) 
'Your Lordship was exactly like Tom Thumb' 
(which was then being acted)—' You did your diUt/. 
and you did no more.' 

9 • ♦ • • • 

" I have never heard any one who fulfilled my 
ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near 
it, but for his harlequin delivery. I'itt 1 never heard. 
Fox but once, and then he struck me us u dtbuter, 
which to \m: seems as diU'creiit from an orator .is an 
improvisatore, or a versifier, iVom a poet. tii< \ h 
great, btit it is not oratory. Cannini' •< 

very like one. Windham I did not i.u u 

all the world did ; it seemed sad soplu-.. .. •• ...t- 
bread was the Demosthenes of bad taste and vuU'ur 
vehemence, but strong, and Knv'li**)*. Hoi! u>d is 
impressive from sense an 1 • • • ,. 

downe good, but still a d I 

like vastly, if he would pi ■' 

an horn's di'liverv. Hurdell is ^ 

Belial himself, and I think thr > 

j)amltinoni«m ; at least I alwa\(. ..t.. !>" 

grntltiiicn and the inini«teriul iiv\' [• 

Kpeet lies (^;; stairs, and run down fi '• 

when he wa» Mi»on his leg*. 1 " * 

makt! hiK sivun(t Hpeech ; it mu.l I 

like Ward — studied, but ki'eii, 

quent. I'oel, uiy Heh«>ol and I. '<* 

within two oif c'ttch other,) i»ti »<J 

never heard, though I oftm >\ini.. - . • i» 

from whiit I remember of him ut lUrrtiw, he t* 
hr, ninoii-' the »M-«t of tht-m. Now. I 



ahoni' 
tiot 



" At the opposition mooting of the PecrH, in 181 -. 
It Lord (Jrenvile's, when Lord (hey and he read j iiothim.' 
to us the 'orrcsiiondcnce upon Moira's negotiation. "1 di:. r-- ■ 

•sal next to the inesent Dukeof Grafton, and s;.i.l..iueiiee properly «u » , . .. j .»,., 

Whul is\o be duno next ? '-* Wako the Duke ofl think that ibo liwh fuid a gre^t «lo«.. •id Ihkl 



'iillcd , itiid *in uuliited tC 



1016 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



French will have, and nave had, in Mirabeau. Lord 
Chatham and Burke are the nearest approaches to 
orators in England. I don't know what Erskine 
may have been at the bar ; but in the House, I wish 
him at the bar once more. Lauderdale is shrill, and 
Scotch, and acute, 

***♦♦♦ 

" But among all these, good, bad, and indifferent, 
I never heard the speech which was not too long for 
the auditors, and not very intelligible, except here 
and there. The whole thing is a grand deception, 
and as tedious and tiresome as may be to those who 
must be often present. I heard Sheridan only once, 
and that briefly, but I liked his voice, his manner, 
and his wit; and he is the only one of them I ever 
jrished to hear at greater length. 

" Thr- impression of Parliament upon me was, 
that its members are not formidable as speakers, but 
very much so as an audie?ice ; because in so numer- 
ous a body there may be little eloquence, (after all, 
there were but two thorough orators in all antiqui- 
ty, and I suspect still /ewer in modern times,) but 
there must be a leaven of thought and good sense 
sufficient to make them hww what is right, though 
they can't express it nobly. 

" Home Tooke and Roscoe both are said to have 
declared that they left Parliament with a higher 
opinion of its aggregate integrity and abilities than 
that with which they entered it. The general! 
amount of both in most Parliaments is probably 
about the same, as also the number of speakers and 
their talent. I except orators, of course, because 
they are things of ages, and not of septennial or 
triennial reunions. Neither House ever struck me j 
with more awe or respect than the same number of | 
Turks in a divan, or of Methodists in a barn, would 
have done. Whatever diffidence or nervousness I 
felt (and I felt both in a great degree) arose from 
the number rather than the quality of the assem- 
blage, and the thought rather of the public loithout 
than the persons within, — knowing (as all know) i 
that Cicero himself, and probably the Messiah, could j 
never have altered the vote of a single lord of the 
bedchamber or bishop. I thought our House dull, 
but the other animating enough upon great days. 
****** 

'* In society I have met Sheridan frequently : he 
was superb ! He had a sort of liking for me, and 
never attacked me, at least to my face, and he did 
every body else — high names, and wits, and orators, 
some of them poets also. I have seen him cut up 
Whitbread, quiz Madame de Stael, annihilate Col- 
tnan, and do little less by some others (whose names, 
as friends, I set not down) of good fame and ability. 

"The last time I met him was, I think, at Sir 
Gilbert Elliot's where he was as quick as ever — no, 
it was not the last time ; the last time was at Doug- 
las Kinnaird's. 

" I have met him in all places and parties — at 
Whitehall with the Melbourne's, at the Marquis of 
Tavistock's, at Robins's the auctioneer's, at Sir 
Humphrey Davy's, at Sam Rogers's, — in short, in 
most kinds of company, and always found him very 
sonvivial and delightful. 

' I have seen Sheridan weep two or three times. 
It ncay be that he was maudlin ; but this only ren- 
iers >t more impressive, for who would see 

• From Maisborouffh'e eyes the tea™ of dotage flow, 
And Swilt expire a driveller and a show ? ' 

Once 1 saw him cry at Robins's the auctioneers, 
after a splendid dinner, full of great names and high 
spirits. I had the honor of sitting next to Sheridan. 
The occasion of his tears was some observation or 
ither upon the subject of the sturdiness of the 
WTiigs in resisting office, and keeping to their prin- 
eiples : Sheridan turned round : * Sir, it is easv for 
toy Lord G., or Earl G., or Marquis B., or Lord H., 
with thousands upon thousands a j'ear, some of it 
wther presently derived, or inherited in sinecure or 
vcquisitions from the lublic money, to boast of their 



patriotisn <.i.<l ' lep aloof from temptit dn ; bur 
they do n/. V iair f fva. what temp',a'iou thoae bavi 
kept aloo/ who 'I'td equal pride, at least equal talenti 
and not vnequal passions, ai^d nevertheless knei* 
not in the course of iheir lives w)-.at it was to have a 
shilliiig of their own.' And i'j saying this, he wept. 

" I have more than onco heard him say, • that he 
never had a shilling of hifl own.' To be sure, he 
contrived to extract a gool many of other people's. 

" In 1815, I had occ3_sion to visit my lawyer in 
Chancery Lane : he ^a\ with Sheridan. After mu- 
tual greetings, &c., Sheridan retired first. Before 
recurring to my own business, I could not help 
inquiring that of Sheridan. ' Oh,' replied the attor- 
ney, ' the usual thing ! to stave off an action from 
his wine-merchant, my client.' — ' Well,' said I, ' and 
what do you mean to do ? ' — ' Nothing at all, foi 
the present,' said he : ' would you have us proceed 
against old Sherry ? what would be the use of it ? 
and here he began laughing, and going over Sheri- 
dan's good gifts of conversation. 

"Now, from personal experience, I can vouch 
that my attorney is by no means the tenderest oi 
men, or particularly accessible to any kind of im- 
pression out of the statute or record ; and yet Sheri- 
dan, in half an hour, had found the way to soften 

d seduce him in such a manner, that I almost 
think he would have thrown his client (an honest 
man, with all the laws, and some justice, on his 
side) out qf the window, had he come in at the 
moment. 

"Such was Sheridan! he could soften an attor- 
ney ! There has been nothing like it since the day* 
of Orpheus. 

" One day I saw him take up his own ' Monody 
on Garrick.' He lighted upon the Dedication to 
the Dowager Lady * *. On seeing it, he flew into a 
rage, and exclaimed, * that it must be a forgery, 
that he had never dedicated any thing of his to such 
a d — d canting,' &c., &c., &c., — and so went on *for 
half an hour, abusing his own dedication, or at least 
the object of it. If all writers were equally sincere, 
it would be bidicrous. 

" He told me that, on the night of the grand suc- 
cess of his School for Scandal, he was knocked down 
and put into the watchhouse for making a row 
in the street, and being found intoxicated by th» 
watchmen. 

" When dying, he was requested to undergo * an 
operation.' He replied, that he had already sub 
initted to tico, which were enough for one man'f 
lifetime. Being asked what they were, he answered, 
' having his hair cut, and sitting for his picture.' 

"I have met George Colman occasionally, and 
thought him extremely pleasant and conviviaL 
Sheridan's humor, or rather wit, was always satur- 
nine, and sometimes savage ; he never laughed, (at 
least that / saw, and I watched him,) but Colman 
did. If I had to choose, and could not have both at 
a time, I should say, ' Let me begin the evening 
with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' Sheri- 
dan for dinner, Colman for supper ; Sheridan for 
claret or port, but Colman for every thing, from the 
Madeira and champagne at dinner, the claret witk 
a layer of j^oH between the glasses, up to the puixh 
of the night, and down to the grog, or gin and 
water, of daybreak ; — all these I have threadp-l with 
both the same. Sheridan was a grenadier company 
of life-guards, but Colman a whole regiment — ol 
light infantry, to be sure, but still a regiment. 
* * « « « * 

" Sheridan's liking for me (whether he was not 
mystifying me, I do not know, but Lady Caroline 
Lamb and others told me that he said the same 
both before and after he knew me) was founded upon 
' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers.' He toA 
me that he did not care about poetry, (or about 
mine — at least, any but that poem of mine,) but he 
was sure from that and other symptoms, I shouW 
make an orator, if I would but take to speaking, 
and grow a parliament man. He never ceased harp 



I 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



101/ 



tag ypon this to me t; the last; and I remember 
my oil! tutor, Dr. Drury, had the same notion when 
I Avafc, a boi/ ; but it never was my turn of inclination 
to ti V, I spoke once or twice, as all young peers 
do, as a kind of introduction into public life ; but 
dissipation, shyness, haughty and reserved opinions, 
together with the short time I lived in England 
after my ni.ijority, (only about five years in all,) 
prevented me from resuming the experiment. As 
fai' as it went, it was not discouraging, particularly 
my Jlrsf speech, (I spoke three or four times in all,) 
out just after it, my poem of Childe Harold was 
published, and robody ever thought about my jjrose 
afterward; nor indeed did I ; it became to me a 
sect ndarj^ and neglected object, though I sometimes 
i»>uder to myself if I should have succeeded." 



" I was much stmck with the simplicity of Grat 
tan's manners in private life : tney were odd, bu« 
they were natural. Curran used to take him otf^ 
bowing to the very ground, and ' thanking God thai 
he had no peculiarities of gesture or ajjpearance,' is 
a way irresistibly ludicrous and * ♦ used to call hiio 
a ♦ sentimental harlequin.' " 



* Curran ! Curran's the man who struck me m^st. 
Such imagination ! there never was any thing like 
it that ever I saw or heard of. His publi^htd life — 
his published speeches, give you no idea of the 
man — none at ail. He was a machine of imapina 
tion, as some one said that Piron was an epigram 
matic machine. 

" I did not see a great deal of Curran — oiJy in 
1813 ; but I met him at home, f for he used to call 
on me,) and in society, at Macintosh's, Holhind 
House, ^c, &c., and he was wondirful, even to me, 
who had seen many remarkable men of the time. 

** The powers of Curran's Irish imagination were 
exhaustless. I have neard that man speak more 
poetry than I have ever seen written, — though 1 
met him seldom and but occasionally. I saw him 
presented to Madame de StaCd at Mackintosh's;— 
it was the grand confluence between the Rhone and 
the Saone, and they were both so d — d ugly, that I 
could not help wondering how the best intellects 
of France and Ireland could have taken up respect- 
ively such residences." • ♦ ♦ • • 



""When the bailiff (^for I have seen most kinds of 
Hie) came upon me m 1815 to seize my chattels, 
(being a peer of parliament, my person was beyond 
him,) being curious, (as is my habit,) I first asked 
him, ' What extents elsewhere he had for govern- 
ment ? ' upon which he showed me one upon one 
house only for seventy thousand pounds ! Next I 
,isked him, if he had nothing for Sheridan ? ' 'Oh 
—Sheridan!' said he; * ay, I have this,' (pulling 
out a pocket-book, &c. ;) * but, my lord, I have been 
in Sheridan's house a twelvemonth at a time — a civil 
gentleman — knows how to deal with us,' Ike, Sic, 
&.C. Our own business was then discussed, which 
was none of the easiest for me at that time. But 
the man was civil, and (what I valued more) com- 
municative. I had met many of his brethren, years 
before, in affairs of my friends, (commoners, that 
is,) but this was the first (or second) on my own 

account. A civil man ; feed accordingly : probably " One of the cleverest men I ever knew, m coa- 
he anticipated as much." ' versation, was Scrope Berdmore Davies. Ilobhousc 

is also very good in that line, though it is of les* 
consequence to a man who has other ways of show- 
ing his talents than hi company. Scrope was al- 
*lhave heard that when Grattan made his first ways ready and often witty— liobhouse as wit\j, 
Bpeech in the l-lnglish Commons, it was for some but not always so ready, being more dUiidcut.' 
minutes doubtful whether to laugh at or cheer him. 
The drd/>t of his predecessor Flood had been a com- 
plete failure under nearly similar circumstances. 
But when the ministerial part of our senators L* 
watched Pitt (their thermometer) for the cue, anu 
saw him nod repeatedly his stately nod of approba- 
tion, they took the hhit from their huntsman, and 
bmke ou"t into tie most rapturous cheers. Grat- 
tan's speech, indeed, deserved them; it was a chef- 
d'fPiivre. I did not hear that speech of his, (being 
then at Hairow,) but lieard most of his others on 
the same question— also that on the war of 181'). I 
dilfered frr)ni bis opinions on the latter question, 
but coincided in the general admiration of his elo- 
quenoe. ,, 

" When I met old Courtenay, the orator, at Ilog- 
/era the poet's, in 1811-12, I was much taken with 
' th-J portly remains of his fine figure, and the still 
acute qui(:kn(;ss of his conversation. It was he who 
•ilenced Flood in the English House by a crushing 
reply*to a hasty drbH of the rival of Grattan in 
Irelar.d. I asked Courtenay (for I like to trace mo- 
tives) if he I- ad not some personal |)rovocation ; lor 
the acrimony of his answer seemed to me, as I had 
lead it. to involve it. Courtenay said • he had ; that, 
when in Irf land, (l)eing.an Irishman,) at the bar ol 
the Irish House of Commons, Flood had made n 
personal and unfiir attack upon /mwAT//, who. not 
beiiig a memlier of that House, ccmld m.t deleiid 
himself, and that some years afterward, the oppor- 
tunity of retort olfering in the F'.glish I'arbament 
he could not resist it.' He , 

Willi interest, for Fl<n>d never made anv figure, aiiditliONO of a great Kononil P . , . , 
Tn V speeeh or twi, afterward, in the KngllKh ingly. ' that thov were very ..wn./*-.* 1 
House of Cnimons. I u.nst .•xcei.t. h.iwever, hin I thought that n degree of HUnphcity wu 
.neech on HHorn., in 171H», which Fox called « the du-nl i)t' greutmiii. , . 

5(«r he ovei heard upon that subject. ' 



" Lewis is a good man, rhymes well, (if not 
wisely,) but is a bore. He seizes vou by the but- 
ton. One night of a rout, at Mrs. llopes's, he had 
fastened upt)n me, notwithstanding my symuloms 
of manifest distress (for I was iu love, and hud just 
nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor lius- 
bands, nor rivals, imr gossips, were near my then 
idol, who was beautiful as the statues of the gulhry 
where we stood at the time) — Lewis, I say, h;»d 
seized upon me by the button and the he«rt-Ktring«, 
and spared neither. W. Spencer, wht) lik. ' 1 

don't dislike mischief, saw my ease, and 
to us both, took me by the hand, and ]' ^ 

bade me farewell ; ' for,' said he, * I see i'. ia all over 
with you.' Lewis then went uw«y. Sic *nt itffva 
vit Ajtollo. 

•' I remember seeing Bluoher in the Loudon as- 
semblies. and never saw any thing of his age Ipm 
venerable. With the voice an ' f a recruit. 

ing sergeant, he pretended t of u hei i, 



— just as if a stone could be 
man had stumbled OTcr it." 



vi U'UUiu ■ 



"When I met Hudson I^owe, the jiiilor, nt I/orl 
Holland's, before he sailed for St. Heb na. ihc di* 
course turned on tlw battle i>f Wnterl.>o 
lie certainly repaid Flood'hiin wheth.-r tlie dispositionn of .Nap" 



I asked 



128 



1018 



BYRON'S WOKKS. 



J <« L * * ^ag a good man, a clever man, but a bore. 
/ My only revenge or consolation used to be, setting 
i him by the ea-s with some vivacious person who 

■ hated bores especially, — Madame de S or H , 

for example. But I liked L * * ; he was a jewel of 
a man, had he been better set ; — I don't mean per- 
tonalhj, but less tiresome, for he was tedious, as 
well as contradictory to every thing and every body. 
Being shortsighted, when we used to ride out to- 
gether near the Brenta in the twilight in summer, 
Be made me go before, to pilot him : I am absent at 
times, especially towards evening ; and the conse- 
quence of this pilotage was some narrow escapes to 
the M * * on horseback. Once I led him into a 
ditch over which I had passed as usual, forgetting 
to warn my convoy; once I led him nearly into the 
river, instead of on the moveable bridge which in- 
commodes passengers ; and twice did we both run 
against the diligence, which, being heavy andslow, 
did communicate less damage than it received in its 
leaders, who were terra^eA by the charge ; thrice 
did I lose him in the gray of the gloaming, and was 
obliged to bring-to to his distant signals of distance 
and distress ; — all the time he went on talking with- 
OTit intermission, for he was a man of many words. 
Poor fellow ! he died a martyr to his new riches — of 
a second visit to Jamaica. 



that is— 



' I'd ^ve the laiiils of Deloraine 
Dark Musgrave were alive again 1 ' 



" I woD.d g'i^s i.iany a sugar cane 
Monk Lewis were alive again J 



****** 

*' Madame de Stael was a good woman at heart, 
and the cleverest at bottom, but spoiled by a wish 
to be — she knew not what. In her own house she 
was amiable ; in any other person's, you wished her 
gone, and in her own again. 

****** 

" I liked the dandies ; they were always very civil 
to me, though in general they disliked literary peo- 
ple, and persecuted and mystified Madame de Sta^l, 
Lewis, * * * *, and the like damnably. They per- 
suaded Madame de Stafl that A * * had a hundred 
thousand a year, &c., &c., till she praised him to 
his face for his beauty ! and made a set at him for 
* *, and a hundred fooleries besides. The truth is, 
that, though I gave up the business early, I had a 
tinge of dandyism in my minority, and probably 
retained enough of it to conciliate the great ones at 
five-and-twenty. I had gamed, and drank, and 
taken my degrees in most dissipations, and having 
no pedantr.y, and not being overbearing, we ran 
quietly together. T knew them all more or less, and 
they made me a member of Watier's, (a superb club 
at that time,) being, I take it, the only literary man 
(except two others, both men of the world, Moore 
and Spenser) in it. Our masquerade was a grand 
one; so was. the dandy ball too, at the Argyle, but 
that (the latter) was given by the four chiefs, B., 
M., A., and P., if I err not. 

" I was a member of the Alfred, too, being elected 
while in Greece. It was pleasant ; a little too sober 
and literary, and bored with * * and Sir Francis 
D'lvernois ; but one met Peel, and Ward, and 
Valentia, and many other pleasant or known peo- 
ple ; and it was, upon the whole, a decent resource 
in a rainy day, in a dearth of parties, or parliament, 
or in an empty season. 

•♦ I belonged, or belong, to the following clubs or 
societies : — to the Alfred ; to the Cocoa Tree ; to 
Waiter's; to the Union; to Racket's, (at Brighton) ; 
to the Ptigilistic ; to the Owls, or 'Fly-by-night;' 
to the Cambridge Whig Club ; the Harrow Club, 
Cambridge ; and one or two private clubs ; Hamp- 
den (political) Club; and to the Italian Carbonari, 
&c., &c., &o., 'though last, not least.' I got into 
411 these, and never stood for any other — at least to 
oay own knowledge. I declined being proposed to 
loveral others, though pressed to stand candidate. 



« * * * (commonly called lo'xc/ * * *, a very cieve 
man, but odd) complained to our friend Serope B 
Davies, in riding, that he had a stick in his side 
'I don't wonder at it,' said Serope, 'for you rid' 
like a tailor.' Whoever has seen * * * en horse 
back, with his very tall figure on a small nag 
would not deny the justness of the repartee." 



" "When Brummell was obliged (by that affair ol 
poor M * *, who thence acquired the name of ' r*iclr 
the Dandy-killer ' — it was about money, and deut, 
and all that) to retire to France, he knetrnc Freneb,, 
and having obtained a grammar for the purpose of 
study, our friend Serope Davies was asked wna* 
progress Brimimell had made in French; he respon- / 
ded, ' that Brummell had been stopped, like Bona-/ 
parte in Russia, by the Elements.' 

"I have put this pun into Beppo, which is *a 
fair exchange and no robbery,' for Serope made his 
fortune at several dinners (as he owned himself) by 
repeating occasionally, as his own, some of the 
buftboneries with which I had encountered him in 
the morning." 



" I have been called in as mediator, or second, at 
least twenty times, in violent quarrels, and have 
always contrived to settle the business without 
compromising the honor of the parties, or leading 
them to mortal consequences, and this too some- 
times in very difficult and delicate circumstances, 
and having to deal with very hot and haughty 
spirits, — Irishmen, gamesters, guardsmen, captains, 
and cornets of horse, and the like. This was, ol 
course, in my youth, when I lived in hot-headed 
company. I have had to carry challenges froir 
gentlemen to noblemen, from captains to captains, 
from lawyers to counsellors, and once from a cler- 
gyman to an officer in the life-guards ; but I found 
the latter by far the most difficult, 

' to compose 
The bloody duel without blows,' 

the business being about a woman : I must add too, 
that I never saw a woman behave so ill, like a cold' 

blooded, heartless b , as she was, — but very hand 

some, for all that. A certain Susan C * * was she 
called. I never saw her but once ; and that was to 
induce her but to say two words, (which in no 
degree compromised herself,) and which would have 
the effect of saving a priest or a lieutenant oi 
cavalry. She would not say them, and neither 
N * * nor myself (the son of Sir E, N * *, and a 
friend to one of the parties) could prevail upon her 
to say them, though both of us used to deal in 
some sort with woman-kind. At last I managed to 
quiet the combatants without her talisman, and, I 
believe, to her great disappointment : she was the 

damndest b that I ever saw, and I have seen a 

great many. Though my clergyman was sure to 
lose either his life or his living, he was as warlike 
as the Bishop of Beauvais, and would hardly b« 
pacified; but then he was in love, and that is a 
martial passion. 

* * * * * * 

"Like Sylla, I have always believed that al 
things depend upon fortune, and nothing upon , 
ourselves. I ani not aware of any one thought oi 
action worthy of being called good to myself or 
others, which is not to be attributed to the good 
goddess Fortune. 

****** 

" If I were to live over again, I do not kno'w 
what I would change in my life, unless it were for 
— not to have lived at ail. All history, and experi 
ence, and the rest, teaches us that me good au«^ 
evil are pretty equally balanced in this existenca 
and that what is most to be desired is an easy pas 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



1019 



race out of it. What can it give us but years ? 
nnd those have little of good but their ending. 

* * * ° * * I 

' The world visits change of politics, or change 
of religion with a more severe censure than a mere 
tiifference of opinion would appear to me to deserve. 
But there must be some reason for this feeling ;— 
and I think it is that these departures from the 
earliest instilled ideas of our childhood, and from 
the line of conduct chosen by us when we first enter 
into pviblic life, have been seen to have more mis- 
chievous results for society, and to prove more 
weakness of mind than other actions, in themselves 
n.ort immoral." 



Of the bust of himself by Bartollini :— " The 
iust does not turn out a good one, — though it may 
be like for aught I know, as it exactly resembles a 
superannuated Jesuit." Again, "I assure you 
Bart.ollini's is dreadful, though my mind misgives 
me that it is hideously like. If it is, I cannot be 
long for this world, for it overlooks seventy." , 



" As far as fame goes (that is to say, living fame,) 
1 have had my share, perhaps — indeed, certainly — 
more than my deserts. 

" Some odd instances have occurred, \o my own 
/iRxperience, of the wild and strange places to which 
/ • name may penetrate, and where it may impress. 
Two years ago, (almost three, being in August or 
July, 181i^,) I received at Ravenna a letter, in Eng- 
lish verse, from Drontheini in Norway, written by a 
Norwegian, and full of the usual complimeuts, &c., 
&c. It is still somewhere among my papers. In 
the same month I received an invitation into Hul- 
steiii from a Mr, Jacobsen (I think) of Hamburgh ; 
also, by the same medium, a translation of Medora's 
song in the Corsair by a Westphalian baroness (nut 
'Thunderton-Tronck'), with some original verses 
of hers, (very pretty and Klopstock-ish,) and a 
prose translation annexed to them, on the subject 
)f my wife ; — as they concerned her more than me, 
1 sent them to her, together with Mr. Jacobsen's 
letter. It was odd enough to receive an invitation 
to pass the summer in Ho/stein, while in Ita/g. fiom 
people I never knew. The letter was addressed to 
Venice. Mr. Jacobsen talked to me of the ' wild 
roses growing in the llolstein summer.' Why then 
did the Cimbri and Teutcnies emigrate ? 

" What a strange thing is life and man ! Were I 
to present myself at the door of the house where 
my daughter now is, the door would be shut in my 
face — unless (as is not impossible) I knocked down 
the porter ; and if I had gone in that year (and 
perhaps now) to Drontheim, (the furthest town in 
Norway,) or into llolstein, I should have been 
received with open arms into the mansion of stran- 
gers and foreigners, attached to me by no tie but by 
that of mind and rumor. 

•'As far Av, fame goes, I have had my share : it 
has indeed b<>en leavened by other human con- 
tingencies, and this in a greater degree than luis 
occurred to most literary nun of a decent rank in 
life ; but, on the whole, I take it that such equi- 
poise is the condition of humanity." 



*' Among the various Journals, Memoranda, Dia- 
ries, &'c., wliich I have kept in tlie course of my 
living, I began one about tiirce months ago, imd 
carried it on till I had tilled one paper-book, (thin- 
nish,) and two sheets or so of another. I then left 
off, {)artly b<-cause I thought we nhcuild have scuni' 
business liere, and I had lurliished ujt luy aruis and 
got my apparatus rea.ly for taking a turn with tiir 
pitriots, having my drawerH lull ol" their proelaui.i- 
tims, oaths, and losolutious, and my lower rooms 



of their hidden weapons, of most calibers, and 
partly because I had tilled my paper-book. 

" But the Neipolitaiis have betrayed themselvef 
and all the world ; and those who would have given 
their blood for Italy can now only give her theil 
tears. 

" Some day or other, if dust holds together, 1 
have been enough in the secret (at least in this part 
of the coimtry) to cast perhaps some little light 
upon the atrocious treachery which has rcplunt;ed 
Italy into barbarism : at present I have neither luf 
time nor the temper. However, the real Italians 
are not to blame ; merely the scoundrels at the 'tee. 
of the boot, which the llun now wears, and wil 
trample them to ashes with for their severity. 1 
have risked myself with the others here, andh ■» 
far I may or may not be compromised is a problfrn 
at this moment. Some of them, like Craigengelt, 
would ' tell all, and more than all, to save them- 
selves.' But, come what may, the cause was a 
glorious one, though it reads at present as if the 
Greeks had run away from Xerxes. Happy the 
few who had only to reproach themselves with 
believing that those rascals were less 'rascaille* 
than they proved ! — Here in Romagua, the efforts 
were necessarily limited to preparations and good 
intentions, until the Germans were fairly engaged 
in equal warfare — ^as we are upon their very fron- 
tiers, without a single fort or hill nearer tlian San 
Marino. AVhethcr 'hell will be paved with ' those 
' good intentions,' I know not ; but there will prob 
ably be a good store of Neapolitans to walk ujion 
the pavement, whatever may be its eompo- ition. 
Slabs of lava from their mountain, with the bodies 
of their own damned souls for eement, would be the 
fittest causeway for Satan's ' Corso.' " 



"Piai, NorembrrS. Iftll. 

" ' There is a strange coincidence sometimes in 
the Hi tie tilings of this world, Sancho,' says Sterne 
in a letter, (if I mistake not,) and so I have often 
found it. 

"In i)age [1012,] of this collection, I had alluded 
to my friend Lord Clare in terms such as my (Vol 
ings suggested. About a week or two alterward, 1 
met him on the n)ad between Imola and Bologna, 
alter not having met for seven or eight years. He 
was abroad in 1814, and came homo just us 1 set out 
in ISIG. 

" This meeting annihilated for a moment hU the 
years between the present time and the days of 
Ilarroir. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, 
like rising from the grave to me. flare too was 
much agitated — more in aj>jiiariiii<c 'han was my- 
self; for I could teel his heart beat to his Jiiigem' 
ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my o«n 
which mi.de me tliink s»». He told me that 1 .shnuld 
find a note from him left at BoIolmm. 1 .Id We 
were obliged to part for our dilfm . lie 

for Rome, I for Pisa, but with the ; ft 

again in spring. We were but five n 
and on the public n)ail ; but 1 li ; 
hour of my existenoe which could b. 
them, lie had heard that 1 
had left his letter Un me i. ' 

neoplc with whom he was tras. ^ 

longer. 

" Of all I hnre ever known, he has always been 
the least altered in every thing (torn tlio rxcrllonl 
qualities and kind atfeetions wiiieh attaelud me to 
him so strt)nglv at itchool. 1 i«hould h.utily hare 
thought it possible for »oricty (or the world, us it ia 
called) to I. a\c a being witli so Utile of the IcaToi 
of bud pu.ssutns. 

«« I do lutt !<ppnk (Vom prrnonnl experience only 
but from nil I ha\e ev.r heard of him ft-om other*. 
durinu ubtience and di^tanl'e. 

'^» • • • • • 

•• I revisited the Florence Gallery, lio, 51) 
former impressions were continued ; but .hey Ttt 



1020 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



too many visi'iers there to allow ane to feel any 
thing properly. When we were (about thirty or 
forty) all stuffed into the cabinet of gems and 
knick-knackeries, in a corner of one of the gal- 
leries, I told Rogers that it * felt like being in the 
watchhouse.' I left him to make his obeisances to 
some of his acquaintances, and strolled on alone — 
the only four minutes I could snatch of any feeling 
for the works around me. I do not mean to apply 
this to a tSte a tete scrutiny with Rogers, who has 
an excellent taste, and deep feeling for the arts, 
(indeed much more of both than I can possess, for 
of the FoiiMER I have not much,) but to the 
crowd of jostling starers and travelling talkers 
around me. 

" I heard one bold Briton declare to the woman 
on his arm, looking at the Venus of Titian, ' Well, 
now, this is really very fine indeed,' — an observa- 
tion which, like that of the landlord in Joseph 
Andrews on ' the certainty of death,' was (as the 
landlord's wife observed) ' extremely true.' 

" In the Pitti Palace, I did not omit Goldsmith's 
prescription for a connoisseur, viz., * that the pic- 
tures would have been better if the painter had 
taken more pains, and to praise the works of Pietro 
Perugino.' 

****** 

" People have wondered at the melancholy which 
runs through my writings. Othei-s have wondered 
at my personal gayety. "But I recollect once, after 
an hour in which I had been sincerely and particu- 
larly gay and rather brilliant, in company, my wife 
replying to me, when I said, (upon her remarking 
my high spirits,) 'And yet. Bell, I have been 
called and miscalled melancholy — vou must have 
seen how falsely, frequently ? ' ' jSTo, Byron,' she 
answered, ' it is not so : at heart, you are the most 
melancholy of mankind ; and often when apparently 
gayest.' 

****** 

" A young American,* named Coolidge, called on 
me not many months ago. He was intelligent, 
very handsome, and not more than twenty years 
old, according to appearances ; a little romantic, 
but that sits well upon youth, and mighty fond of 
poesy, as may be suspected from his approaching 
me in my cavern. He brought me a message from 
an old servant of my famHv, (Joe Murray,) and 
told me that he (Mr. Coolidge) had obtained a copy 
of my bust from Thorwaldsen at Rome, to send to 
America. I confess I was more flattered by this 
Young enthusiasm of a solitary transatlantic travel- 
ler, than if they had decreed" me a statue in the 
Paris Pantheon, (I have seen emperors and dem- 
agogues cast down from their pedestals even in 
my own time, and Grattan's name razed from the 
street, called after him in Dublin;) I say that I 
was more flattered by it, because it was single, un- 
political, and was without motive or ostentation, — 
the pure and warm feeling of a boy for the poet he 
admired. It must have been expensive, though :— 
I would not pay the price of a Thorwaldsen bust 
for any human head and shoulders, except Napo- 
leon's, or my children's, or some ' absurd woman- 
kind's, as Monkbarns calk them — or my sister's. 
If asked w/iy, tlien, I sat for my own ?— Answer, 
that it was at the particular request of J. C. Hob- 
house, Esq., and for no c/ne else. A picture is a 
aiffereut matter ;— every body sits for their picture ; 
but a bust looks like putting up pretensions to 
permanency, and smacks something of a hankering 
tor public fame rather than private remembrance. 

"Whenever an American requests to see me, 
(which is not unfrequently,) I complv, firstly, be- 
cause I respect a people who acquired their freedom 
by tneir firmness without excess; and, secondly, 
uecause these transatlujntic visits, ' few and far be- 
tween,' n.ake me feel as if talking vnth posterity 
'iroiu the other side of the Styx, lu a century or 



two the new English and* Spanish Atlan tides wH 
be masters of the old countries, in ^11 probability / 
as Greece and Europe overcame their mother Asui* 
in the older or earlier ages, as they are called. \ 

****** ^ 

After saying, in reference to his own choice o: 
Venice as a place of residence, " I remembered 
General Ludlow's domal description, * Omne solum 
forti p atria,' and sat down free in a country which 
had been one of slavery for centuries," he adds, 
" But there is no freedom, even for masters, in the 
midst of slaves. It makes my blood boil to see the 
thing. I sometimes wish that I was the owner ol 
Africa, to do at once what Wilberforce will do in 
time, viz., sweep slavery from her deserts, and look 
on upon the first dance of their free.dom. 

"As to political slavery, so general, it is men's 
own fault : if they will be slaves, let them ! Yet it 
is but ' a word and a blow.' See how England for 
merly, France, Spain, Portugal, America, Switzer- 
land, freed themselves ! There is no one instance 
of a long contest in which men did not triumph 
over systems. If Tyranny misses her Jirst spring, 
she fe cowardly as the tiger, and retires to be hunted. 
**#*** 

"Going to the fountain of Delphi (Castri) in 
1809, I saw a flight of twelve eagles (H. says they 
were \ailtures — =- at least, in conversation) and I 
seized the omen. On the day before, I composed 
the lines tp Parnassus, (in Childe Harold,) and, oa 
beholding the birds, had a hope that Apollo had 
accepted my homage. I have at least had the name 
and fame of a poet during the poetical part of lifOy 
(from twenty to thirty ;) — whether it will last is 
another matter. 

****** 

"In the year 1814, as Moore and I were going to 
dine with Lord Grey in Portman square, I pulled 
out a * Java Gaz^ette,' (which Murray had sent to 
me,) in which there was a controversy on our re- 
spective merits as poets. It was amusing enough 
that we should be proceeding peaceably to the same 
table, while they were squabbling about us in the 
Indian seas, (to be sure, the paper was dated six 
months before,) and filling columns with Batavian 
criticism. But this is fame, I presume.* 

"One of my notions different from those of my 
contemporaries is, that the present is not a high 
age of English poetry. There are more poets (soi- 
distant) than ever there were, and proportionably 
less poetry. This thesis I hs re maintained for 
some years, but, strange to say, it meeteth not with 
favor from my brethren of the shelf. Even Moore 
shakes his head, and firmly believes that this is the 
grand age of British poesy. 

*«**«• 

" Of the immortality of the soul, rt appears to me 
that there can be little doubt, if we attend for a 
moment to the action of mind : it isi 'n perpetual 
activity. I used to doubt of it, but reflection has 
taught me better. It acts also so very independent 
of body — in dreams, for instance ; — incoherently and 
madly, I grant you, but still it is mind, and much 
more mind than when we ?re awake. Now that 
this should not act separately, as well as jointly, 
who can pronounce ? The stoics, Epictetus and 
Marcus Aurelius, caU the present state ' a souJ 
which drags a carcass,' — a heavy chain to be sure, 
but all chains being material may be shaken off. 
How far our future life will be individual, or, rather, 
how far it will at all resemble our present existence, 
is another question ; but that the mind is eternal 
seems as probable as that the body is not so. Of 
course, I here venture upon the question without 
recurring to revelation, which, however, is at least 
as rational a solution of it as any other. A material 
resurrection seems strange and even absurd, except 
for purposes of punishment ; and all punishment 
which is to revenge rather than correct must ba 

* See Journal Iii Italv. 



( 



DETACHED THOUliHTS. 



lO^I 



norany torong ; and when the world is at an end, 
what, moral^or warning purpose can eternal tortures 
answer ? Human passions liave probably disfit^ured 
.he divine doctrines here : — but the whole thing is 
inscrutabie.'* 



•* It is useless to tell me not to reason, but to he- 
lieie. You might as well tell a man not to wake, 
Dut sleep. And then to bully with torments, and 
all that ! I cannot help thinking that the menace 
Oi hell makes as man)' devils as the severe penal 
f odes of inhuman humanity make villains." 



•♦Msn is born passionate of body, but with an 
binate though secret tendency to the love of good 
in his mainspring of mind. But, God help us all! 
it is at present a sad jar of atoms." 



♦' Matter is eternal, always changing, but repro- 
duced, and, as far as we can comprehend eternity, 
eternal; and why not i.iindf Why should not the 
mind act with and upon the universe, as portions of 
it act upon and with the congregated dust called 
mankind ? See how one man acts upon himself 
and others, or upon multitudes ! The same agency, 
5n a higher and purer degree, may act upon the 
stars, &c., ad infinitum." 



•' I have often been inclined to materialism in 
philosophy, but could never bear its introduction 
into Christianity, which appears to me essentially 
founded upon the soul. For this reason, Priestley's 
Christian Materialism alv/ays struck me as deadly. 
Believe the resurrection of the body, if you will, 
but not loithout a soul. The deuce is in it, if, after 
having had a soul (^as surely the mind, or whatever 
you cull it is) in this world, we must part with it in 
the next, even for an immortal materiality ! I own 
my partiality for spirit." 



" I am always most religious upon a sunshiny 
day, as if there was some association between an 
internal approach to greater light and purity, and 
the kindler of this dark lantern of our external 
existence." 



"The night is also a religious concern, and 
even more so when I viewed tlie moon and stars 
through Herschell's telescope, and saw that they 
were worlds." 



*• If, according to some speculations, you could 
prove the world manv thousand years older than 
the Mosaic chronology, or if vou could get rid of 
Adam and Eve, and the apple, and Hcrncnt, still, 
what ia to be put up in their stead ? or how is the 
difficulty removed ? Things must have had a be- 
ginning, and what matters it when or how t " 



" I sometimes think that man may be the relic of 
some higher matc^rinl being wrecked in a former 
world, and degenerated in the hardship and strug- 

ffle through chaos into conformity', or something 
ii^e it, — as we see LnplaJiderH, hsquimaux, <S:c., 
Inferior in the present state, us the eltMuentii bo- 
eome more inexorable. But even then thin high.r 
bre- Adamite supposititious creation must have hud 
«n origir. and a CVeo^or,— for a creation is a more 



natural imagination than a fortuitous conceurse o| 
atoms : all things remount to a fountain, thougb 
they may flow to an ocean." 



" Plutarch says, in his Life of Lysander, that 
Aristotle observes ' that in general great geniuses 
are of a melancholy turn, and instances Socrates, 
Plato, and Hercules, (or Heraclitus,) as examples; 
and Lysander, though not while young, yet as in 
clined to it when approaching towards age.' Whe- 
ther I am a genius or not, I have been called such 
by my friends as well as enemies, and in mort 
countries and languages than one, and also within 
a no very long period of existence. Of my geniua 
I can say nothing, but of my melancholy, that ix 
is ' increasing and ought to be diminishing.' Bu 
how ? 

'* I take it that most men are so at bottom, but 
that it is only remarked in the remarkable. The 
Duchesse ile Broglio, in reply to a remark of mine 
on the errors of clover people, said that 'they were 
not worse than others, only, being more in view, 
more noted, especially in all that could reduce them 
to the rest, or raise the rest to them.* In 1816 this 
was. 

" In fact, (I suppose that) if the follies of foole 
were all set down like those of the wise, the wise 
(who seem at present only a better sort of fooLi> 
would appear almost intelligent." 



"It is singular how soon we lose the impression 
of what ceases to be constantly before us : a year 
impairs; a lustre obliterates. I'here is little dis- 
tinct left without an eftbrt of memory. Thtn, in- 
deed, the lights are rekindled for a moment ; but 
who can be sure that imagination is not the torch- 
bearer ? Let any man try at the end of tm yearo t« 
bring before him the features, or the mind, or the 
sayings, or the habits of his best friend, or his y/w/- 
fist man, (I mean his favorite, his Boiuiparte, his 
this, that, or t'other,) and he will be surprised at 
the extreme confusion of his ideas. I sjieak confi- 
dcntlv on this point, having always pussid fur one 
who iiad a good, ay, an excellent nuniory. I ex- 
cept, indeed, our recollection of woniaiikintl ; there 
is no forgetting them (and be d— — d to them) any 
more than any other remarkable era, such us * the 
revolution,' or 'the plague,' or 'the invasion,' ox 
'the comet,' or 'the war,' of such and such an 
epoch,— being the favorite dates of mankind, who 
have so manv blrssiiu/s in their lot, that tlu-y never 
make their calendars" from theirt, being too romiuon. 
For instance, you see, 'the great droucht.' • th« 
• •• - 'if.^r broke 



the seven veurs 



•h rcvolu- 



rhames frozen over,' 

out,' the ' English, or French, or Snanish 

tion connneneed,' 'the Lisbon eartUqv ^ 

Lima earth(|uake,' 'the earthquake n; 

' the plague of Ltmdou,' ditto 'of Con-i 

'the sweating sickness," 'the yellow fov.i . f lirlu- 

delpliia,' i<c., Xc, etc.; but you don't see 'the 

a»)undant harveHt,' 'the tine stinimfr,' 'the hmg 

peace,' 'the wealthy speculation,' 'the rttkUsS 

voyage,' recorded so emphntioally . Hy-th«-w iv, 

there has been a thirty yf>trs' tear and a src^ftt 

ijmrs' tear; was there ever a srrftity or a rA.Cy 

years' pmirf or wa« there ev.r n n\Y'?* t;M»- « J 

neace ? exceut perhaps in (' 

tound out tne misj-rablo h.ij 

and unwarli^' .... .i;.>. rity. A... '^ 

nature is m ^ 'gC or niunWuiii uutir*t«'lul C 

Let philo»» , .' . I am none." 



" In general I do not Iraw well >^ 
men; not that I aif»lik% thorn— In 
what to say to thuiu aftci 1 UaT« yi 



1022 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



piiblication. Tl ;re are several exceptions, to be 
sure, but then they have either been men of the 
world, such as Scott and Moore, &c. ; or visionaries 
out of it, such as Shelley, &c. : but your literary 
every-day man and I never went well in company, 
especially your foreigner, whom I never could abide ; 
except Giordani, andr— and — and — (I really can't 
name any other) — I don't remember a man among 
thetn whom I ever wished to see twice, except per- 
haps Mezzophanti, who is a monster of languages, 
the Briarius of parts of speech, a walking Poylg ott, 
nnd more, who ought to have existed at the time of 
Ihe Tower of Babel, as universal interpreter. He 
is indeed a marvel — unassuming also. I tried him 
in a^l the tongues of which I knew a single oath, 
(or adjuration" to the gods against postboys, sav- 
ages, Tartars, boatmen, sailors, pilots, gondoliers, 
t?iuletcers, camel-drivers, Vetturini, postmasters, 
posthorses, posthouses, post every thing,) and, 
egad ! lie astounded me — even to my English." 



" *No man would live his life over again,' is an 
old and true saying which aU can resolve for them- 



selves. At the same time, there are jrcbably mo 
raents in most men's lives which they would live 
over the rest of life to regain ? Else why do we 
live at all ? because Hope recurs to Memory, botb 
false ; but — but — but — but and this but drags on tilj 
— what ? I do not know : and who does ? He that 
died o' Wednesday ? " 



" Alcibiades is said to have been ' successful in aL 
his battles ' — ^but what battles ? Name them ! \i 
you mention Caesar, or Hannibal, or Napoleon, yoti 
at once rush upon Pharsalia, Munda, Alesia, Can 
noe, Thrasymene, Trebia, Lodi, Marengo, Jena, 
Austerlitz, Friedland, Wagram, Moskwa : but it is 
less easy to pitch upon the victories of Alcibiades : 
though they may be named too, though not so read- 
ily as the Leuctra and Mantinae of Epaminondas 
the Marathon of Miltiades, the Salamis of Themis- 
tocles, and the Thermopylae of Leonidas. Yet, 
upon the whole, it may be doubted whether there 
be a name of antiquity which comes down with s-sch 
a general charm as that of Alcibiades. Why r I 
cannot answer. Who can ? " 



EEVIEW or WORDSWOETH^S POEMS. 

TWO VOLS., 1807.* 
[From "Monthly Litera.ry Recreations," for August, 1807-] 



The volumes before us are by the author of Lyri- 
cal Ballads, a collection which has not undeservedly 
met with a considerable share of public applause. 
The characteristics of Mr. W.'s muse are simple 
and flowing, though occasionally inharmonious 
verse, strong, and sometimes irresistible appeals 
to the feelings, with unexceptionable sentiments. 
Though the present work may not equal his former 
effort's, many of the poems possess a native ele- 
gance, natural and unaffected, totally devoid of 
the tinsel embellishments and abstract hyperboles 
of several contemporary sonneteers. The last son- 
net in the first volume, p. lo2, is perhaps the best, 
r-ithoat any novelty in the sentiments, which we 
hope are common to every Briton at the present 
crisis ; the force and expression is that of a genuine 
poet, feeling as he writes : — 

•« Another year I another deadly blow I 
Another mighty empire overthrown I 
And we are left, or shall be left, alone— 
The last that dares to stnig-g-Ie with the foe. 
Tis we.l I — from thia lay forward we ahall know 
That in ours^ives our safety must be sought, 
Tliat by our own right hands it must be wrought ; 
' Tlmt we must stand ui.prop'd, or be laid low, 
dastard I whom such foretaste does not cheer t 
We »hall exult, if they who rule this land 



• I hare been a reviewer. In 1807, In a Magazine called " Monthly 
tttterary Recreations," I reviewed Wordsworth's trash of that time. In the 
MoD'hIy Review 1 wrote soma articles which weio inserted. This was in the 
kUsriw.tof 1811. 



Be men who hold its many blessings dpar, 
Wise, upright, valiant, not a venal band. 
Who are to judge of danger which they frsT, 
And honor which they do not undeTstaKd." 

The song at the Feast of Brougham Oastle, the 
Seven Sisters, the Affliction of Mar<.''aret — — of 
, possess all the beauties, and few of the de- 
fects, oi this writer: the following lines from the 
last are in his first style : — 

" Ah ! little doth the young one dream 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What powf-r hith e'en his wildest scream. 
Heard by his mother unawares : 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Yeai-s to a mother bring distress, 
But do not make her love the less." 

The pieces least worthy of the author are those 
entitled " Moods of my o^vn Mind." We certainly 
wish these "Moods" had been less frequent, or 
not permitted to occupy a place near works which 
only make their deformity more obvious ; when Mr. 
W. ceases to please, it is by "abandoning" his 
mind to the most common-place ideas, at the same 
time clothing them in language not simple, but 
puerile. What will any reader or auditor, out ol 
the nursery, sav to such namby-pamby as 'Lincf 
written at the l^oot of Brother's Bridge ? 

" The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowiug, 
I'he small birds twitter, 
The lake doth (Utter. 



REVIEW OF GELLiS GEOGRAPHY. 



1023 



The green field sleept In the ion ; 

The oldest aud yoang^t, 

Are at work with the 8tronge«t; 

The cattle are grazing, 

Their head* never raising, 

There are fort; feeding l\ka one> 

Like an army defeated. 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill, 

On the top of the bare hill." 

^* Vlie pUugh-boy is whooping anon, anon," &c., 
ftc , 7S i:i the same exquisite measure. This ap- 
pe?irii to us neither more nor less than an imitation 
of sdch minstrelsy as soothed our cries in the cra- 
dle, with the shrill dUty of 



" Hev ie diddle, 
Tb<; eat and the fiddle I 
The tow jump'd o»er (be moon, 
The l':Ue dog laugh'd to see such tpoit. 
And tiie dish ran away with the ipccu. 

On the whole, however, with the except ivm of ths 
above, and other innocent odes of the same cast, 
we think these volumes display a genius worthy el 
higher pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines 
his muse to such trifling ^ubjects. We trust hid 
motto will be in future, " Paulo majora canaums." 
Many, with inferior abilities, have acquired a loftii-t 
seat on Parnassus, merely by attempting strains m 
which Mr. Wordsworth is more quaiititd to cicei 



REVIEW or GELL'S GEOGRAPnY OF ITHACA, 
AND ITINERARY OF GREECE. 

[Trom THE "Monthly Revtbw," for August, 1811.1 



That laudable curiosity concerning the remains 
ef classical antiquity which has of late years in- 
creased among our countrymen, is in no traveller or 
author more conspicuous than in Mr. Gell. What- 
ever difference of opinion may yet exist with regard 
to the surcess of the several disputants in the fa- 
mous Trojiin controversy,* or, indeed, relating to 
the present author's merits as an inspector of the 
T.Toad, it must universally be acknowledged that 
any work, which more forcibly impresses on our 
imaginations the scenes of heroic action, and the 
subjects of immortal song, possesses claims on the 
attention of every scholar. 

Of the two works wliich now demand our report, 
wc conceive the former to he by far the most inter- 
Bsting to the reader, as the latter is indi^pulili>ly 
the most serviceable to the travelli<r. Kxcepting, 
inrleed, tlie running commentary which it contains 
on a number of extracts from Paiisanias and Strabo, 
it is, as the title imports, a mere itinerary of Greece, 
or rather nf i^.rgolis only, in its jjresent circuniHtan- 
ces. Til is being the case, surely it would have ar- 



i-y purpose 



of utility muc-)i bettor ))>' bring 



printed as a j>oc!cet road-book of that ])art of th, 
Morea ; for a quarto is a very unmanageable travel- 
fing conjpanion. The mapsf and drawings, we 
•hall 1)C told, would not permit such an airangf- 
ment . but as to the drawings, thoy are not in gcn- 
enl to be admired as specimens of the art; and 
several of them, as wo have bc-n assured l)y eye- 
witnesses of the aeenPb whit4i they describe, do not 
eompcnsate for their mediocrity in point of execu- 
tion, by any extraordinary fidelity of representation. 
Others, indeed, are more faithful, according to our 



• We hare k from the IrsI aiilhorily thn". lh« wnrmhl^ Im.Irr of Ihr A«v- 
Bomeric •.•«, Jjw.h H^y»^^ m-teml ypan i«(hw hU death, cipTr-rd rxgrri 
fcr his nngmtpf il nli'Mnpi In destroy some al the mo.1 plr«s(M» n««KUlloi.. 
rf our yontUfd. studle.. Ona of lili ImC ^lihe. wb»-«' TVo/ayu. n-n. 
tUlfti," ttc. 

\ Or r.illK'r, Map ; tor we h«»e only one In (ho Tolmn*, nnd Ihut Is o.. 
loo siindl « sonle lr> ffiv.. .mop- thi.n n (rnrrsl Ulcn of ih- rrl«ti»r p.«|tloit -l 
n,MC/>». TliP excuse nlxint ii larirr n«p not foldlnf well U trininfi (tee, <>'r 
•uuno* Ui« sHitiur's ovn map of lth»'«> 



informants. The true reason, nowever, foi this 
costlv mode of publication is in cf urse to be (or.nd 
in a desire of gratifying the public passion for largo 
margins, and all the luxury of typograi)hy ; and we 
have before exprc'^sed our dissatisfaction witli Mr. 
Gell's aristocratical mode of communicating a .spe- 
cies of knowledge which ought to be accessible to a 
much greater portion of classical students than can 
at present acquire it by his means; — but, as such 
expostulations are generally useless, we shall bo 
thankful for wliat we can obtain, and that in the 
mnnner in which Mr. Gell has chosen t«' 
The former of these volumes, we ha\ 
is the most attractive in the closet It ct ..., i 

a verv full survey of the far-famnd island whn h nc 
hero of the Odyssey has immortalUed ; for wi- v .11 v 
;ire inclined tothink that the author hnv . ' ; 
the identity of the mod( rn Thiaki with 
of Homer." At all events, if it Ic :in i! 
a very agreeable deception, - 

ingenious interprets! tion of i ' 

that arc supposed to bo di - ., 
which our traveller has visited, 
some of these adaptations of \\\r 
the modern scone, m > " 
bianco which ai>pear i * 

well as those wliich arc t 

we must first insert houu- i' > 

the opening ehnpter. The 

veys a sort of general «keti ii w. .... ;.-•.». -....i. 
may give our roadeis a t^^le^ably adequate notion of 
its contents :— 



\N 



shall rxtrnct 
»it pit t'lrr to 



TlH" prr^nt wurft m«y ndiliK*, by • ^^m\■i» snd 

11,1, f.iiiiii li iif. • in tli r ''f'l'iTi •" "* m'linl IT i1<M"trM», 



OoIT I'T 111 •- 



1024 



BrnON'S WORKS, 



Pther, can be identified, as, if nicb an idea be admitted, eferj iraall and 
rocjcy island ir the Ionian Sea, containing a good port, might, with equal 
plausibility, »a»iiine the appellrttion of Ithaca. 

" The Venewjn geographers have in a great degree contributed to raise 
Ihose doubts which have existed on the identity of the modern with the 
ancient Ithaca, ty giving, in their charts, the name of Val di Comnare to the 
irfand. That name is, however, tofally unknown in tho country, where the 
isle is invariably called Ithaca by the upper ranks, and Theaki by tne vulgar. 
The Venetians have equally corrupted the name of almost every place in 
Greece ; yet, as the natives of Epactos or Naupactos never heard of Lepanto, 
those of Zacynthos of Zante, or the Athenians of Settines, it would be as 
antair la rob Ithaca of its name, on<%uch authority, as it would be to assert 
vhat no such island existed, because no tolerable representation of its foim 
iian be found in the Venotian surveys 

" T'le rare medals of the island, of which thre* are represented in the 
•itlefsigc, might be adduced as a proof that the name of Ithaca was not lost 
Jurii 6 1 ne reigns of the Koman emperors. They liave the head of Ulysses, 
'ecogni7/!d by the plleum, i>r pointed cap, while the reverse of one presents 
he figure of a cock, the emolem of his vigilance, with the legend IGAKilN 
& few of these medals are preserved in the cabinets of the curious, and one 
iJsQ, with the cock, found in the island, is in the possession of Signor Zavo, 
»f Bathi. The uppermost coin is in the collection of Dr. Hunter j the second 
is copied froiri Newman, and the third is the property of R. P. Knight, Esq. 

" Several inscriptions, which will be hereafter produced, will tend to the 
ecnfirmation of the idea that Ithaca was inhabited about the time when the 
Romans were masters of Greeto ; yet there is every reason to beliere that 
few, if any of the present proprietors of the soil are descended from ancestors 
who had long resided successively in the islana. Even those who lived, at 
the time of Ulyoses, In Ithaca, seem to have been on the point of emigrating 
to Argos, and no chief remained, after the second in descent from that hero, 
worthy of being recorded in history. It appears that the isle has been twice 
colonised from Ceph;donia in modem times, and I was informed that a grant 
had been made by the Venetians, entithng each settler in Ithaca to as much 
laad as his circumstances would enable him to cultivate." 

Mr. Gell then proceeds to invalidate the authori- 
ty of previous writers on the subject of Ithaca. Sir 
George Wheeler and Mr. le Chevalier fall under his 
severe animadversion ; and, indeed, according to 
his account, neither of these gentlemen had visited 
the island, and the description of the latter is " ab- 
solutely too absurd for refutation." In another 
place, he speaks of M. le C. *' disgracing a work 
of such merit by the introduction of such fabrica- 
tions ; " again, of inaccuracy of the author's maps ; 
and, lastly, of his inserting an island at the south- 
ern entry of the Channel between Cephalonia and 
Ithaca, which has no existence. This observation 
very nearly approaches to the use of that mono- 
syllable which Gibbon,* without expressing it, so 
adroitly applied, to some assertion of his antagonist, 
Mr. Davies. In truth, our traveller's words are 
rather bitter towards his brother tourist: but we 
must conclude that their justice warrants their se- 
verity. 

In the second chapter, the author describes his 
landing in Ithaca, and arrival at the rock Korax 
and the fountain Arethusa, as he designates it with 
sufficient positiveness. — This rock, now known by 
the name of Korax, or Koraka Petra, he contends 
to be the same with that which Homer inentions as 
contiguous to the habitation of Eumaeus, the faith- 
ful swineherd of Ulysses, — We shall take the lib- 
erty of adding to our extracts from Mr. Gell some 
of the passages in Homer to which he refers only, 
conceiving this to be the fairest method of exhibit- 
ing the strength or the weakness of his argument. 
" Ulysses," he observes, " came to the extremity 
of the isle to visit Eumaeus, and that extremity was 
the most southern ; for Telemachus, coming from 
Pylos, touched at the first south-eastern paxt of 
Ithaca with the same intention." 

Kai Tore 6r\ p' '0(Ju«rrja (taw.of troQev fiyays Satficov 
Ayf)u eir' ^Txaririv, 6dt Suifiara vau avPoiTTjs' 
'Ev©' ^Xdev <pi.\oi iiioi '06v(Tarios Oetoio, 
'E< llvXv finadoevToi i(ov aw >7t neXaivrf 

'06va(rer St. 
'Aurap iTrrjv itpcjTtjv Aktt]v 'IQaKti dtpiKriai 
Vrja ntv is TToXtv orpvvai xat iravras eraipovs' 
•Avrof 6e irpwTira avPcorriv iiau<pntca(})aif 

K. T. X. 'OSvfftrer O. 



* Bn hta Tiv IfeatioD of the 15th and 16lh chapten of the Dtdim and 



These citations, we think, appear to jt;stif7 tbi 
author in his attempt to identify the situation ol 
his rock and fountain with the place of those men 
tioned by Homer. But let us now follow him in 
the closer descripfon of the scene. — After some ac- 
count of the subjects in the plate affixed, Mr. Gell 
remarks : " It is impossible to visit this sequestered 
spot without being struck with the recollection ol 
the Fount of Arethusa and the rock Korax, which 
the poet menti(ms in the same line, adding, that 
there the s-wine eat the sweet acorns,* and drink the 
black water." 

A^stf TOP ye (rvecat vaprinevov al as vefiovrai 
Tlap K')paKos nerpn, em tk Kprivrj *ApE9naTi, 
Errduaai /SaXavov /tevosiKea, kui ntXav vSup 
JlwHaai' O(5u(70-£f N. 

" Having passed some time at the fountain, taktn a drawing, and madb 
the necessary observations on the situation of the pltce, we proceeded to an 
examination of the precipice, climbing over the terraces above the source, 
among shady fig-trees, which, however, did not prevent us from feeling the 
powerful effects of the mid-day sun. After a short but fatiguing ascent, we 
arrived at the rock, which extends in a vast perpendicular semicircle, l)eauti- 
fully fringed with trees, facing to the south-east. Under the crag we found 
two caves of inconsiderable extent, the entrance of one of which, not difficull 
of access, is seen in the view of the fount. They are still the resort of sheef 
and goats, and in one ol them are small natural receptacles for the water, 
covered by a stalagmitic incrustation. 

" These caves, being at the extrem'ty of the curve formed by the precipice, 
open toward the south, and present u» with another accompaniment to the 
fount of Arethusa, mentioned by the poet, who informs us tliat the swineherd 
EumjBus left his guests in the house, whilst he, putting on a thick garment, 
went to sleep near the herd, under the hollow of the rock, which sheltered 
him from the northern blast. Now we know tliat the herd fed near the 
fount ; for Minerva fells Ulysses that he is to go first to Eumaeus, whom he 
should find with the swine, near the rock Korax and the fount of Arethusa. 
As the swine then fed at the fountain, so it is necessary that a cavern should 
be found in its vicinity ; and this seems to coincide, in distance and situation, 
with that of the poem. Near the fount also was the fold or stathmos ol 
EumiBus ; for the goddess informs Ulysses that he rhould find his faithful 
servant at or above the fount. 

Now the hero meets the swineherd close to the fold, which was con- 
sequently veiy near that source. At the top of the rotK, and just above the 
spot where the waterfall shoots down the precipice, is at this day a stagni or 
pastoral dwelling, wliich the herdsmen of Ithaca still inhabit, on account o4 
the water necessary for their cattle. One of these people walked on the 
verge of the precipice at the time of our visit to the place, and seemed so 
anxious to know how we had been conveyed to the spot, that his enquiriee 
reminded us of a question probably not uncommon in the days of Homer, 
who more than once represents the Ithacences demanding of strangers what 
ship had brought them to the island, it being evident they could not come on 
foot. He told us that there was, on the summit where he stood, a small 
cistern of vvater, and a kalybea, or shephenl's hut. There are also vestiges 
of ancient habitations, and the place is now called Amarathia. 

" Convenieuce, as well as safety, seems to have pointed out the lofty 
situation of Amarathia as a ft place for the residence of the herdsmen of thii 
part of the island from the earliest ages. A small source of water is a 
treasure in these climates ; and if the inhabitants of Ithaca new select a rug 
ged and elevated spot, to secure them from the robbers of the Echinades, '• 
is to be recollected that the Taphian pirates were not less formidable, even in 
the days of Ulysses, and that a residence in the solitary part of the island, 
tar from the fortress, and close to a celebrated fountain, must at ali times 
have been dangerous, without some such security as the rocks of Korax. 
Indeed, there CJin be no doubt that the house of Enmreus w;is on the top o< 
the precipice : foi Ulysses, in order to evince the tnilh of his story to tho 
swineherd, desires to be thrown from the summit if bis narration does not 
prove correct. 

" Near the bottom of the precipice is a curious natural gallery, about seve* 
feet high, which is expressefl in the plate. It may be fairly prosunred, firoa 
the very remarkable coincidence between this place and the Homeric t\ccouDt| 
that this was the scene designated by the poet as the fountain of Arethuaa, 
and the residence of Eumsus ; and, perhaps, it would be impossible to flw* 
another spot which bears, at tliis day, so strong a resemblance to a poetir 
description composed at a period so very remote. There is no other foimtais 
in this part of the island, nur any rock which bears the slightest resemblanoe 
to the Korax of Homer. 

" 1'he stathmos of the good Eumaeus appeo.s to have been little different, 
either in use or construction, from the stagni ai d kalybea of the present day. 
The poet expressly mentions that other henlsmen drove their flocks into tba 
city at sunset, — a custom which still prevails throughout Grreece during tba 
winter, and that was the season in which Ulysses visited Eumseus, Vat 
Homer accounts for this deviation firom the prevailing custom, by observing 
that he had retired from tlie city to avoid the suitors of Penelope. Theaa 
trifling occurrences afTord a stronf presumption that the Ithaca of Honwr 
was something more than the creature of his own fancy, as some have sui^ 
posed It ; for though the grand outline of a fable may be sasily imagined, jrit 



" Sweet acorns." Doea Mr. Gell translate from the I<atio ? To i 
similar cauK of mistake, ftcvocutea •bould oot be reorlered 
gratom, aa iianies baa given it. 



REVIEW OF GELL'S GEOGRAPHY. 



101:6 



: adaptation of miniile incidents to a long and elaborate falsehood 
H a task of the most arduovis and complicated nature." 

After this long extract, by which we have endeav- 
ored to do justice to Mr. Gell's argument, we can- 
not allov? room for any farther quotations of such 
extent ; and we must offer a brief and imperfect 
analysis of the remainder of the work. 

In the third chapter, the traveller arrives at the 
capital, and in the fourth, he describes it in an 
agreeable manner. We select his account of the 
mode of celebrating a Christian festival in the Greek 
church : — 

" We were present at the celebration of the feast of the Ascension, when 
the citizens appeared in tlieir gayest dR»sses, and saluted each other in the 
ttreets witli <lemonslrations of pleasure. As we sate at brealffast in the house 
of Zl^tior Zavo, we were suddenly roused by the discharge of a gun, suc- 
ree'irtd by a tremendous crash of pottery, which fell on the tiles, steps, and 
pa^empnts, in every ('traction. The bells of the numerous churchi-s com- 
mci:«ed a most discordant jingle ; colois were hoisted on every inast in the 
port, and a general shout of joy announced some great event. Our host 
informed us that the feast of the Ascension was annually conimemont^d in 
this n.anner at Bath:, the populace exclaiming avcir) u X^tJiJ, aXrj 
Vli^oe Qeos, ("'"''St is risen, the true God." 

In another passage, he continues this account as 
follows: — "In the evening of the festival, the in- 
habitants danced before their houses ; and at one 
we saw the figure which is said to have been first 
used by the youths and virgins of Delos, at the 
happy return of Theseus from the expedition of th 
Cretan Labyrinth. It has now lost much of that 
intricacy v')iich was supposed to allude to the wind- 
ings of th»^ habitation of the Minotaur," (ftc, ^-c. 
This is rather too much for even the inflexible^ 
gravity of o^f censorial muscles. When the author 
talks, with all the reality (if we may use the ex- 
pression) of a Lenipriere, on the stories of the 
fabulous ages, we cannot refrain from indulging a 
momentary smile ; nor can we seriously accompany 
him in the" learned architectural detail by which he 
endeavors to give us, from the Odyssey, the ground- 
plot of the house of Ulysses, — of which he actually 
offers a plan in drawing ! " showing how the de- 
scription of the house of Ulysses in the Odyssey 
may be supposed to correspond with the foundations 
vet visible on the hill of Aito ! " — Oh, Foote ! 
iFoote ! why are you lost to such inviting subjects 
for your ludicrous pencil ! In his account of tliis 
celebrated mansion, Mr. Gcll says, one side of the 
court seems to have been occupied by the Thalamos, 
or bleeping apartments of the men, &c., Sec. ; and, 
in confirmation of this hypothesis, he refers to thii 
10th Odyssey, line three hundred and forty. On 
'.xamlning his reference, we read, 

'Ej Oa\an09' t levai, kui am tni0r]ni:vni ivvii^. 

where Ulysses records an invitation which he re- 
ceived from Circe to take a part of her bed. How 
this illustrates the above conjecture, we are at a loss 
to divine: but we suppose that some numerical 
error has occurred in the reference, as we have di^- 
tectt'd a trihiug mistake or two of the same nature. 
Mr. G. labors hard to identify the cave of Dexia, 
near Bathi (the capital of the island), with the 
grotto of tlie Nymphs described in the 13th Odys- 
sey. We are disposed to grant tliat lie has suc- 
ceeded : but we cannot here enter into the proofs 
by which he supports his opinion ; and we can only 
extract one of the conchidiiig sentences of the 
chapter, wliich appears to us candid and judicious : 

" Wlinti-ver opinion mav be (bniied as to ihn kleiulty of thr cnvr. of D-ilii 
with th-i grotto ..rihu Nyniplw, It is fair to sti.l<<, tliiit Kii«»l.> |-»iltvoly ..M»ri. 
that no such cxve as that .|.'.cribod by Horror n«lsl.-.l In hi. du.e. and th.t 
jcographer thought i'. hetlrr to assign a physical elMUur«. mUlt Uiiiti 
Ignorance in Homer, to riccouni for a .lilliT.-ne.' which h.- linnglnrd Ui fslst 
tctwicn th.; Ithaoo of his time and that of lh« p.»U Hui Sln>i«, who ww 
au unconiinoiily uccunilo ..l«.rr«r with trsprot lo counlrir. .urvry.l by hlni- 
ielf, arP""* 10 huvo Uicn wretclMHlly mWoU, »yr hi* Inlorniem on many 

"^rhl'tHtralKj ha.l nnviT vlilt'^l this eouMry Is i.»l.lenl, not only fron. hU 
ta*ccumie account of It. but from hi. ciuUon of ApHI.Mluru. and »c*.i»uii.. 
•boM relauon. are In direct a,.!"-!""" I" »"►' '*'»« "" **»• •^^ "* '''""• 
14 wUI '» demonstnitid on • luiure opportunlljr." 



We must, howcTer, observe that *'demv,nstration 
is a strong term.— In his description of the Leuca 
dian Promontory (of which we have a pleasing 
representation in the plate), the author remarks 
that it is " celebrated for the leap of Sappho, and 
the death of Artemisia." From this variety in the 
expression, a reader would hardly conceive that both 
the ladies perished in the same manner : in fact, the 
sentence is as proper as it would be to talk of the 
decapitation of Russell, and the death of Sidney. 
The view from this promontory includes the island 
of Corfu ; and the name suggests to Mr. Gell tue 
following note, which, though rather irrelevunt, ia 
of a ciirious nature, and we themfore conclude qui 
citations by transcribing it : — 

" It ha* been generally suppose tlmt Corfu, or Corcyra, wa* ih#> Pbnda o. 
Homer; but Sir Henry Kngl.field thinks ih" position oftliat i»lan>l incousW^nt 
with the voyatre of Ulysses as descrihetl in the Odys»?y. Thiil grntl<»uian ha* 
also ooserved a number of such remarkable coiiicilenc^s betwe<'ii the en»rt* ol 
Alcinous and Solomon, that they may be thought cnrioiu and intiT rting. 
Homer was familiar with the names of 'rvre, Si Ion, air I Kgypt ; ami, .is a* 
lived about the timeof Solomon, it woulil not have l»wi)r>xtr.ioiilinary ifbeh=?'. 
lniroiluce<l somi- account df the magnificence of Ih :<i princ- hun his DO^m. A* 
Solomon was famous for wisdom, so th* name of Alcinous siguifin ptrrngr. ol 
knowledge; as the ganlens of Solomon were cehbrilel, so nn- f-osr <•( Al- 
cinous (Od. 7. 112) ; as fie kingdom of Solomon w;u dBtinguislied by iwlre 
lril«8 under twelv.> princes (1 Kings, ch. 4), so that of Alcinous (Oil. 8. JTO) 
w;is ruled by an equal numbr-r ; as the thn.iie of Solomon w<is .upporte<l by 
lions olgol.l (I Kings, ch. 10), so that of Alcinous was pi ict^l oa dog* irf 
silver and gold (Od. 7. 91) ; as the fi'-els of Solomon wer»- fiimou*. so wen 
those ol Alcinous. It is perh.ips worthy of remark, th.it Nepcutw k ir on the 
ntains of the Sn'ymi, as he rttnmed from Aihiopi.i to i£g:e, while b* 
•d the temp's! which ihn-w Ulysses on Uie oast f>( PK»-iciu ; and ihiU 
the Solvmi of Pampliilia are very considerably distant from the ruute. — Th* 
suspicious charactr, also, which Naiisicaa atlribules to h.T eouiitrritiaa 
agrees precisely with that wliich the Greeks and Romans g.>ve of the Jew*." 

The seventh chapter contains a description of the 
Monastery of Kathara, and several adjacent places. 
The eighth, among other curiosities, fixes on an 
imaginary site for the fann of Laertes : but this it 
the agony of conjecture, indeed I-^and the ninth 
chanter mentions another ^lonastery, and a rock 
still called the school of Homer. Some sepulchral 
inscriptions of a very simple nature are included.— 
The tenth and last chanter brings us rotind to the 
Port of Schcrnus, near Bathi; after ve have com- 
pleted, seemingly in a very minutft and accural* 
manner, the tour of the island. 

We can certainly recommend a perusal of tnit 
voliune to every lover of cl.issieal scene and story 
If we may indulge the pleasing bel ef tliat I'.'mhit 
sang of a real kingdom, and that Uivsses go\. rurd 
it, though we discern many feeble links in .Mr. <.< il's 
chain c)f evidence, we are on the whole induci d t»» 
fancy that it is the lth:u'a of the bard ind of the 
nioiKtrch. At all events, Mr. Gell has enabled evcrv 
future traveller to ft)rin a clearer judgment on the 
question than he could have estal)li>hed \\ii)..'ut 
•such a " Vade-mecum to Ithacii," or a ** Have \\'\\\ 
.nu. to the House of Ulysses," as the pieseut 
With Htnner in his pocket, and (irll on hia stimpter. 
horse or mule, Uie Odyssean tourist may now mike 
a very classical and delightful exourNitm ; a-ui we 
doul)t not the advantages accruing to tbr I'n i -n- 
ces, from the increa.sed numl»er of ti '^ f- 

will visit them in consetiu«>iue of Mr. (• ' 

of their country, will induce them to < i>i a 

genthiuan anv heraldic honi>r» which tlirv may luv* 
to liestow, should he ever look in upon them aH*iu 
—liarou Baths would be u pretty title :— 



•• Hoc Ithnciis mNI, 

For ourselvcH, wo confers t1 
feelings would be alive on w 
of Melaitiudios, where, a» t 
thr nriestH relate, Homer wa 
We now ( nme to the " ' 
"C:iiy," whuli Mr. (Jell ha 
re,.llvhe hi- c.inied the e]' 
prisnu of the author to UH 
(il the above-nu'lititMicil 1 
NVe hear nothing of his " 
ara or laud ; and wr do i 



4Hrf«."-Vlr(fl. 



, 




.« 


i!. fewli'ie 


1 lo s.Kht. 




Grecian 


Pattersop. 


Ol 

-Ml 



10^6 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



greater part of his journey tlTirmttgh Argolis, whether 
ne relates what he has seon or what he has heard. 
From other parts of the book, we find the foriner 
to be the case ; but, though there have been tour 
ists and "strangers" in other countries, who have 
kindly permitted their readers to learn rather too 
riuch of their sweet selves, yet it is possible to carry 
delicacy, or cautious silence, or whatever it may be 
called, to the contrary extreme. We think that 
Mr. Gell has fallen iiito this ezTor, so opposite to 
that of his nrraerous brethren. It is offensive, in- 
deed, to be told wrat a man has eaten for dinner, or 
Low pathetic he was on certa; i occasions; but we 
ike to know that there is a being yet living who 
describes the scenes to which he introduces us; and 
'hat it is not a mere translation from Strabo or Pau- 
sauias whicli we are reading, or a commentary on 
those authors. This reflection leads us to the con- 
cluding remark in Mr. Gell's preface (by much the 
most interesting part of his book) to his Itinerary 
of Greece, in which he thus expresses himself: — 

" The confusion of the modem with the ancient liames of places in this 
rolume is absohitely nnavoitlable ; thr-y are, however, mentioned in such a 
manner, that tho rPHfler will soon be accustomed to the indiscriminate use 
of them. The iiec"s£it.v of applyiiif- the ancient apppll.itions to the diflerent 
routes, will be evi.lpnt from the total ignorance of tbe public on the subject of 
Ihe modern n-imes, which, having- n-ver appesired in print, are only known 
Ic the f=w individuals who have visited the country. 

" What could apwar less intelligih • to the reader, or less us-fiil to the 
iriveller, tlian a route froMi Chione and Zir-tcca to Kutchiikmadi, from 
tUence to Krabuta to Scooeiiochorio, and by the mills of Ppali, while every 
' «e is in some degree acquainted with the names of Stymphalus, Neinea 
Mycen<e, Lyrceia, l^rna, and Tegea ? " 

Although this may be very true inasmuch as it 
relates to the reader, yet to 'the traveller we must 
observe, in opposition to Mr. Gell, tUat nothing can 
be less useful than the designation of his route 
according to the ancient names. We might as well, 
and with as much chance of arriving at the place of 
our destination, talk to a Hounslow postboy about 
making haste to Aur/usta, as apply to our Turkish 
guide in modern Greece for a direction to Stympha- 
lus, Nemea, Mycence, &c., Sec. This is neither 
more nor less than classical affectation ; and it ren- 
ders Mr. Gell's book of much more confined use 
than it would otherwise have been: — but we have 
some other and more important remarks to make 
on .his general directions to Grecian tourists ; and 
we beg leave to assure our readers that they are de- 
rived from travellers who have lately visited Greece. 
In the first, place, Mr. Gell is absolutely incautious 
enough to recommend an interference on the part of 
English travellers with the Minister at the Porte, 
In behalf of the Greeks. " The folly of such neglect 
(page 16, preface), in many instances, where the 
eiHancipation of a district inight often be obtained 
by the present of a snufF-box" or a watch, at Con- 
stantinople, (md without the smallest danqcr of ex- 
cititig the jealousy of sxich a court as that of Turkey, 
will be acknowledged when we are no longer able to 
rectify the error." We have every reason to believe, 
on the contrary, that the folly of half a dozen travel- 
lers taking this advice, might bring us into a war. 
" Never interfere with any thing of the kind," is a 
much sounder and more political suggestion to all 
English travellers in Greece. 

Mr. Gell apologises for the introduction of "his 
panoramic designs," as he calls them, on the score 
of the great difficulty of giv.ng any tolerable' idea 
of the face of a country in writing, and the ease 
with which a very accurate knowledge of it may ba 
Acquired by maps and panoramic designs. We are 
informed that this is not the case wth many of these 
designi. The small scale of the single map we 
have already censured; and we have hinted that 
Bome of the drawings are not remarkable for correct 
resemblance of their originals. The two nearer 
riews of the Gate of the Lions at Mycenge are indeed 
good likenesses of their subject, and the first of 
them '8 unusually well executed ; but the general 



respect : and the prospect of Lajissa, Sia., is bareij 
equal to the former. The view from this la-st place 
is also indifTerent; arid we are positively ass-ured 
that there are no windows at Nauplia which look 
like a box of dominos, — the idea suggestedj by Mr. 
Gell's plate. We must not, however, be too severe 
on these picturesque bagatelles, which, probably^ 
Avere very hasty sketches ; and the circumstances o 
weather, &c., may have occasioned some difference 
in the appearance of the same objects to differei.t 
spectators. We shall therefore return to Mr. Gell's 
preface ; endeavoring to set him right in hi<? direc- 
tions to travellers, where we think that he is erro- 
neous, and adding what appears to have been omit- 
ted. In his tirst sentence, he makes an assertion 
which is by no means correct. He says, " We are 
at present as ignorant of Greece, as of the intcrioi 
of Afriv;:a." Surely not quite so ignorant ; or several 
of our Grecian Mungo Parks have travelled in vain, 
and some very sumptuous works have been pub- 
lished to no purpose ! As we proceed, we find the 
author observing that "Athens is now the most 
polished city of Greece," when we believe it to be 
the most barbarous, even to a proverb — 

'ii 'A9r?i/a, npf^Tti ^w/ja, 
Tt yaiScLfitii Tpscbsii Twpa^* 

is a couplet of reproach no^j) applied to this on?:* 
famous city ; whose inhabitants seem little wort;hy 
oi" the inspiring call which was addressed to tl:enj 
within these twenty years, by the celebrated Riga :— 

lannina, the capital of Epirus, and the"*seat of Ali 
Pacha's government, is in truth deserving ot the 
honors which Mr. Gell has improperly bestowed on 
degraded Athens. As to the correctness of the 
ren^ark concerning the fashion of wearing the haii 
cropped in Moiossia, as Mr. Gell informs us, our 
authorities cannot depose : but why will he use the 
classical term of Eleuthero-Lacones, when that 
people are so much better known by the.r modern 
name of Mainotes ? " The court of the Pacha of 
Tripolizza " is said " to realise^the splendid visions 
of the Arabian Nights." This- is true with regard 
to the court: but surely the traveller ought to have 
added that the city and palace are most miserable, 
and form an extraordinary contrast to the splendor 
of the court. — Mr. Gell mentions yold mines in 
Greece ; he should have specified their simation, 
as it certainly is not universally known. When, 
also, he remarks that " the first article of necessity 
m Greece is a firman, or order from the Sultan, 
permitting the traveller to pass unmolested," we are 
much misinformed if he be right. ■ On the contrary, 
we believe this to be almost the only part of the 
Turkish dominions in which a firman is not neces- 
sary ; since the passport of the Pacha is absolutf 
within his territory (according to Mr. G.'s own 
admission), and much more effectual than a firman 
Money," he remarks, "is easily procured at Sa 
lonica, or Patras, where the English have consuls." 
It is much better procured, we understand, from the 
Turkish governors, who never charge discount 
The consuls for the English are not of the most 
magnanimous order of Greeks, and far from being 
so liberal, generally speaking ; although there arej 
in course, some exceptions, and Strune of Patras 
has been more honorably mentioned. -After having 
observed that "horses seem the best mode of con 
veyance in Greece," Mr. Gell proceeds : " Som*; 
travellers would prefer an English saddle ; but i 
saddle of this sort is always objected to by the ownei 
of the horse, and not without reason," &c. This, 
we learn, is far from being the case ; and, indeed, 
for a very simple Reason, an English saddle musi 
seem to be preferable to one of the country, liecause 



We write thpje lines from the recitation of the iravellen* i 



«-™r ,^»' AyT...^-. — — :„ „.^* .«„_„ 4-U ^ 1 i_i "■ '"= »»"« lurjK lines iroin me rectiaaon oi tne navel ien» to w i 

«»WOt MyCenK is not more than tolerable in any ' h.r. alluded ; hut we canrot vouch for the correctue.r oMhe a.man;. 



REVIEW OF CELL'S GEOGRAPHY. 



1C2/ 



't is much lijrhter. When, too, Mr. Gell calls the 
\y)stuion "Menzilgi," he mistakes kim for his bet- 
ters : Serru(/ees are postilions ; MenziUfis are post- 
masters : — Our traveller was fortunate in his Turks, 
tvho are hired to walk by the side of the batj^ajre- 
norsoR. They "are certain," he says, "of perform- 
ing their engagement without grumbling." We 
apprehend that this is by no means certain : — but 
Mr. Gell is perfectly right in preferring a Turk to a 
Greek for this piirpose ; and in his general recom- 
mendation 1.0 take a Janissary on the tour: who, 
we may add, should be suffered to act as he ple5-?es, 
since nothing is to be done by gentle means, or c-ren 
by offers of money, at the places of accommodation. 
A courier, to be sent on before to the place at which 
'-he traT<^ller intends to sleep, is indispensable to 
comfort • but no tourist should be misled by the 
author's advice to sutler the Greeks to gratify their 
curiosity, in permitting them to remain for some 
time about him on his arrival at an inn. They 
should be removed as soon as possible ; for, as to 
the remark that "no stranger would think of in- 
truding when a room is preoccupied," our inform- 
ants were not so well convinced of that fact. 

Though we have made the above exceptions to 
the accuracy of Mr. Gell's information, we are most 
ready to do justice to the general utility of his 
directions, and can certainly concede the praise 
which he is desirous of obtaining, — namely, '• of 
having facilitated the researches of future travel- 
lers, by affording that local information which it was 
before impossible to obtain." This book, indeed, is 
absolutely necessary to any person who wishes to 
explore the Morea advantageously ; and we hope 
that Mr. Gell will continue his Itinerary over tliat 
and every other part of Greece, He allows thut his 
volume "is onl" calculated to become a book 



since it is a work "which gives him a ia.:h<ul de 
scription of the remains of cities, the very exi^t^ncc 
of which was doubtful, as they perished lei ore tb(t 
era of authentic history." The subjoined quots tioq 
is a good specimen of the author's minuteneiK ol 
research as a topographer ; and wo tmst that ths 
credit which must accrue to him from the pr*>fenl 
performance will ensure the completion of his lur 
erary : — 

" The innccuracies of the nu-yw a' AnachatiU tre in idkiit iuf«e(a f»»/ 
arlarin-r. The situation of Phli<« is maiketl by ^'jalo M •nrro-jiidx) by ."» 
temiGri>>8 of Sicyon, Arg-os. Cl-m*, aii.l S'yn)iit-.a;;it. Mr. HftVfcsf 
obeervwt, thai PhHua, the riiiriB of which still exist near A »io« < i ioryic*, um 
in a (ihiKt line be'.ween t I'.-oii.t; aii'J Stymph:iKif .ind another froTi t'KyM 
to Argos ; bo th it Str ibo w;i8 cornet in sii-iiig thnt it luv t*ivir«T. -Jho*^ feux 
towns J ypt W3 see Pliliiis, in the nmp of k'gc'.'x iy M. Barl>ie du Bo<dg«, 
pljci-il ten iiill"8 U) the north of Stympha!ii». ointrulictiiig binh hia>ijr> osd 
fact. D'Aiivillc Is g-iiilty of the gaiiiC error. 

" M. (Ill Boci^e pl.ic°s a town n.imed Phlins, and by hiiri Phlionte, oa 
tlie point of land « liich forms the port ut Drepuno : th' re arv not n preaeat 
iiiiy ruins thrre. Tlie maps of D'Anville ar- fcnrr.ily more cortxt than 
any others where ancient geoginpliy is concemeil. A uii^i il*e occurs on the 
Biihicct of Tiryns, and a place naiiie<i by liini VatliU, bin of uiiich nolh.nj 
can l)e understood. It is poFslMe thil Valhi, or tlie profoiin.! v.illey, n.ay be 
a name sometimes used fir th.- willey of BirUtaa, and that the plac<' nam**" 
by D'Anville Clau*ini may be th- outlet of "Jial valley calW Kleiaoun 
which has a correspom'iiijr sifnlficitiiin. 

" The city ol Tirvns is also plac"d in two different positions, onee by It 
Greek name, and i^.iin as Tiryuthus. The mistake between the i*l\!kla • 
Sphiria and C.iUutri has been noticed in page 135. Tlie Poniiiin*. wbi* 
D'Anville r>yr -sents as a river, and the Erasinns are equ dly ill \UcM hi » 
map. Th'H- was a place called Crpo]«.li», soniewh-re towanl Cynouruj 
bill its sitii.ition is not easily fixed. The ports calle,i Buc<rh.ili.iiii and 
Pirwus seem (o have l>e<Mi nothing' more than little bays in the country 
1> iwi-en Corinth and KpiiLumis. The town called Alheo», in Cynoofia, by 
Paiisani.is, is c died Anihina by n.iicy^idei, book 5. 41. 

" In general, the map of D'Anville uill he found more accurate lh.i» 

thoae which have lieen published since his liii.e ; hidee,! the mistakes of Uvu 

! geographer urs in seiurnl such as could not be avoided without vu.iing iha 

of 1 country. Two errors of D'Anville may be li.ention. d, Irst liie opi^nouHy 



reference, and not of j?eneral entertainment :" but 
we do not see any reason against the compatibility 
of both objects in a survey of the most celebrated 
country of the ancient woild. To that country, we 
trust, the attention, not only of our travellers, but 
of our legislators, will hereafter be din>cted. The 
greatest cnution will, indeed, be required, as we 
havtj premised, in touching on so delicate a subject 
as the anifdioration of the possessions of an ally: 
but the field for the exercise of political sagacity is 
wide and inviting in this portion of the glo1)e ; and 
Mr Gell, and all other writers who interest ns, 
however remotely, hi its extraordinary m/'n/n/dn'S, 
deserve well of the British empire. We sliall con- 
clude bv an extract from the author's work, which, 
«vcn if it fails of exciting that general interest 
which we hope most earnestly it 'ujiy attract, to- 
wards its important sn))je(t, cannot, as ht; justly 
oUcrves. "be entirely ui.intcrestin«; to the schol.ir: 



of publishintf-.lie itinerary of .Arcadia should o.vr .M-,ur. In ' >: i», lh*« 
♦he rivers J\1ida-lP.» and Mylaon, near M-l' ^ ' nio- 

nlng toward the south, where.is tlicy flow >> : anu 

second is, that the Aroanins, which fall.>^ i '■ "'I'*''*. 

Is reprewmted P:; rtowiug fniin tlie l.ike of i'lieii^ iw ; a ii.i..uki u ..icti .irisM 
from die ignorniits of the uncieHU themselves who have wriu-n on the 
subject. The fict is that the Ijulou receiv-s die wntrn oJ ih. l«krs d 
Orehomenos and Pheneos; but Uie Aroanius rwes at a sjio* luA, liso t>i>u« 
dBtant from Psophis." 

In furtherance ot" our principal o' cri- 

tique, we have only to add a >yish t out 

(jrecian tourists, among the fresh an!. ■- - . ■ lAoV' 
mation concerning Greece which they have latrlv 
imported, would turn th* ir niinrls t(- th 
of the country. So stri- 
Oroek is the I'nodtrii K 
and HO difsimihir in sou.. 
rules concerning pronunci»uuu woum 



l.v 



id be ol Ui%it.t 



THE FIRST CHAPTER OE A NOYEL, 

CONTEMPLATED BY LORD BYRON IN THE SPRING OF 1812 
[Aptebwabds Published in one of Mr Dallas's Noveis.] 



— Darrell to G. Y. 

• * * * So rauch for your present pursuits. I 
jril. now resume the subject of ray last. How I 
wi=h yon were upon the spot ; your taste for the 
ridiculous would be fully gnitified ; and if you felt 
inclined for more serious amusement, there is no 
''lack of argument." Within this last week our 
guests have been doubled in number, some of them 
my old acquaintance. Our host you already know 
—absurd as ever, but rather duller, and 1 should 
conceive, troublesome to such of his very good 
friends as find his house more agreeable than its 
owner. I confine myself to observation, and do 
not find him at all in the way, though Yeramore 
ana. Asply are of a different opinion. The former, 
in particular, imparts to me many pathetic com- 
plaints of the want of opportunities (nothing else 
being wanting to the success of the said Yeramore) 
created by the fractious and but ill-concealed jeal- 
ousy of poor Bramblebear, whose Penelope seems 
to have as many suitors as her namesake, and for 
aught I can see to the contrary, with as much pro- 
spect of caiTying their point. In the mean time, I 
look on and laugh, or rather I should laugh were 
you present to share in it ; sackcloth and sorrow 
are excellent wear for soliloquy ; but for a laugh 
there should be two, but not many more, except at 
the first night of a modern tragedy. 

You are very much mistaken in the design you 
impute to myself; I have none here or elsewhere. 
I am sick of old intrigues, and too indolent to en- 
gage in new ones. Besides, I am, that is, I used 
to be, apt to find my heart gone at tfie very time 
when you fastidious gentlemen begin to recover 
yours. I agree with you that the world, as well as 
yourself, are of a different opinion. I shall never 
be at the trouble to undeceive either ; my follies 
have seldom been of my own seeking. " Rebellion 
came in ray way, and I found it." This raay appear 
as coxcoml ical a speech as Yeramore could make, 
yet you pai tly know its truth. You talk to me too 
of "my character," and yet it is one which you and 
fifty others have been struggling these seven years 
►o obtain for yourselves. I wish you had it, you 
rould make so much better, that is, worse use of it ; 
relieve me, and gratify an ambition which is un- 
worthy of a man of sense. It has always appeared 
to me extraordinary that you should value women 
80 highly, and yet love them so little. The height 
nf your gratification ceases with its accomplishment; 
you bow, and you sigh, and you worship, — and 
abandon. For mv p^rt I regard them as a very 
oeautit'ul, but in/erior animal. I think them as 
auuh out :>f place at our tables as they woxild be 



., J. 



180— 



in our senates. The whole present system, with 
regard to that sex, is a remnant of the chivalroui 
barbarism of our ancestors ; I look upon them as 
grown-up children-, but, like a foolish mamma, am 
alw^j's the slave of some 07ily one. With a con- 
tempt for the race, I am ever attached to the indi 
vidual, in spite of myself. You know that, though 
not rude, I am inattentive; any thing but a "beau 
gar9on." I. would not hand a woman out of hex 
carriage, but I would leap into a river after her 
However, I grant you that, as they must waik 
oftener out of chariots than into the Thames, you 
gentlemen servitors, Cortejos and Cicisbei, have a 
better chance of being agreeable and useful; you 
might, very probably, do both ; but as you can't 
swim, and I can, I recommend you to invite me to 
your first water-party. 

Brarablebear's Lady Penelope puzzles me. She 
is very beautiful, but not one of my beauties. You 
know I admire a different complexion, but the fig 
ure is perfect. She is accomplished, if her mother 
and music-master may be believed ; amiable, if a 
soft voice and a sweet smile could make her so ; 
young, even by the register of her baptism ; pious 
and chaste, and doting on her husband, according tc 
Bramblebear"s observation; equally loving, not of 
her husband, though rather less pious, and Vother 
thing, according to Yeramore's ; and if mine hath 
any discernment, she detests the one, despises the 
other, and loves — herself. That she dislikes Bram 
blebear is evident; poor soul, I can't blame her; 
she has found him out to be mighty weak and little- 
tempered.; she has also discovered that she married 
too early to know what she liked, and that there are 
many likeable people who would have been less 
discordant and more creditable partners. Still, she 
ccnducts herself well, and in point of good humor, 
tc admiration. A good deal of religion, (not entl. j • 
siasm, for that leads the contrary way,) a prying 
husband who never leaves her, and, ns I think, a 
very temperate pulse, will keep her out cf scrapes. 
I am glad of it, first, because, though Bramblebeai 
is bad, I don't think Yeramore much better ; and 
next, because Bramblebear is ridiculous enough 
already, and it would be thrown away upon him to 
make him raore so ; thirdly, it would be a pity, be- 
cause nobody would jyity hira ; and, fourthly, (as 
Scrub says,) he would then become a melancholy 
and sentimental harlequin, instead of a merry, fret- 
ful pantaloon, and I like the pantomime better as if 
is now cast. More in my next. 

Yours, truly, 

DARBSf.lk 



PAELIAMENTARY SPEECHES 



DEBATE 0^ THE FRAME-WORK BILL, IN THE HOUSE 
OF LORDS, FEBRUARY 27, 1812. 

The order of the day for the second reading of 
this bill being read 

LORD BYRON rose, and (for the first time) ad- 
■iressed their lordships, as follows : 

Mv Lords — Tho subject now submitted to your 
lords Lips for the first time, thou}?h new to the 
House, is by no means new to tlie country. 1 
believe it had occupied the serious thou<^hts of all 
descriptions of persons, long before its introduction 
to the notice of that legislature, whose interference 
alone could be of real service. As a person in some 
degree connected with the suflfering county, though 
a stranger not only to this House in general, but to 
almost every individual whose attention I presume 
to solicit, I must claim some portion of your lord- 
Bhips' indulgence whilst I offer a few observations 
on a question in which I confess myself deeply in- 
terested. 

To enter into any detail of the riots would be 
Buperfluous : the House is already aware that every 
outrage short of actual bloodshed has been per|)e- 
LTated, and that trie proprietors of the frames ob- 
EO-N-ious to the rioters, and all persons sup])os('d to 
be connected with them, have been liable to insult 
and violence. During the short time I recently 
passed in Nottinghamshire, not twelve hours elapsed 
without some fresh act of violence ; and on the day 
I left the coimty, I was informed that forty I'ranies 
had been broken the preceding evening, as usual, 
without resistence and witlu)ut detection. 

Such was then \ho state of that county, and such 
I have reason to believe it to be at this moment. 
But whilst these outrages must be adiiiittori to exist 
to an alarming extent, it cannot be denied that they 
have arisen from ciicumsta!u;es of the most unj)ar- 
alleled distress. The persevi:rance of tlu-se misera- 
ble men in their jtrocecdings, tends to prove that 
nothing but aljsolute want could liave drivrn a 
large, and on<!e hnnest and industrious, body of (he 
people, into the commission of excesses so hazard- 
ous to themselves, their familii-s, aiul the commu- 
nity. At the time to which I allude, the town and 
county were l)urdened with large detachments of 
the military ; tlie police was in motion, tlju magis- 
trates asseiiil)led ; yet ail the movements, civil and 
uiilitarv, had led to— nothing. Not a single in- 
Btimcehad occurred of the apnrehension of any real 
delinquent actually taken in the fact, against whom 
there existed legal evidence Hijfficient for conviction. 
lint the police, however useh^ss, were by no nieauH 
idle: several notori;His delinejuents had been de- 
tected; men, lial)le to conviction, on tlie elean' i 
evidence, of the capital crime of noveiiv ; nun w 
had been nefariously guilty of lawruUy begeltin.. 
«»cveral children, whom, thanks to the time» ! the\ 
were unalile to maintain. Considerable injury h.i'l 
b«! 5U d«^ue t(» the proprietors of tho improv'l frames. 



These machines -^vere to them an advantage, inu 
much as they superseded the necessity of enipl)yi;.sj 
a number of workmen, who were left in consequence 
to starve. By the adoption of one species of frame 
in particular, one man performed the work of many, 
and the superfluous laborers were thrown out of 
employment. Yet it is to be observed, that the 
work thus executed was inferior in quality; not 
marketable at home, and merely hurried over with 
a view to exportation. It was called, in the cant of 
the trade, bv the .name of " Sjjider work." The 
rejected workmen, in the blindness of tlieir igno- 
rance, instead of rejoicing <it these impiovenivnta 
in arts so beneficial to mankind, conceived them- 
selves to be sacrificed to improvements ir. mechan- 
ism. In the foolishness of their hearts they im- 
agined, that the maintenance and wt 11-doing of the 
industrious poor were objects of greau r consequencs 
than the enrichment of a few individu; 's by anv 
improvement, in the imjilements of trade, whitli 
threw the workmen out of employment, and ren- 
dered the labi)rer unworthv of his hire. And it 
nmst be confessed that although the adopti«>n oJ 
the enlarged machinery, in that state of our com 
nierce which the country once boasted, might h.iv»' 
been beneficial to the mast«'r witho'at bting detri- 
mental to the servant; yet, in the presi-nt situation 
of our manufactures, rotting in warehouses, with- 
out a prospect of exportation, with the deu>and tor 
work and workmen equally diminished, frames ol 
this description tend materiallv to aggravate the 
distress and discontent of the ^sappointed sutfer- 
ers. But the real cause of these dislrtsses and cou 
seqiient disturl)ances lies dee|»er. When «e sn* 
fold that these men are le;igued topetht-r not v\.\y 
for the destrut'tion t)f their owr con»fort, but of their 
very means of sub^ititence, can we ferget that it is 
the bitter policy, the destructive warfare of the last 
eighteen years, which has destroyed their oontfoit, 
your comfort, alhnen's comfort ? That ' ' b. 

originating with "great sti.tesnuMi now > 

survived the ih-ad to become a curse > •; 

unto the third and fourth generation 1 I'lu -c uu t 
never destroyed their lo«un.s till they were Uvome 
useless, worsV than useless; till they were l»cc«me 
actual impediments to (heir exertions in obtuinii.g 
'(heir dailv bread. Can v<>n. then, wop«ler (h!»t in 
jtimes like" these. wh« > ' " ' .\, 

land imputed fehuiv ^r 

lieiieath that of voni v;h 

lonee most useful piulion ol ih< 
get their duty in their distress, ir 

less gtiilty (ban one of their rei>i- -■ t 

|whih" the e\.ilted olfender can find i «' 

tli.'liw, \\,'\\ capital punislunent-* tr-; i. 

of di<a(h njust be «pi > ■ I 

, wlio is f.imished int>' • n 

l ng to dig. but the , ft 

baiid». Ihey were not nshamed lo ln'U. U»tt liiert 
was none tii relieve them . (heir own uveans of sub 
Isisienco w«re cut 'uf, all other omplu)mouUi i»t« 



loao 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



occupied and their exceuses, however to be deploJred 
ind condemned, can hardly be subject of surprise. 

It has been stated that the persons in the tem- 
porary possession of frames connive at their de- 
struction ; if this be proved upon inquiry, it were 
Decessary that such material accessaries to the 
crime should be principrJs in the punishment. 
But I did hope, that any measure proposed by his 
majesty's government, for your lordship's decision, 
would have had conciliiition for its basis ; or, if 
that were hopeless, that some previous inquiry, 
some deliberation would have been deemed requi- 
site ; not that we should have been called at once 
•without examination, and without cause, to pass 
sentences by wholesale, and sign death-wan-ants 
Blindfold. But admitting that these men had no 
cause of complaint ; that the grievances of them 
ind their employers were alike groundless ; that 
they deserve the worst ; what inefficiency, what im- 
becility has been evinced in the nrethod chosen to 
-educe thein ! Why were the military called out to 
oe made a mockery of, if they were to be called out 
it all ? As far as the difference of seasons would 
permit, they have merely parodied the summer cam- 
paign of Major Sturgeon ; and, indeed, the whole 
proceedings, civil and military, seemed on the model 
of those of the Mayor and corporation of Garratt. 
— Such marchings and counte'rmarchings ! from 
Nottingham to BuUwell, from Bullwell to Banford, 
from Banford to Mansfield ! and when at length the 
detachments arrived at their -destinations, in all 
" the priclft, pomp, and circumstance of glorious 
war," they came just in time to witness the mischief 
which had been done, and ascertain the escape of 
the perpetrators, to collect the " spolia opima " in 
the fragments of broken frames, and return to their 
quarters amidst the derision of old women, and the 
hootings of children. Now, though in a free coun- 
try, it were to be wished that our military should 
never be too formidable, at least to ourselves, I can- 
not see the policy of placing them in situations 
where they can only be made ridiculous. As the 
sword is the Avorst argument that can be used, so 
should it be the last. In this instance it has been 
the first ; but providentially as yet only in the scab- 
bard. The present measure will, indeed, pluck it 
from the sheath ; yet had proper meetings been 
held in the earlier stages of these riots, — had the 
grievances of these men and their masters (for they 
also had their grievances) been fairly weighed ancl 
justly examined, I do think that means might have 
been devised to restore these workmen to their avo- 
cations, and tranquillity to the country. At present 
tiie country sxitfers from the doul)le infliction of an 
idle military, and a star-^ing population. In what 
state of apathy h.ive we been plunged so long, that 
now for the first time the House has been officially 
Apprized of these disturbances ! All this has been 
transacting within one hundred and thirty miles of 
i-iOndon, and yet we, " good easy men, have deemed 
full surely our greatness was a-ripening," and have 
sat down to enjoy our foreign triumphs in the midst 
i)f domestic calamity. But all the cities you have 
taken, all the armies which have retreated before 
your leaders, are but paltry subjects of self-congrat- 
ulation, if your land divides against itself, and your 
dragoons and your executioners must be let loose 
against your fellow-citizens.— You call these men a 
mob, desperate, dangerous, and ignorant ; and seem 
to thiok that the only way to quiet the «' Bellua 
multorum capitum " is' to lop otf a few of its super- 
fluous heads. But even a mob may be better re- 
duced to reason bv a mixture of conciliation and 
firmness, than by additional irritation and redoubled 
penalties. Are we aware of our obli}:^ations to a 
jiob ? It is the mob that labor in your fields, and 
#erve in your houses, — that man yoiar navy, and re- 
cruit your army, — that have enabled you to defy all 
the world, and can also defy you when nejjlect and 
calamity have driven them to despair. You may 
Tsll the yeople u mob ; but d * not forget, that a 



mob too often speaks the sentin^ent? of the people. 
And here I must remark, with what alacrity you avrt 
accustomed to fly to the succor of j.nr distressed 
allies, leaA'ing the distressed of your own country tc 
the care of Providence, or — the parish. When the 
Portuguese suffered under the retreat of th3 Fiensh, 
every arm was stretched out, every hand was opened, 
from the rich man's largess to the widow's mite, all 
v/as bestowed to enable them to rebuild their vil- 
lages and replenish their granaries. And at this mo 
ment, when thousands of misguided but most un 
fortunate fellow-countrymen are struggling with th« 
extremes of hardships and hunger, as your charity 
began abroad, it should end at home. A much lesi 
sum, a tithe of the bounty bestowed on Portugal, 
even if those men (which I cannot admit without 
inquiry) could not have been restored to their em- 
ployments, would have rendered unnecessary the 
tender mercies of the bayonet and the gibbfet. But 
doubtless our friends have too many foreign claims 
to admit a prospect of domestic relief; though 
never did such objects demand it. I have traversed 
the seat of war in the Peninsula, I have been in 
some of the most oppressed provinces of Turkey, 
but never under the most despotic of infidel govern- 
ments did I behold such squalid wretchedness as I 
have seen since my return in the very heart of a 
Christian country. And what are your remedies ? 
After months of inaction, and months of action 
worse than inactivity, at length comes forth the 
grand specific, the never-failing nostrum of all state 
physicians, from the days of Draco to the present 
time. After feeling the pulse and shaking the head 
over the patient, prescribing the usual course of 
warm water and bleeding, the warm water of your 
maukish police, and the lancets of your military, 
these convulsions must terminate in death, the sure 
consummation of the prescriptions of all political 
Sangrados. Setting aside the palpable injustice, 
and the certain inefficiency of the bill, are there not 
capital punishments sufficient in your statutes } Is 
there not blood enough upon your penal code, thai 
more must be poured forth to ascend to Heaven and 
testify against you ? How will you carry the bill 
into effect ? Can you commit a whole coimty to 
their own prison i Will you erect a gibbet in every 
field, and hang up men like scarecrows ? or will you 
proceed (as you must, to bring this measure into 
effect) by decimation ? place ths country under 
martial law } depopulate and lay waste all around 
you ? and restore Sherwood Forest as an acceptable 
gift to the crown, in its former condition of a royal 
chase and an asylum for outlaws ? Are these the 
remedies for a starving and desperate populace ? 
Will the famished wretch who has braved your bay- 
onets, be appalled by your gibbets ? When death ig 
a relief, and the only relief it appears that you will 
afford him, will he be dragooned into tranquillity ? 
Will that which could not be effected by your gren- 
adiers be accomplished by your executioneis ? li 
you proceed by the forms of law, where is your evi- 
dence ? Those who have refused to impeach theii 
accomplices, when transportation only was the pun- 
ishment, will hardly be tempted to witness againsi 
them when death is the penalty. With all due dr- 
ference to the noble lords opposite, I think a little 
investigation, some previous inijuiry, would induce 
even them to change their purpose. That most fa- 
vorite state measui'e, so marvellously efficacious in 
many and recent instances, temporizing, would not 
be without its advantages in this. When a froposaJ 
is made to emancipate or relieve, you hesitate, you 
deliberate for years, you temporize and tamper with 
the minds of men ; but a death-bill must be passed 
off hand, without a thought of the consequences 
Sure I am, from what I have heard, and from wnat 
I have seen, that to pass the Bill under all the ex- 
isting circumstances, without inquirv, without de- 
liberation, would only be to add injustice to ii-ritation, 
and barbarity to neglect. The framers of such a 
BID must be content to inherit the honors of that 



PARLIAMENTARY SPEECHES. 



103 



A.theniJixi lawgiver whose edicts were said to be 
•tnritten not in ink, but in blood. But suppose it 
past ; suppose one of these men, as I have seen 
them,— meagre with famine, sullen with despair, 
careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps 
about to value at something less than the price of a 
Btocking-frame — suppose this man, surrounded by 
the children for whom he is unable to procure brea^ 
at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for 
ever from a family which he lately supported in 
peaceful industry, and which it is not his fault that 
Ke can no longer so support — suppose this man, and 
'.here are ten the isand such from whom you may 
idect your victims, dragged into court, to be tried 
for this new otfence, by this new law ; still, there 
fcre two things wanting to convict and condemn 
him ; and these are, in my opinion, — twelve Butch- 
ers for a Jury, and a Jeffries for a Judge ! 



DEBATE ON THE EARL OF DONOUGHMORE'S 

MOTION FOR A COMMITTEE ON THE 

ROMAN CATHOLIC CLAIMS, 

APRIL 21, 1812. 

My Lords — The question before the House has 
been so frequently, fully, and ably discussed, and 
never perhaps more ably than on this night, that it 
would be dithcult to adduce new arguments for or 
against it. But with each discussion difficulties 
have been removed, objections have been canvassed 
and refuted, and some of the former opponents of 
Catholic Emancipation have at length conceded to 
the expediency of relieving the petitioners. In con- 
ceding thus rruch, however, a new objection is 
started ; it is not the time, say they, or it is an im- 

S roper time, or there is time enough yet. In some 
egree I concur with those who say it is not the time 
exactly ; that time is passed ; better had it been for 
the country, that the Catholics possessed at this 
moment their proportion of our privileges, that their 
nobles held their due weight in our councils, than 
that we should be assembled to discuss their claims. 
It had indeed been better 

" Non tempore tali 
C'o^re conciliiuin cum iiiurus obsiUit ho«lU." 

The 'enemy is without, and distress within. It is 
toe late to cavil en doctrinal points, when we must 
unite in defence of things more important than the 
mere ceremonies of religion. It is indeed singular, 
that we are called together to deliberate, not on the 
God we adore, for in that we are agreed ; not al)out 
tlie king we obey, for to him we are loyal ; but how 
far a dilference in the ceremonials of worship, how 
for believing not too little, but too much, (the worst 
that can be imputed to the Catholics,) how far 
too much devotion to their God, may incapacitate 
our fellow-subjects from etl'ectually serving their 
king. 

Much has been said, within and without doors, of 
Church and State, -ind altliough those venerable 
words have beei. oft* i prostituted to thoniDst di-spi.. 
cable of party pur^) sea, we cannot l)i'ar them tt)o 
often ; all, I jjresume, are the advocates of Cliurclj 
and State, the Church of Christ, and tlie Statu of 
Great Britain; but not a state of »'xclusion and 
despotism ; not an intoh-rant church ; not a chiircli 
mi'itunt, wliicli renders itsilf liable to the very ob- 
jection urged ag:iinst tlie Romish coti»uiuiiion, and 
!n a greater degree, for the Catholic merely with- 
holds its spiritual benediction, (and even that is 
doul)l"rul,) l)ut our church, or r-ither our elnirehmen, 
not only refuse to the Catholic tlieir Kpirilual graci', 
but all temporal blessings whutsoi'ver. It wan an 
observation of tlie great Lord reterborough. n '■ 
witliin the>c walls, or within the walls whr,. 
Lords then assembled, that he -vas for«"i' 
mentary king and a parliamentary constitution, 1 > 
not a parliamentary God, and a parliamentarv n 
ligioE " T^e interval of a enutury hu8 not weak- 



ened the force of the emark. It is indtpd tira; 
that we should leave c T these petty cavils oji friv- 
olous points, the*^* I,il iputian sophistries whet hel 
our " eggs are best broken at the bro'ad or narrow 
end." 

The opponents of the Cathohcs may be divided 
into two classes , those who assert that the Catho- 
lics have too much already, and those who allege 
that the lower orderr, at least, have nothing more 
to require. We are told by the former, that the 
Catholics never will be contented: by the latter, 
that they are already too happy. The last paradox 
is sufficiently reamed by the present, as by ;ill past 
petitions ; it might as well be said, that the negioci 
did not desire to be emancipated — but this is an un- 
fortunate comparison, for you have already delivered 
thein out of the house of bondage without any p li- 
tion on their part, but :r:u,r.7 from their ta-.kma •»- is 
to a contrary effect ; and for myself, when I con>idor 
this, I pity the Catholic peasantry for not ha^ iuR 
the good fortune to be born black. But the Catho 
lies are contented, or at least ought to be, as we are 
told : I shall therefore proceed to touch on a few ol 
those circumstances which so marvellously con- 
tribute to their exceeding contentment. They are 
not allowed the free exercise of their religion in the 
regular army ; the Catholic soldier cannot absent 
himself from the service of the Protestant clergy 
man, and, unless he is quartered in Irel.tnd, or in 
Spain, where can he find eligible opportunities ol 
attending his own? Ihe permission of Cuiiidic 
chaplains to the Irish militia regiments wa> i . u 
ceded as a special favor, and not till after ye.irs ot 
remonstrance, although an act, passed in lliili, 
established it as a right. But are the CathoHea 
properly protected in Ireland ? Can the church 
purchase a rood of land whereon to erect M^haptl ? 
No ; all the places of w<irship are built on Tt:!><('s ot 
trust or sufferance from the laity, easily J 

often betrayed. The moment any in. 
any casual caprice of the benevolent lai, s 

with oppostion, the doors are barred ugamst ihe 
congregation. This has happened continually, ^t 
in no instance more glaringly, than at the town ol 
Newtown Barry in the county of We.xtord. The 
Catholics, enjoying no ri^guhir chapel, as a tempo- 
rary expedient, hired two barns, which, lieing tin .\\ n 
into one, served for public worship. At iIun ;..:a- 
there was tiuartered opposite to the spot an it";, i r, 
whose mind appears to have been deeplv a;, n >! 
with those prejudices which the rrotestant i i; 
tions, now on the table, prove to ' ' 

nately eradicated I'rom the more : ! 

the n'eople ; and when the Catlioli 
on tlie Sabbath as usual, in m 1 

towards men, for the worship of I K 
they found the chapel door clos. ., J 

that if they did not immediately relir 
were told ttii.s by ii yeoman ortieer ujid a i 

the riot act should be rei.d, and the .i 
persed at tiie point of the bayo!iet I 'I 
plained of to the middle-man of i:«.x c 

secretary at the Castle in l!^ 
(in lieu of redress,) that hi 

be written to the eolon. 1 i. ... - , -i 

nuMirreneo of ttimilur I p«»n tin- \ t 

no very great streHs i 1; but if tMi.;- fi 

prove t'hat while the ( ' ■ i 

to punhase land for it •• 

laus l\ir its protection a 

time, the Cutholies are .it l 
ing, petty ofHeer," who ma\ 

taHtic tricks before high he.i^. ... .. -- -, 

and injure birt relluw-crcttturoB 



i:^ 



V, b.xdbov, any foot»M>y, (•«rh hnvi» hold 



tor tin- 
• lectu te 



1032 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



discrimination oi distinction between Catholic and 
Protestant. 

Have the Irish Catholics the full benefit of trial 
by jury ? They have not ; they never can have until 
they are permitted to share the privilege of serving 
as sV erifFs and uudersheriffs. Of this a striking ex- 
ample occurred at the last Enniskillen assizes. A 
yeoman was arraigned for the murder of a Catholic 
named Macvournagh : three respectable uncontra- 
dicted witnesses deposed that they saw the prisoner 
load, take aim, tire at, and kill the said Macvour- 
nagh. This was properly commented on by the 
jadge; but, to the astonishment of the bar, and 
uidignation of the court, the Protestant jury ac- 
quitted the accused. So glaring was the partiality, 
that Mr. Justice Osborne felt it his duty to bind 
over the acquitted, but not absolved assassin, in 
large recognizances, thus for a time taking away his 
license to kill Catholics. 

Are the very laws passed in their favor observed ? 
They a.e rendered nugatory in trivial as in serious 
cases. By a late act, Catholic chaplains are per- 
mitted in jaUs, but in Fermanagh county the grand 
jury lately persisted in presenting a suspended cler- 
gyman for the office, thereby evading the statute, 
notwithstanding the most pressing remonstrances 
of a most respectable magistrate, named Fletcher, 
to tlie contrary. Such is law, such is justice, for the 
taappy, free, contented Catholic! 

it has been asked in another place, why do not 
the rich Catholics endow foundations for the educa- 
tion of the priesthood } Why do you not permit 
them to do so ? Why are all such bequests subject 
^o the interfei'ence, the vexatious, arbitrary, pecu- 
lating interference of the Orange commissioners for 
haritable donations ? 

As t^Maynooth college, in no instance, except 
at the time of its foundation, when a noble Lord 
,'Camdeu), at the liead of the Irish administration, 
did appear to interest himself in its advancement ; 
and difi-ing the government of a noble Duke (Bed- 
ford), who, like his ancestors, has ever been the 
frif nd of freedom and mankind, and wlio has not so 
far adopted the selfish policy of the day as to ex- 
clude the Catholics from the number of his fellow- 
creatures ; with these exceptions, in no instance 
has that institution been properly encouraged. 
There was indeed a time when the Catholic clergy 
were conciliated, while the Union was pending, that 
Union which could not be carried without them, 
while their assistance was requisite in procuring 
addresses from the Catholic counties ; then they 
were cajoled and caressed, feared and flattered, and 
^iveu to understand that " the Union would do 
every thing ; " but, the moment it was passed, they 
were driven -back with contempt into their former 
obscurity. 

In the contempt pursued towards Maynooth col- 
lege, every thing is done to irritate and perplex — 
every thing is done to efface the slightest impres- 
sion of gratitude from the Catholic mind; the very 
hay made upon the lawn, the fat and tallow of the 
beef and mutton allowed, must be paid for and 
accounted upon oath. It is true, this economy in 
miniature cannot be sufficiently commended, par- 
ticularly at a time when only the insect defaulters 
of the treasury, your Hunts and your Chinnerys, 
when only these " gilded bugs " can escape the 
microscopic eje of ministers. But when you come 
forward session after session, as your paltry pittance 
is WTung from you with wrangling and reluctance, 
to boast of your 'lioerality, well might the Catholic 
exclaim, in the words of Prior, — 

" To John I owe some obligation, 
But John unluckily tliiiika fit 
To publish il to all the nation, 
So John and 1 ajn mere thun quit." 

Some persons have compared the Catholics to the 
t»eggar in Gil Bias. Who made them beggars ? 
'Vho are ejjciched with the spoils of their ances- 



tors ? And cannot you relieve the beggar wr.v;, 
your fathers have made him such ? If you are dia 
posed to relieve him at all, cannot you do it withou*. 
flinging your farthings in his face ? As a contrast, 
however, to this beggarly benevolence, let us look a 
the Protestant Charter Schools ; to them you hav« 
lately granted 41,000^. : thus are they supported, 
and hoAV are they recruited ? Montesquieu ob- 
serves, on the English constitution, that the model 
may be found in Tacitus, where the historian de- 
scribes the policy of the Germans, and adds, " this 
beautiful system was taken from the woods ; '' so 
in speaking of the charter schools, it may be ob- 
served, that this beautiful system was taken from 
the gipsies. These schools are recruited in the 
same manner as the Janizaries at the time of theii 
enrolment under Amurath, and the gipsies of the 
present day, with stolen children, wjth children 
decoyed and kidnapped from their Catholic con- 
nexions by their rich and pownful Protestant 
neighbors : this is notorious, and one instance may 
suffice to show in what manner. The sister of a 
Mr. Carthy (a Catholic gentleman of very con- 
siderable property) died, leaving two girls, who. 
were immediately marked out as proselytes, and 
conveyed to the charter school of Coolgreny. Their 
uncle, on being apprized of the fact, which took 
place during his absence, applied for the restitution 
of his nieces, offering to settle an independence on 
these relations ; his request was refused, and not 
till after five years' struggle, and the interference 
of very high authority, could this Catholic gentle- 
man obtain back his nearest of kindred from a 
charity charter school. In this manner are prose- 
lytes obtained, and mingled with the offspring .of 
such Protestants as may avail themselves of the 
institution. And how are they taught ? A cate- 
chism is put into their hands consisting of, I believe, 
forty-five pages, in which are three questions rela- 
tive to the Protestant religion ; one of these queries 
is, "Where was the Protestant religion before Lu- 
ther ? " Answer, " In the Gospel." The remaining 
forty-four pages and a half regard the damnable 
idolntry of Papists ! 

Allow me to ask our spiritual pastors and mas- 
ters, is this training up a child in the way which he 
should go ? Is this the religion of the Gospel ^etoia 
the time of Luther ? that religion which preaches 
" Peace on earth, and glory to God ? " Is it bring- 
ing up infants to be men or devils ? Better would 
it be to send them any where than teach them such 
doctrines ; better send them to those islands in the 
South Seas, where they might more humanely learn 
to become cannibals ; it would be less disgusting 
that they were brought up to devour the dead, than 
persecute the living. Schools, do you call them ? 
call them rather dunghills, where the viper of in- 
tolerance deposits her young, that, when their teeth 
are cut and their poison is mature, they may ia.sue 
forth, filthy and venomous, to sting the Catholic. 
But are these the doctrines of the Church of Eng- 
land, or of churchmen ? No ; the most enlightened 
churchmen are of a different opinion. What says 
Paley ? "I perceive no reason why men of differen 
religious persuasions, should not sit upon the same 
bencli, deliberate in the same council, or liglit in the 
same ranks, as well as men of various religious opin- 
ions, upon any controverted topic of natural history, 
philosophy, or ethics." It may be answered that 
Paley was not strictly orthodox ; I know nu thing oi 
his orthodoxy, but who will deny that he was an 
ornament tO the church, to human nature, to Clirist- 
ianity ? 

I shall not dwell upon the grievance of tithes, pa 
severely felt by the peasantry, but it may be proper 
to observe that there is an addition to the burden, 
a percentage to the gatherer, whose interest it thus 
becomes to rate them as highly as possifjle, and wfl 
know that in many large livings in Ireland, the only 
resident Protestants are the tithe-ptoutor and iuh 
family 



PARLTAMl^IvTAR^ SPEECHES. 



1CS3 



Amon^ many causes of irritation, too numerous 
I or recapitulation, there is one in the militia not to 
be pas.std over — I mean the existence of Orange 
lodges amongst the privates ; can the officers deny 
this ? And if such lodges do exist, do they, can 
they tend to promote harmony amongst the men, 
who are thus individually separated in society, al- 
tnough mingled in the ranks ? And is this general 
system of persecution to be permitted, or is it to be 
believed that with such a system the Catholics can 
or oi^ght to be contented? If they are, they belie 
human nature; they are then, indeed, unworthy to 
be any thing but the slaves you have made them. 
Trie facts stated are from most respectable authority, 
w I should not have dared in this place, or any 
pla^ ',, to hazard this avowal. If exaggerated, there 
a.TH plenty, as willing as I believe them to be unable, 
to disprove ^them. Should it be objected that I 
never was in'ireland, I beg leave to observe, that it 
Is as easy to know something of Ireland without 
having been there, as it appears with some to have 
been born, bred, and cherished there, and yet remain 
ignorant of its best interests. 

But there arc, wlto assert that the Catholics have 
already been Joo much indulged: see (cry they) 
what has been done : we have given them one entire 
college, we allow them food and raiment, the full 
enjoyment of the elements, and leave to fight for us 
as long as they have limbs and lives to otfer ; and 
yet they are never to be satisfied ! Generous and 
)ust dcclaimers ! To this, and to -this only, amount 
the whole of your arguments when stript of their 
sophistry. These personages remind me of the 
story of a certain drummer, who being called upon 
in the coiu-se of duty to administer punishment to 
a friend tied to the halberts, was requested to flog 
high, he did — to flog low, he did — to flog in the 
middle, he did — high, low, down the middle, and up 
fcgain, but all in vain, the patient continued his 
complaints with the most provoking pertinacity, 
until the drummer, exhausted and angry, flung down 
his scourge, exclaiming, '* the devil burn you, there's 
no phsasing you, flog v/here one will ! " Thus it is, 
you have flogged the Catholic, high, low, here, 
there, and every where, and then you wonder he is 
not pleased. It is true, that time, experience, and 
that weariness which attends even the exercise of 
barbarity, have taught you to flog a little m.r' 
gently, but still you continue to lay on the liisn, 
and will so continue, till perhai)s the rod may be 
wrested from your hands, and applied to the backs 
of yourselves and your posterity. * 

It was said by somebody in a fonner debate, (I 
forget by. whom, and am not very anxious to remem- 
ber,) if the Catholics are emancipated, why not the 
Jews ? If this sentiment was dictated by compas- 
sion for the Jews, it might deserve attention, but as 
a sneer against the Catholic, what is it but '.he lan- 
guage of Shy lock transferred from his daughter's 
ciurriage to (/atholic emancipation — 

" Would any ol the uibe of Bnrnlibiu 
miuulU Imve it rutber ibuii a Chriilfui," 

I { esume a Catholic is a Christian, even in the 
opii." Jii of him whose taste only can he culled in 
question for his preference of the Jews. 

It is a remark oflen quoted of Dr. Johnson, 
(whom I take to.be almost as good authority us tlio 
gentle apostle of inlMkianfe, Dr. Duigenan,) that 
he who could entertain serious appreheUHions of 
dang.^r to the Church in these times, WiUild have 
"cried fire in the d. luge." This is more than a 
metaphor, for a remnant of these anlediluviniH 
appear actually to liavc come down to us, with fire 
in tln'ir mouths and water in their braiuH, to disturb 
ttud per|dex mankind with their whimsical outcrieH, 
And as it is an inralliblo symptom of that di-ti. 
ling malady l»ilh which I nuueive them to 1" 
aicti-d, (so any doctor will inlorm your lord-ilii] 
foi the uuhujipy iuvalids to perceive u Hume ptr- 



p-^tv ally flashing before their eyes, particu^aiTy whet 
their eyv.-'s are shut, (as those of the persons to whonn 
I allude have long been,) it is impossible to con 
vince tl.e&e poor creatures, that the fire against 
which they are perpetually warning us and th<^- 
selves, is tithing but an ipiis fatuiis of their own 
drivelling imaginations. What rhubarb, senna, or 
" what purgative d.-ug can scour that fancy then' e ?'' 
It is impossible, they are given over, theirs is th« 
true 

*• Cap rt U-^aiutbUe nibui Anlicyrr." 

These are your true ^i "»testants. Like Bayle, who 
protested against all sects whatsoever, so do thc^ 
protest against Catholic p^ti.'^ions, Protestant mti- 
tions, all redress, all that reason, humaniiy, p« licy, 
justice, and common sense, can urge against lh« 
delusions of their absurd di Ur:um. These are the 
persons who reverse the fable of the mountain that 
brought forth a mouse ; they ar-^ the mice who con- 
ceive themselves in labor with mountains. 

To return to the Catholics, suppose the Irish 
were actually contented under their disabilities, 
suppose them capable of such a bull as not to desire 
deliverance, ought we not to wish it for ourselves ] 
Have we nothing to gain by their emancipation t 
What resources have been wasted ! What talents 
riave been lost by the selfish system of exclusion" 
You already know the value of Irish aid ; at this 
moment the defence of England is intrusted to the 
Irish militia: at this moment, while the starving 
people are rising in the fierceness of despair, the 
Irish are faithful to their trust. But till equal 
energy is imparted throughout by the cxtensioif oi 
freedom, you cannot enjoy the full benefit ut" the 
strength which you are glad to interpose between 
you and destruction. Irelanxi has dune much, but 
will do more. At this momant the only t;iumph 
ol)tained through long years of continental disaster 
has been achieved by an Irish gem ral ; it is true he 
is not a Catholic ; had he been so, we shouW havt 
been deprived of his exertions ; but I presume n" 
one will assert that his religion would have imp.iirid 
ihis talents or diminished his patrioti.sni, though io 
[that ease he miust have conquered in the ranks, fc: 
he never could have commanded an army. 
I But while he is fighting the battles of the Catho- 
lies abroad, his noi)le brother has this ni^lit advo- 
Icated their cause, with an eh>qnenoe whiih I -liall 
not depreciate by the humble tritiute of my pane- 
gyric, whilst a third of his kindnd, as uuhk.- a* 
unequal, has becm combating . against his C'atlioiio 
brethren in Dublin, witfi circul.ir letters. (<d..ts, pro- 
clamations, arrests, and dispersions. — ali the \exa- 
tious implements of petty warfare that could b« 
wielded iiy the mercenary gtierillas of irovcnHnetit, 
-dad in the rusty armor of t".. 
Your lordships will, doubth 

between the saviour of Portu i 

of delegates. It is singular. imie.U. to ob^eive lu« 
dillerence between our foreiurn and domestic policy; 
If CatlMdic Spain, faithful Portugal, or the no U-k* 
Catholic ami faithful king of the one Sicily, (ol 
whicli, by-t)ir-hy, yim have lately <!eprived l-im.) 
stand in II' ■ 
armv, an a 
fiuht nretty li 

and always to pay Vfry dearis loi om 1". 
But let lour millions of ^e'llow-snbjei t 
[relief, who liglit and pay and labor in v 
j thev nmst bo treated uh aliens, and alt I 
"father's hou^e has nui^v man iiirs." • 
Irestinu'-place lor tluMU. All- i 

;nol figbtii'.L,' lor the emuncip 

. Sev«'nth, who certainly is a i. . , . , 

I in all probability, a big"t; and have you tiioit> i# 

'.rjiul for a loriign novi-reign than your own fellow 

• fojJH, f«»r thry know jout 

'I Miow your own ; who ar« 

I Mil you good foi rvil; but 

who aiu iu wjrHu du-auvo ihau Iho pliMUi o( M 



1034 



BYRON'S WOKKh. 



usurper, iiiasmach as the fetters of the mind are 
more galling than those ol the body. 

(Jpon the consequences of your not acceding to 
t\e claims of the petitioners, I shall not expatiate ; 
you know them, you v/ill feel them, and your chil- 
dren's children when you are passed away. Adieu 
to that Union so called, as " Lucus a n07i lucendo,'^ 
a Union from never uniting, which, in its first 
operation, gave a death-blow to the independence of 
Ireland, and in its last may be the cause of her 
eternal separation from this country. If it must be 
called a Union, it is the union of the shark with 
his prey ; the spoiler swallows up his victim, and 
thus they become one and indivisible. Thus has 
Great Britain swallowed up the parliament, the 
constitution, the independence of Ireland, and re- 
fuse to disgorge even a single privilege, although 
for the relief of her swollen and distempered body 
politic. 

And now, my lords, before I sit down, will his 
Eiajesty's ministers permit me to say a few words, 
not on their merits, for that would be superfluous, 
but on the degree of estimation in which they are 
held by the people of these realms. The esteem in 
which they are held has been boasted of in a trium- 
phant tone on a late occasion within these walls, 
and a comparison instituted between their conduct, 
and that of noble lords on this side of the house. 

What portion of popularity may have fallen to 
the sh;;re of my noble friends, (if such I may pre- 
sume to call them,) I shall not pretend to ascer- 
tain ; but that of his majesty's ministers it were 
vain to deny. It is, to be sure, a little like the 
wind, "no one knows whence it cometh or whither 
it goeth," but they feel it, they enjoy it, they boast 
of it. Indeed, modest and unostentatious as they 
are, to what part of the kingdom, even the most 
remote, can they flee to avoid the triumph which 
pursues them r If they plunge into the midland 
counties, there they will be greeted by the manu- 
facturers, with spurned petitions in their hands, 
and those halters round their necks recently voted 
in their behalf, imploring blessings on the heads of 
those who so simply, yet ingeniously contrived to 
remove them from their miseries in this to a better 
world. If they journey on to Scotland, from Glas- 
glow to Johnny Groat's, every where will they re- 
ceive similar marks of approbation. If they take a 
trip from Portpatri-ck to Donaghadee, there will 
they rush at once into the embraces of four Catholic 
millions, to whom their vote of this night is about 
to endear them for ever. When they return to the 
metropolis, if they can pass under Temple Bar with- 
out unpleasant sensations at the sight of the greedy 
niches over that ominous gateway, they cannot 
escape the acclamations of the livery, and the more 
trem.ulous, but not less sincere, applause, the bless- 
ings "not loud but deep" of bankrupt merchants 
and doubting stockholders. If they look to the 
army, what wreaths, not of laurel, but of night- 
shade, are preparing for the heroes of Walcheren ! 
It is true there are few living deponents left to tes- 
tify to their merits on that occasion ; but a " cloud 
of witnesses" are gone above from that gallant army 
which they so generously and piously despatched, to 
recruit the " noble army of martyrs." 

What if, in the course of this triumphal career, 
(in which they will gather as many pebbles as Ca- 
ligula's army did on a Similar triumph, the proto- 
type of tlieir own,) they do not perceive any of those 
memorials which a grateful people erect in honor of 
their benefactors ; what although not even a sign- 
post will condescend to depose the Saracen's head 
m favor of the likeness of the conquerors of Wal- 
i;heren, they will not want a picture who can always 
have a caricature ; or regret the omission of a statue 
who will so often see themselves exalted in effigy. 
Bv t their popularity is not limited to the narrow 
bounds of an island ; there are other countries where 
tlieir measures, and, above all, their cond^uct to the 
Catholics, must render them preeminently popular. 



If they are beloved here, in France they must bt 
adored. There is no measure more repugnant t" 
the designs a.nd feelings of Bonaparte than Catholic 
emancipation ; no line of conduct more propitious 
to his projects, than that which has been pursued, 
is pursuing, and, I fear, ^^^lli be pursued towuirds Ire- 
land. What is England without Ireland, and what 
is Ireland without the Catholics } It is on the basis 
of your tyranny Napoleon hopes to bhild his own. 
So grateful must oppression of the Catholics be to 
his mind, that doubtless (as he has lately permitted 
some renewal of intercourse) the next ct^rtel will 
convey to this country cargoes of Sevres china and 
blue ribands, (things in great request, and of equal 
value at this moment,) blue ribands of the legioE. 
of honor for Dr. Duigenan and his ministerial dis- 
ciples. Such is that well-earned popularity, the re- 
sult of those extraordinary expeditions, so expen- 
sive to ourselves, and so useless to our allies ; ol 
those singular inqumes, so exculpatory to the ac- 
cused and so dissatisfactory to the people ; of those 
paradoxical victories, so honorable, as we are told, to 
the British name, and so destructive to the best inter- 
ests of the British. nation ; above all, such is there- 
ward of a conduct piursued by ministers towards the 
Catholics. 

I have to apologize to the House, who will, 1 
trust, pardon one, not often in the habit of intrud 
ing upon their indulgence, for so long attempting 
to engage their attention. My most decided opin 
ion is, as my vote will be, in favor of the motion 



DEBATE Qt^ MAJOR CARTWRIGHT 8 PETITION 
JUNE 1, 1813. 

My Lords — The petition which I now hold for 
the purpose of presenting to the House, is one 
which I humbly conceive requires the particular at- 
tention of your lordships, inasmuch as, though 
signed but by a single individual, it contains state- 
ments which (if not disproved) demand most seri- 
ous investigation. The grievance of which the 
petitioner complains is neither selfish nor imaginary. 
It is not his own only, for it has been, and is still 
felt by numbers. No one without these walls, nor 
indeed within, but may to-morrow be made liable to 
the same insult and obstruction, in the discharge of 
an imperious duty for the restoration of the true 
constitution of these realms by petitioning for re- 
form in parliament. The petitioner, my Lords, is 
a man whose long I^fe has been spent in one unceas- 
ing struggle for the liberty of the subject, against 
that undue influence which "has increased, is in- 
creasing, and ought to be diminished ; " and, what- 
ever diflerence of opinion rnay exist as to his politi- 
cal tenets, few will be found to question the ir.tegri 
ty of his intentions. Even now, oppressed with 
years, and nut exempt from the iuflrmities attendant 
on his age, but still unimpaired in talent, and un- 
shaken in spirit — '■^franyas non fie.ctts " — he has 
received many a. wound in the combat against cor- 
ruption ; and the new grievance, the fresh insult of 
which he complains, may inflict another scar, but no 
dishonor." The petition is signed by John Cart- 
wright, and it was in behalf of the people and par- 
liament, in the lawful pursuit of that reform in the 
representation which is the best service to be ren- 
dered both to parliament and people, that he en- 
countered the wanton outrage which forms the 
subject matter of his petition to your lordships. It 
is couched in firm, yet respectful" language — in the 
language of a man, not regardless of what is due 
to himself, but at the same time, I trust, equally 
mindful of the deference to be paid to this House. 
The gpetitioner states, among other matter of equal, 
if not greater importance, to all who are British in 
their feelings, as well as blood and birth, that on the 
21st of January, 1813, at Hudderbfielu#himself and 
six other persons, who, on hearing of his arrival,- 
had waited on him merely as a testimony of respect 



A FRAGMENT. 



035 



Keie seized by a military and civil force, and kept' 
In clo^e custody for several hours, subjected to gross i 
fcnd abusive insinuations from the commanding otfi- i 
cer relative to the character of the petitioner ; that j 
he (the petitioner) was finally carried before a mag- 
istrate ; and not released till an examination of his 
papers proved that there was not only no just, but] 
not even statutable charge against him ; and that, j 
notwithstanding the- promise and order from the 
presiding magistrates of a copy of the warrant 
against your petitioner, it was afterwards withheld 
on divers pretexts, and has never uutil this hour 
been granted. The names and condition of the 
parties will be found in the petition. To the other 
topics touched upon in the petition, I shall not now 
advert, froui a wish not to encroach upon the time 
of the House ; but I do most sincerely call the at- 
tention of your lordships to its general contents — it 
is in the cause of the parliament and people that 
the rights of this venerable freeman have been vio- 
lated, and it is, in my opinion, the highest mark of 
respect that could be paid to the House, that to 
your justice, rather than by appeal to any inferior 
court, he now commits himself. Whatever m.ay be 
the fate of his remonstrance, it is some satisfaction 
to me, though mixed with regret for the occasion, 
that I have this opportunity of publicly stating the 
obstruction to which the subject is liable, in the 
prosecution of the most lawful and imperious of his 
duties the obtaining by petition ret'orm in parlia- 
naent. J have shortly stated his complaint ; the 



petitioner has more fully expressed it. "Yo »j lonl 
ships will, I hope, adopt some measiure fully to pro 
tect and redre.s.s nim, and not him alone, but the 
whole body of the people insulted Jiud aggrieved 
in his person by the interposition of an abused 
civil, and unlawful military force, between them 
and their right of petition to their own represen 
tatives. 

His lordship then presented the petition from 
Major Cartwright, which was read, complaining oi 
me circumstances at Huddcrsfield, and of interrup- 
tions given to the right of petitioning, in several 
places in tiie northern parts of the kingdcm, and 
which bis lordship moved should be laid on the 
table. 

Several Lords having spoken on the questiou, 

LORD BYRON replied, that he had, from mo 
tives of duty, presented this petition to their lord- 
sliips' consideration. The noble Earl had contend- 
ed that it was not a petition but a speech ; and 
tliat, as it contained no prayer, it .should not be re- 
ceived. What was the necessity of a prayer ? H 
that word were to be used in its proper sense, their 
lordships could not expect that any man should 
pray to others. He had only to say "that the peti- 
tion, though in some parts expressed strongly per- 
haps, did not contain any improper mode of aildi ess, 
but was couched in respectful language to»;irds 
their lordships ; he should therefore trust their lard 
ships would allow the petition to be received 



A FRAGMENT, 



June 17, 1816. 

In the year 17 — , having for some time deter- 
mined on a journey through countries not hitherto 
much fretiuented by travollers, I set out, acoiii])a- 
nied by a friend whom I shall designate by the name 
of Augustus Darvell. He was a few years my elder, 
and a man of considerable fortune and ancient 
fainil} — advantages which an exteu.sive capacity 
prevented him alike from und((rvaluing or over- 
rating. Some peculiar circumstances in his private 
history had rendered him to mo an object of atten- 
tion, of interest, and even of regard, which m-ithi-r 
the reserve of his manners, nor occasional indica- 
tions of an inciuietude at times nearly approaching 
to alienation of mind, could extinguish. 

I was yet young in life, which 1 had begun early ; 
but my intimacy with him was of a recent d;ite: we 
had been educated at tiie same schools and univer- 
■ity; but liis i)r()gress through these had preceded 
miTie, and he had been deeply initiated into what is 
called the world, while I was yet in my novieiate, 
While tluu engaged, I had heard much both of hJH 
past and present life; and, although in thcHo 
Recounts there were many and irreconcilable con- 
tradictions, I could still gather from the whole that 
he was a being of no common order, and one who, 
whatever pains he miglit take to av(»id remark, 
would still be remarkable. I had eultivuted his 
ftcciuaintiince Hu])se(piently, and endeavoved to ob- 
Viin his friendship, but thin last appeared to be 
unattainable; whatever atleetions he might hav.' 
possessed seemed now, Hyme to have boon extin- 
iruished and others to bo concentred: that hia 



I feelings were acute, I had sufficient opportJinilie* 
I of (^b.serving; for, although he could control, he 
j could not altogether disguise tht ni : still he had a 
I power of giving to one passion tlu' uppearanee ol 
i another in such a manner that it was iitheiilt to 
: define the nature of what was working w.tbiu him; 
laud the expressions of liis features wmildvuy ^o 
'rapidly, though slightly, that it was useless to ti.we 
them to their sources. It was evident that he was 
a prey to some cureless disipiiet ; but whether it 
arose from ambition, love, remorse, grief, fi'«)m one 
or all of these, or merely fr«Mn a morbid tempera- 
ment akin to diseiise, I could not dis.o\er tlu re 
were eircnmst.inees allegi'd wlinh might b tvr i.. ti- 
ried the application to each of thcHc « ', 

as I have before said, these were so v> v 

and contradicted, that none could 1m' : , u 

with nceura<'V. Where there ih invNtery. it ^^ k< ne 
rally Hupi)osod that there must kIVo ho fvU • I know 
not how this may be, but in 1 * 

the one, though 1 could not ' 

the olber — and felt loth, us i. 
to believe in its existence. M> -«l^ 
received with sulHciiMit e«»ldno»« ; but 1 

and not easily di"' '• ■' ■■■ ' ■' '■ " ' 

in olttainin'.;, to i 

intercourse uid n. * 

ievery-d »y coneerns . i. 

I laritv of pMi --uit and i ' 

is (ulhMl intnn.MV. " 
.(It. IS of turn wh" 
I Darvell had mI 
'him 1 had applnu lui .,.,-•....«.. ^ m. 'J 



1036 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the conduct of my intended journey. It was my 
lec) et wish that he might be prevailed on to accom- 
pany me : it was also a probable hope, founded upon 
the shadowy restlessness which I had observed in 
him, and to which the animation which he appeared 
to feel on such subjects, and his apparent indiffer- 
ence to all by which he was more immediately sur- 
rounded, gave fresh strength. This wish I first 
hinted; and then expressed : his answer, though I 
had partly expected it, gave me all the pleasure of 
surprise — he consented ; and, after the requisite ar- 
rangements, we commenced our voyages. After 
journeying through various countries of the south 
of Europe, our attention was turned towards the 
east, according to our original destination ; and it 
was in my progress though those regions that .the 
mcident occurred upon which will turn what I may 
Have to relate. 

The constitution of Darvell, which must, from 
his appearance, have been in early life more than 
usually robust, had been for some time gradually 
giving' way, without the intervention of any appa- 
rent disease : he had neither cough nor hectic, yet 
he became daily more enfeebled ; his habits were 
temperate, and he neither declined nor complained 
of fatigue, yet he was evidently wasting away ; he 
became more and more silent and sleepless, and at 
lengfh so seriously altered, that my alarm grew 
proportionate to what I conceived to be his danger. 

We had determined, on our arrival at Smyrna, on 
an excursion to the ruins of Ephesus and Sardis, 
from which I endeavored to dissuade him, in his 
present state of indisposition — but in vain : there 
appeared to be an oppression on his mind, and a 
solenmity in his manner, which ill corresponded 
with his eagerness to proceed on what I regarded as 
a mere party of pleasure, little suited to a valetudi- 
narean ; but I opposed him no longer — and in a few 
days we set off together, accompanied only by a 
jerrugee and a single janizary. 

We had passed half-way towards the remains of 
Ephesus, leaving behind us the more ferftle environs 
of Smyrna, and were entering upon that Avild and 
tenantless track through the marshes and defiles 
which lead to the few huts yet lingering over the 
broken columns of Diana — the roofless walls of 
expelled Christianity, and the still more recent but 
complete desolation of abandoned mosques — when 
the sudden and rapid illness of my companion obliged 
us to halt at a Turkish cemetery, the turbaned 
tom.bstones of which were the sole indication that 
human life had ever been a sojourner in this wilder- 
ness. The only caravansera we had seen was left 
Bome hours behind us ; not a vestige of a town or 
even a cottage, was within sight or hope, and this 
*' city of the dead " appeared to be the sole refuge 
for my unfortunate friend, who seemed on the verge 
of becoming the last of its inhabitants. 

In this situation, I looked round for a place where 
he might most conveniently repose : — contrary to 
the usual aspect of Mahometan burial grounds, the 
cypresses were in this few in number, and these 
thinly scattered over its extent: the tombstones 
were mostly fallen, and worn with age : upon one 
of the most considerable of these, and beneath one 
of the most spreading trees, Darvell supported 
himself, in a half-reclining posture, with great dif- 
ficulty, lie asked for water. I had some doubts of 
our being able to find any, and prepared to go in 
search of it with hesitating despondency — but he 
desired me to remain : and, turning to Suleiman, 
our janizary, who stood by us smoking with great 
tranquillity, he said, "Suleiman, verbana su," (i. e. 
bring souie water,) and went on describing the spot 
where it was to be found with great minuteness, at 
a small well for camels, a few hundred yards to the 
ria;ht : the janizary obeyed. I said' to Darvell, 
"How did you know this ? " — He replied, " From 
our situation : you must perceive that this place 
leas once inhabited, and could not have been so 
v^th Jiit springs ; I have also been, here before." 



"You have been here 1)61016! — H:w came jcn 
never to mention this to me ? and w hat could yo« 
be doing in a place where no one would remain « 
moment longer than they could help "t ? " 

To this question I received no answer. In the 
mean time, Suleiman returned with the water, 
leaving the serrugee and the horses at the fountain. 
The quenching of his thirst had the appearance o{ 
reviving him for a moment ; and I conceived hopes 
of his being able to proceea, or at least to return, 
and I urged the attempt. He was silent — and 
appeared to be collecting his spirits **»r an effort to 
speak. He began. — 

" This is the end of my journey, and of my life— 
I came here to die: but I have a request to make, « 
command — for such my last words must be.- -You 
will observe it ? " 

" Most certainly ; but have better hopes.' 

" I have no hopes nor wishes, but this— conceal 
my death from every human being." 

" I hope there will be no occasion; that you will 
recover, and " 

" Peace ! it must be so : promise this." 

"I do." 

" Swear it by all that " He her.; dictated an 

oath of great solemnity. 

" There is no occasion for this — I will observe 
your request; and to doubt me is " 

" It cannot be helped, you must swear." 

I took the oath ; it appeared to relieve him. He 
removed a seal-ring from his finger, on which were 
seme Arabic characters, and preserted it to me. 
He proceeded — 

" On the ninth day of the m^mth, at noon pre- 
cisely, (what month you please, but this must be 
the day,) you must fling this Hng into the salt 
springs which run into the Bay of Eleusis : the da\ 
after, at the "same hour, you must repair to the 
ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wait one hour " 

" Why .? " 

" You will see." 

" The ninth day of the month, ^o\^ say ? " 

" The ninth." 

As I observed that the present was the ninth dai 
of the month, his countenance changed, and he 
paused. As he sate, evidently becuminst more 
j'eeble, a stork, with a snake in her bc-^k, perched 
upon a tombstone near us ; and, without devourmi.- 
her prey, appeared to be steadfastly regitrding us 
I know "not what impelled me to drive it iway, but 
the attempt was useless ; she made a few circles in 
the air, and returned exactly to the same spot. 
Darvell pointed to it, and smiled : he spoke — 1 
know not whether to himself or to me — but the 
words were only, " 'Tis well ! " 

" What is well ? what do you mean ? " 

" No matter : you must bury me here this eve« 
ning, and exactly where that bird is now perched. 
You know the rest of my injimctions." 

He then proceeded to give me several directions 
as to the manner in which his death might be best 
concealed. After these were finished, he exclaimed, 
" You perceive that bird ? " 

" Certainly." 

" And the serpent writhing in her beak ? " _ 

•' Doubtless : there is nothing uncommon in it . 
it is her natural prey. But it is odd that she does 
not devour it." 

He smiled in a ghastly manner, and sjiid, faintly, 
" It is not yet time ! " As ha spoke, the stork flew 
away. My eyes followed it for a moment ; it could 
haidlv be longer than ten might be counted. I felt 
Darvell's weight, as it were, increase upon my 
shoulder, and, turning to look upon his face, per- 
ceived that he was dead ! 

I was shocked with the sudJen certainty which 
could not be mistaken — his countenance in a few 
minutes became nearly black. I should have at 
tributed so rapid a change to poison, hud J r..&t been 
aware that he had no opportunity of r.^e\»'rr ^t 
unperceived. The day was declining, the LK<iT w<« 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON ?OPE. 1037 

•apidly altering, and nothing remained but to fulfill all that remained of the singular being bo latelj 
his request. With the aid of Suleiman's ataghan 'departed, we cut a fev sods of greener turf troit 
and nay ov,n sabre, we scooped a shallow grave upon the less withered sou ti-ound us, and laid them 



the spot which Darvell had indicated: the earth 
easily gave way, having already received some Ma- 
hometan tenant. We dug as deeply as the time 
DerioitteA us, and throwing the dry earth upon 



upon his sepulchre. 

Between astonishment and grief, I was tearleM. 



LETTER TO JOHN MURUAY 

ON IHE REV. W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON THE LIFE AND 

WRITINGS OF POPE. 



" I'll play at BoaiUt with the «un aod moon." 

OLD SONG. 
" My mither 'i aiild, lir, and she haa rather tbr^tlen hTiell In 
•peaking to my Leddy, that cannii we< 1 bide to l« contrailickit, (ai 
1 ken naebody likes it il th'-y coulil h>-lp theiiwlls.l" 

TALh:S OF MY LANDLORD, CM MorUHl^, 



Ravenna, February 7, 1821. 

Ueab Sir, 

In the different pamphlets which you have had 
the goodness to send me, on the Pope and Bowles' 
controversy, I perceive that my name is occasionally 
introduced by both parties. Mr. IJowles refers more 
than once to what he is pleased to consider " a 
remarkable circumstance," not only in his letter to 
Mr. Campbell, but in his reply to the Quarterly 
The Quarterly also and Mr. Gilchrist have conferred 
on me the dangerous honor of a quotation ; and 
Mr. Bowles indirectly makes a kind of appeal to 
me personally, by saying, "Lord Byron, // /te 
retnembers the circumstance, will iPitncss—( witness 
IN ITALIC, an ominous character for a testimony at 
present.)* . . , „ 

I shall not avail myself of a " non mi ricordo 
even after so long a residence in Italy ;— I do " re- 
member the circumstance "—and have no reluctance 
to relate it (since called upon so to do) as correctly 
as the distance of time and the impression of in- 
te-^ening events will permit me. In the year 1»1^, 
more than three years after the pubhcatitm ot 
" English Bards aiid Scotch Ile^^ewers,• I had the 
nonor of meeting Mr. Bowles in the house of our 
venerable host of "Human Life, ftf- the last 
A^igonaut of classic English poetry, and the Nes or 
of our inferior race of living poets. Mr. Jiowles 
calls this "soon after" the publication ; but to ine 
three years appear a consideral)le segment o! the 
immortalilv of a modern poem. I recollect nothjug 
of ." the rest of the comoany going into another 
room "-nor, though I w.>a rente.nber the topogra- 
phy «f our host's elegant and classically-furnish..d 
mansion, could 1 swear to the very ro.,ni where 
the conversatior occurred, though the t k ing 
down the poem" seerati to fix it in th(> h >n y 
Had it b.en " taken up," it would probal. y have 
£cn in the drawi.ig-room. preHume also that tlio 
"remarkable circumstance" ttu.k if «[« 5^. nnli ?•" 
ner, as 1 concei ve that neither Mr. Uowles s pol itc- 

• H« a iHi to MuJ.«chJ, aa4i ih. other luOkn wllneMt ofi «h. uUl <rf 



ness nor appetite would have allowed him to detain 
"the rest of the company" standing round theii 
chairs in the " other room " while wp wok- di-*'"!*"- 
sing " the Woods of Madeira" inst I • • _, 

its vintage. Of Mr. Bowles's ■ 1 

have a full and not ungrateful iid i 

of his gentlemanly manners and ugutai.K- luu 
versation. I speak of the ic/iofc, and not o( 
particulars; for whether he did or did not ii-c the 
precise words j)rinted in the paniplilit. I >i' i. t 
say, nor could he with acctiraoy. Of 'Mho f • . .>l 
seriousness" I certainly rci 

contrary, I thought Mr. Bnw • 

treat the subji-ct liKhfly ; t ' 

objection to be rontradietetl it" iim>iii. t) llutl aouio 
of his good-natured friends had i-omc t<» him and 
exclaimed, "Eh! Bowles! how eanie vnu to make 
the WotMls of Madeira," etc., etc., unt\ that h«' had 
lieen at some pains and pullini; fb»wn (»f th.« |» '^mi 
to convime tnein that he " •' 

Woods" do any thing of i' 

!ind / was irm;w, and have >• 

this acknowledgment; for I t>iik;lil t.< h.4*i I. ...kid 
twice before I wn»te that which invt)lvrd *a ii'a«- 
curacy capable of giving pain. Thi- f- ? " - ' - >♦ 
.ilthough I had certainly hrtore read " ' 
Discovery," 1 toek r)\r qitntntinn fr<Mii 
itut the "mistak. 

which (juotcd ' 

believe. I blun 

tril)uting the tremoni ul Iho lo\« ■ * 

t)f Madeira," bv which they were i 

I hereby do fulh ' '" '■ ' ' '' ••"■• ••— 

that the ^Vood^ - a kiM, *nd that 

the lovers did. i "n 



And if I had been Rwnrc that thin deo1nr»tion woul4 
have been in the mu allesi ,l.«iee v,,ti^f >. t..n- to Mr 
Ib.wlen. I 'J 

make it. n ^ 

Scotch Ue>. I ". >- ." • ....-••i-.i u- ^ 



1038 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



previously to my meeting him at Mr. Rogers's.' 
Our worthy hst might indeed have told hiui as 
much, as it was at his representation that I sup- 
pressed it. A new edition of that lampoon was 
preparing for the press, when Mr. Rogers rep- 
resented to me, that " I was noio acquainted with 
many of the persons mentioned in it, and with some 
on terms of intimacy;" and that he knew "one 
family in particular to whom its suppression would 
give pleasure." I did not hesitate one moment ; it 
was cancelled instantly ; and it is no fault of mine 
that it has ever heen republished. When I left 
England, in April, 1816, with no very violent inten- 
tions of troubling that country again, and amidst 
scenes of varioxis kinds to distract my attention — 
abnost my last act, I believe, v.as to sign a pov,'er 
cf attoraey, to yourself, to prevent or sxippress any 
attempts (of which several had been made in Ire- 
laud) at a republication. It is proper that I should 
state, that the persons with whom I was subse- 
quently acquainted, whose names had occurred in 
that publication, were made my acquaintances at 
their own desire, or through the unsougJvt interven- 
tion of others. I never, to the best of my know- 
ledge, sought a personal introduction to any. Some 
of them to this day I know only by correspondence ; 
and v/ith one of those it was begun by myself, in 
consequence, however, of a polite verbal com- 
munication from a third person. 

I have dwelt for an instant on these circum- 
Btances because it has sometimes been made o 
subject of bitter reproach to me to have endeavored 
to suppress that satire. I never shrunk, as those 
who know me know from any personal consequences 
which could be attached to its puljlicatinn. Of its 
subsequent suppression, as I possessed the copy- 
right, I was the oest judge and tftc sole master. 
The circumstances which occasioned the suppres- 
sion I have now stated-; of the motives, each must 
judge according to his candor or malignity. Mr. 
Bowles does me the honor to talk of " noble mind," 
and "generous magnanimity ; " and all this because 
" the circumstance would have been explained had 
not the book been suppressed." I see no "nobility 
of mind " in an act of simple justice ; and I hate tl V 
word '^ ma.f/najiimity," because I have sometimes 
seen it appUcd^to the grossest of impostors by the 
greatest of fools ; but I would have " explained the 
circumstance." notwithstanding "the suppression 
of the book," if Mr. Bowles had expressed any 
desire that I should. As the "gallant Galbraith '' 
Bays to " Baillie Jarvie," " W- 11, the devil take the 
mistake and all that occasiored it." I have had as 
great and greater mistakfi made about me per- 
sonally and poetically, onr- j month for these last 
ten years, iind never cared /ery much about correct- 
ing one or the other, at least after the first eight- 
ai.d-forty hours had gone OA-er them. 

I must now, hov ,\er, say a word or two about 
Pope, of whom you have my opinion more at large 
in the unpublishcl letter 07i or to (for I forget 
w-hich) the editor of " Blackwood's Edinburgh Mag- 
azine ; "—and here I doubt that Mr. Bowles will not 
approve of my sentiments. 

AlthcugV I regret having published "English 
Bards an-^ Scotch Reviewers," the part which 1 
regret thd .east is that which regards Mr. Bowles 
with n- e.ence to Pope. Whilst I was \vriting that 
puldic-ition, in 1807 and 1808, Mr. Hobhouse was 
desirous that I should express our mutual opinion 
of Tope, and of Mr. Bowles's edition of his works. 
A' 1 had completed my outline, and felt lazy, I re- 
r jested that he would do so. He did it. His four- 
teen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edition 
of " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers ; " and 
ire quite as severe and much more poetical than my 
own in the second. On reprinting the work, as I 
put my name to it, I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's lines, 



since I have read that poem; but the Quarterl) 
Review, Mr. OctaA^us Gilchrist, ar.d Mr. Bowle< 
himself, have been so obliging as to refresh mj 
memory, and that of the public. 1 am grieved to 
say, that in reading over those lines, I repent oi 
their haviiig so far fallen short of what I meant to 
express upon the subject of Bowles's edition o\ 
Pope's Works. Mr. Bowles says. that "Lord By- 
ron knows he does iiot deserve this character." 1 
know no such thing. I have met Mr. Bowles occa- 
sionally, in the best society in London ; he appeared 
to me an amiable, well-informed, and extremely al l' 
man. I desire nothing better than to dine in com 
pany with such a mannered man every, day in the 
week : but of " his character " I know nothing per- 
sonally ; I can only speak of his manners, and these 
have my warmest approbation. But I never judge 
from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by 
the civilest gentleman I ever met with ; and one ol 
the mildest persons I ever saw was Aii Pacha. 01 
Mr. Bowles's '■'■character" I will not do him the 
h'Justice to judge from the edition of Pope, if he 
prepared it heedlessly ; nor the justice, should it ba 
otherwise, because I would neither become a literarj- 
executioner, nor a personal one. Mr. Bowles the 
individual, and Mr. Bowles the editor, appear the 
two most opposite things imaginable. 

" And he himself one ■■ antithesis." 

I won't say "vile," because it is harsh ; nor "mis- 
taken," because it has two syllables too many ; but 
every one must fill up the blank as he pleases. 

What I saw of Mr. Bowles increased my surprise 
and regret that he snoald evor have lent his talents 
to such a task. If he had been a fool, there would 
have been some excuse for him ; if he had been a 
needy or a bad man, his conduct would have been 
intelligible; but he is the opposite of all these; and 
thinking and feeling as I do of Pope, to me the 
whole thing is unaccountable. However, I must 
call things by their right names. I cannot call his 
edition of Pope a " candid" work ; and I still think 
that there is an affectation of that quality not only 
in those volumes, but in the pamphlets lately pub 
libhed. 

" Why yet he doth deny his prisoners." 

Mr. Bowles says, that "he has seen passage* m 
his letters to Martha Blount, which were never pub- 
lished by me, and I hope never will, be by others ; 
which are so gross as to imply the grossest licen- 
tiousness." Is this fair play ? It may, or it may 
not be, that such passages exist ; and that Pope, 
who was not a monk, although a Catholic, may have 
occasionally sinnt^d in word and in deed with woman 
in his youth ; hut is this a sufficient ground for such 
a sweeping denunciation ? Where i,-; the unmarried 
Englishman of a certain rank of life, who (provided 
he has nut taken orders) has not to reproach him- 
self between the ages of sixteen and thirty with far 
more licentiousness than has ever yet been traced 
to Pope ? Pope lived in the public eye from his 
youth upwards ; he had all the dunces of his own 
time for his enemies, and, I am sorry to say, some 
who have not the apology of duluess for detraction, 
since his death ; and yet to what do all their accu* 
mulated hints and charges amount ; — to an eqtivO' 
cal liaison with Martha Blount, which might arise 
as much from his infirmities as from his passions; 
to a hopeless flirtation with Lady Mary W. Mon- 
tagu ; to a story of Gibber's ; and to two or three 
coarse passages in his works. Who coxild come 
forth clearer from an invidious inquest on a life .i 
fifty-six years ? Why are we to be officiously re- 
minded of such passages in his letters, provided 
that they exist ? Is Mr. Bowles aware to what 
such rummaging among "letters" and "stories" 
might lead ? I have myself seen a collection cf let- 



and replaced them with my own, by which the work j ters of another eminent, nay, preeminent, deceased 
gained less than Mr. Bowles. I have stated this in poet, so abominably gross, and elaborately coarse, 
the preface to the aecnd edition. It is many years! that I do not believe that they could be paralleled 



LETTEK TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. lOfj 

in our language. AVha, is more strange, is, that, sulated fact, as fanatics or hypocrites, perhtps botti 
some of these are couched as ^ws^'.ycr/;)^* to his seri-. The two are sometimes compounded in a happj 
ous and sentimental letters, to which are tacked mixture, 

either a piece of prose, or some verses, of the most Mr. Octavius Gilchriot speaks rather irreverently 
hyperbolical indecency. He himself says that if of a ** second tumbler of hot white-wine negus, 
"obscenity (us:ug a much courser word) be the sin What does he mean ? Is tliere any harm in ne^jual 
against the Holy Ghost, he most certainly cmnot'or is it the worse for bein«? hot? or does Mr. Bowlee 
oe saved." These letters are in existence, and have drink negus? I had a better opinion of him. I 
been seen by many besides myself; lyit would his | hoped that whatever wine he drank was neat ; or at 
editor have been " cayjcZ/n? " in even alluding to least that, like the ordinary in Jonathan Wild, " he 
them? Nothing would have even provoked' ?He, an j preferred punch, the rather as there was nothing 
mdiffereut spectator, to allude to them, but this j against it in Scripture." I should be sorrv to be- 
f-ntlier attempt at \.\\", depreciation of Pope. 
W!Lat should we say to an editor of Addison 



lieve that Mr. Bowles was fond of negus ; it is such 
a "candid" liquor, so like a wishy-washy couipu- 



. who 
wited the following passage from Walpole's letters to 
George Moutagtu ? "Dr. Young has published a 
oew book, etc. Mr. Addison sent for the young 
Earl of Warwick, as he was dying, to sliow him in 
what peace a Christian could die ; unluckily, he died 
of brandy : nothing ra^i-kes a Christian die in poare 
like being maudlin I but don't say this in Gath, 
where yuu are." Suppose the editor introduced it 
with this prcf;\ce : " One circumstance is mentioned 
by Horace Walpole, which, if true, was indeed fla- 
gitious. Walpole informs Montagu that Addison 
sei:i tor the. youi;'.', Eail of Warwick, when dying, 
to t.how hiiu in what peace a Christian cnild die; 
but unluckily he died drunk, etft,, etc." Now, -,.1- 
though there might occur on the suDsequent, or on 
the sinne page, a faint show of disbelief, seasoned 

-vith the expression of "the same candor,'' (the who seems to have been astounded by the title. 
saint exactly as throughout the book,) I should say I The sultan of the time being, ofieied to ally himscll 
•elitor was either foolish or false to his 



mise between tlie passion for wine and the profri*- 
ty of water. But difterent ^niters have divers tastf<i 
Judge Biackstone composed bis " C'ominentaries," 
(he was a poet too in his youth,) with a bottle o( 
port before him. Addison's conversation was nrt 
good for much till he had taken a similar dose. 
Perhaps the prescription of these two great men 
was not ir ''erior to the very different one of a soi 
distant poet of this day, who, after wandering 
among the hills, returns, goes to bed, and dictates 
his verses, being fed by a bystander with broad and 
buttex, during tiie operation. 

1 now come to Mr. Bowles's '• invariabL^ princi- 
ples of poetry." These Mr. Bowles and some ot 
liis coire pondents pronounce "unanswerable;'' 
and the \- are "unanswered," at least by Caiii|»l)ell, 



that th 

trast: such a story ousht not to have been admit- 
ted, except for one btief mark of crushing indigna- 
tiou ; unless it were completely proved. Why tiie 
words ''//" true?" That '^ if" is not a ireace- 
maker. Why talk of "Cibber's testimony" to his 
iicc itiousucs's ? To what does this amount? thiit 
Pupe, when very young, was once decoyed by some 
uol.ilemen and the player to a house of carnal recre- 
tiou. Mr. Bowles \\as not always a clergyman ; 
and ^vhen he was a very young man, was he never 
seduced into as much ? If I were in the humor for 
Btory-telling, and relating little anecdotes, I could 
tjll a much better story of Mr. Bowles than Cil)- 
ber's, upon much '.ictt^T authority, viz., that of Mr. 
Bowles liimself. It was not related by him in my 
presence, but in that of a third person, whom Mr. 
Bowles names oftener than once in the course of 
nis replies. This gentleman related it to me as a 
humorous and witty anecdote; and sy it was, what- 
ever its other characteristics mit^ht be. But shoi:ld 
I, from a youthful frolic, brand Mr. Bowles with a Vainly 



to the king of France, because "he hated the wore 
league :". which proves that the Padishan under- 
stood French. Mr. Campbell has no need of my 
alliance, nor shall I presume to otl'er it ; but 1 do 
hate that word " invariable." What is there of 
hionan, be it poetry, philosophy, wit, wisdotu, sci 
ence, power, gl(>ry, mind, m.itter, life <>i ^^ ;!i 
which is ^'inrrriablef" Of course 1 ;> 
divine out of the question. Of all an 
tisms of a book, this title to a pamphlet 
most complacently conceited. It is .Mr. ■ 
part to answer the conteiits of this p. , 
and especially to vindicate his own "Slnp, vvi.icr. 
Mr. Bowles most triumjihautly proclaims to have 
St I lick Id liis very first tire. 

" Quoth ho, then* wn* ■ .^Mf» ; 
Nuw Id iiKt icu, (hull )rr<y-h.tir'<l loua. 
Or III) Mull aliull iiMke ((inr ikipi " 



libertine sort of love," or with " licentiousness ? 
is he th<* less now a pious or a good man for not 
h;i.ving always been a priest ? No such thing ; I am 
willing to hi lieve him a good man, almost us good 
a iriau" as Pope, l)ut no belter. 

The truth is, that in these days the grand "/'r/- 
mimi inohili'." of lOngland is caut ; cant political, 
cant poetical, cant leligioiis, cant moral ; but ahv 
cant, mult'plied tii •oti<j;h all the varieties of life 



It is no affair of mine, !■ 

not by my own ^ 
frequent recurrence to i:, 
1 am like au Irislnnan in a "row, 



the 

, Cts.) 

ly liudy't 
cusromor." I •'hall thcrufore sny n word of iwc o»» 

the "Ship." 

.Mr. Howies asserts that CampbeU's "Ship of th « 
Line" derives all its poetry not from **art' bu> 
from " iMture." " Take awiiy the ^^ ndn 

ys the sun, etc., etc., one will be. - o 

It l>l»e bunting; and the otherapiic lun 

i« ;:Vo*Hi"luon\'and\vhUei7lasts wiMbe too power- Vn.s on three tall poles." Vorv true ; tak*. .w«; 
fu! fortj.av vvlio can only exi;it by taking the tone I " the waves." "the wmd-. nnd thor« xv.U »»« m 
of the tunc, I say cant, becauso it is a thing ofjsliiii at all. i 
W'jrds, without till' smallest influence upon human | puinose ; ;r 
R' linnv, the English being no wiser, no better, and re.td Mr. '' ; . ., 

mich poorer, and more divided among themselves, j the "poetry ut the •• .^h.p .Iwr^ tu>: 
as well as far h^ss moral, than they w.«re before the|"thc waves.' etc. ; on the ecmtrary. tl. 
t,revalencr of this vrbal decorum. This hysterical the Line confew xU own ooetry upon ;.. -, 

Lorror of poor Popes not vory well ascertained, and :a,id hnghtcs the,rM. 1 do no donv. at 
never fully proved amours, (for even Cibher owns " waves and w,nd.." «„d «bovf. »U •• thr -u», 
that he prevented the soni.-what perilous adventun- I. 
in which P(q)e was cuibarking.) sounds very virtu- • 

Dus in a eoutioversial u.uupliU't ; but all men of tlie '^ , ■ , ,, 

world who know what life is, or at least what it was winds wait.-i ...ly tb. 
to them in their youth, must laugh at such a ludi- sun shmic n.Mlier ui 

or..us Ibuudation of the charge of a "lil)ertine sort I.Mtl^ssl•^. woiil.l • 

wliile the more serious will look upoi; ttimknot 



th« 



•.hr 



if h)^. 

tliose wliOybriuK forward uuch chargos upou au ui- 



the 



thr ahiu 



at. lakf 
« r'uud" 



1040 



BYRON'S WO.HL'S. 



the " calm water," and the calm water becomes a 
lomewhat monotonous thing to look at, particularly 
If not transparently clear ; witness the thousands 
who pass by without looking on it at all. What 
was it attracted the thousands to the launch ? they 
might have seen the poetical " calm water," at 
Wapping, or in the "London Dock," or in the 
Paddington Canal, or in a horsepond, or ii a slop- 
basin, or in any other vase. They might have heard 
the poetical winds howling through the chinks of a 
pig-sty, or the garret- window ; they might have 
seen the sun shining on a footman's livery, or on a 
brass warming-pan ; but could the "calm water," 
or the " wind," or the " sun," make all, or any of 
these, "poetical?" I think not. Mr. Bowles ad- 
mits " the ship " to be poetical, but only from those 
accessaries : now if they confer poetry so as to make 
one thing poetical, they would make other things 
poetical ; the more so, as Mr. Bowles calls a 
" ship of the line " without them, that is to say, its 
"masts and sails and streamers," " blue bunting," 
and "coarse canvas," and "tall poles." So they 
are ; and porcelain is clay, and man is dust, and 
flesh is grass, and yet the two latter at least are the 
subjec^:s of much poesy. 

Did Mr. Bowles ever gaze upon the sea ? I pre- 
sume that he has, at least upon a sea-piece. Did 
any painter ever paint the sea only, without the 
addition of a ship, boat, wreck, or some such ad- 
junct i Is the sea itself a more attractive, a more 
moral, a more poetical object with or without a 
vessel, breaking its vast but fatiguing monotony } 
Is a storm more poetical Avithout a ship ? or, in the 
poem of the Shipwreck, is it the storm or the ship 
which most interests ? both much, undoubtedly ; 
but without the vessel, what should we care for the 
tempest ? It would sink into mere descriptive 
poetry, which, in itself, was never esteemed a high 
order of that art. 

I look upon myself as entitled to talk of naval 
matters, at least to poets : — with the exception of 
Walter Scott, Moore, and Southey, perhaps, (who 
have been voyagers,) I have swum more miles than 
all the rest of them together now living ever sailed, 
and have lived for months and months on shipboard; 
and during the whole period of my life abroad, have 
scarce ever passed a. month out of sight of the ocean : 
besides being brought up from two years till ten on 
the brink of it. I recollect, when anchored off 
Cape Sigaeum, in 1810, in an English frigate, a vio- 
lent squall coming on at sunset, so A'iolent as to 
make us imagine that the ship would part cable, or 
drive from hei anchorage. Mr. Hobhouse and my- 
self, and some officers, had been up the Dardan- 
elles to Abydos, and were just returned in time. 
The aspect of a storm in the Archi{)elago is as poet- 
ical as need be, the sea being particularly short, 
dashing, and dangerous, and the navigation intri- 
cate and broken by the isles and currents. Cape 
Siga^mn, the tumuli of the Troad, Lemnos, Tenc- 
dos, all added to the associations of the time. But 
what seemed the most '^poetical" of all at the mo- 
ment, were the numbers (about two hundred) of 
Greek and Turkish craft, which were obliged to 
"cut ana run" before the wind, from their unsafe 
anchorage, some for Tenedos, some for other isles, 
some for the main, and some it might be for eter- 
nity. The sight of these little scudding vessels, 
darting over the foam in the twilight, now appear- 
ing and now disappearing between' the waves in the 
cloud of night, with their peculiarly white sails (the 
Levant sails not being of ^'coarse canvas," but of 
white cotton) skimming along as quickly, but less 
safely than the seamews which hovered over them ; 
their evident distress, their reduction to fluttering 
Bpecks in the distance, their crowded succession, 
their littleness, as contending with the giant ele- 
ment, which made our stout forty-four's ^ea/t" tim- 
bers (she was built in India) creak again ; their 
osject and their motion, all struck me as something 
far more " poetical " than the mere broad, brawl- 



]5ni^', shiph T!s se*., iru. t. e PuUen winds, could poM^ 
jb}y have ^een withtMV them. 

The Euxine is a noble e«a to look upcn, and th« 
port of Constantinople the lAost beautiful of har- 
bors, and yet I cannot but 'ih.nik that the twenty 
sail of the line, some of one hun>.^red and forty guns,' 
rendered it more " poetical " b/ day in the sun, and 
by night perhaps still more, for the Turks illumi- 
nate their vessels of war in a manner the most pic- 
turesque — and yet all this is artiji-iul. As for thf 
Euxine, I stood upon the Symplegt. ies — I stood by 
the broken altar still exposed to the winds upon one 
of them — I felt all the ^^ poetry" of £ho situation, 
as I repeated the first lines of Medea ; but wouli 
not that "poetry" have been heightened by the 
Argot It was so even by the appearaiice of any 
merchant vessel arriving from Odessa. Bat Mr 
Bowles says,." why bring your ship off the siot-ks ?' 
for no reason that I know, except that ships are 
built to be launched. The water, etc., undoubtedly 
HEIGHTENS the poetical associations, but it .ioe» 
not make them ; and the ship amply repays th« 
obligation : they aid each other ; the water is mcT« 
poetical with the ship— the ship less so without the 
water. But even a ship, laid up in dock, is a grand 
and poetical sight. Even an old boat, keel up- 
wards, wiecked upon the barren sand, is a " poet- 
ical " object, (and Wordsworth, who made a poem 
about a washing tub and a blind boy, may tell you 
so as well as I;) whilst a long extent of sand and 
unbroken water, without the boat, would be as likf 
dull prose as any pamphlet lately published. 

What makes the poetry in the image' of the 
" marble wasie of Tadmor," or Grainger's " Ode to 
Solitude," so much admired by Johnson ? Is it the 
" marble," or the " waste " the artificial or the natu- 
ral object ? The " waste " is like all other wastes ; 
but the " marble " of Palmyra makes the poetry of 
the passage as of the place. 

The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole 
coast of Attica, her hills and mountains, Penteli 
cus, Anchesmus, Philopapnu*, etc., etc., are iik 
themselves poetical, and would be so if the name oi 
Athens, of Athenians, and bei very ruins, were 
swept from the «»artn. But am T to be told that the 
" nature " of Attica would be 7nvre p.ieMcal withou,' 
the " art " of the Acropolis ? of the I 'jn'ple of The- 
seus ? and of the still all Greek and {rlonous monu- 
ments of her exquisitely artificial g<jniuj ? Ask the 
traveller what strikes him as moht poetical, tie 
Parthenon, or the rock on< which it stii.ds ? The 
COLUMNS of Cape Colonna, or the Cape itself? Tac 
rocks, at the foot of it, or the recollection that r'ai« 
coner's ship was bulged upon them ? There are a 
thousand rocks and capes, far more picture^qte 
than those of the Acropolis and Cape Sunium in 
themselves ; what are they to a thousand scenes in 
the Avilder parts of Greece, of Asia Minor, Switzer- 
land, or even of Cintra in Portugal, or to many 
scenes of Italy, and the Sierras of Spain ? But it 
is the "art," the columns, the temple:-', the wrecked 
vessel, which give them their antique* and their 
modern poetry, and not the spots themselves. 
Without them, the spots of earth would be unno- 
ticed and unknown ; buried, like Babylon and Nine- 
veh, in indistinct confusion, without, poetry, as 
without existence ; but to whatever spot 'of earth 
these ruins were transported, if they were capable 
of transportation,. like the obelisk, and the sphinx, 
and the Memnon's head, there they would still ex- 
ist in the perfection of their beauty, and in the pride 
of their poetry. I ',pposed, an^ vnll ever oppose, 
the rol ^ery of rnms from Athens, to instruct the 
Englisl- in sculpture ; but why did I so ? The ruins 
are as p etical in Piccadilly as they were in the Par- 
thenon . but the Thrthenon and its rock are less so 
without thein. Such is th poetry of art. 

Mr. towles conttn^^- , again, that the pyramids o! 
Egypt are poetica., because of "the association 
with boundless deserts," and that a " pyramid of 
the same dimensions " would not be sublime in 



1.ETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 1041 



Lincoln's Inn Fields ; " not so poetical, certainly ; 
bkit take away the "pyramids," and wnat is the 
'< desert f " Take away Stone henge from Salisbury 
Plain, and it is nothing more than Hounslow Heath, 
or any other unenclosed down. It appears to me 
that St. Peter's, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the 
Palatine, the Apollo, the Laocoftn, the Venus di 
MediCis, the Hercules, the dying Gladiator, the 
Moses of Michael Angelo, and all the higher works 
of Canova, (I have already spoken of those of an- 
cient Greece, still extant in that country, or trans- 
ported to England,) are as poetical as Mont Blanc 
or Mount ^tna, perhaps still more so, as they are 
direct manifes^tations of mind, and presuppose poetry 
in their very conception ; and have, moreover, as 
being such, a something of actual life, which can- 
not belong to any part of inanimate nature, unless 
we adopt the sj stem of Spinosa, that the world is 
the Deity. The»e can be nothing more poetical in 
its aspect than the city of Venice: does this depend 
up-^n the sea, or the canals ? — 

" The dirt and seaweed whence pioud Venice ro«e I " 

Is it the canal which runs between the palace and the 
prison, or the '* Bridge of Sighs " which connects 
them, that render it poetical? Is it the "Canal 
Grande," or the Rialto which arches it, the churches 
which tower over it, the palaces which line, and the 
gondolas which glide over the waters, that render 
this city more poetical than Rome itself? Mr. 
Bowles will sayj perhaps, that the Rialto is but 
marble, the palaces and churches only stone, and 
the gondolas a " coarse " black cloth, thrown over 
ftome planks of carved wood, with a shining bit of 
fantastically-formed iran at the prow, '■'■without^' 
the water. And I tell him that without these the 
water would be nothing but a Uay-colored ditch, 
and whoever says the contrary, deserves to be at the 
bottom of that where Pope's heroes are embraced 
by the mud nymphs. There would be nothing to 
make the canal of Venice more poetical than that 
of Paddington, were it not for the artificial adjuncts 
above mentioned, althont^h it is a perfectly natural 
canal, formed by the sea, and the innumcral)le 
islands which constitute the site of this extraordi- 
nary city. 

The very CloaciB of Tarquin at Rome are as poet- 
ical as Richmond Hill; many will think more so. 
Take away Rome, and leave the Tiber and the seven 
hills, in the nature of Evander's time; let Mr. 
Bowles, or Mr. Wordsworth, or Mr. Southey, or any 
of the other " naturals," make a poem upon them, 
and then see which is most poetical, their jjrodac- 
tion or the commoiiest guide-book which tidls you 
the road from St. Peter's to the Colisetnn, and in- 
forms you what you will see l)y the way. The 
ground interests in Virgil, because it will be Home, 
and not becai;se it i.s Evander's rural domain. 

Mr. Bowles then proceeds to press Homer into 
his service, in answer to a remark of Mr. Campluirs, 
that " Homer was a great describer of works of art." 
Mr. B wins cnltends, that all his great power, even 
in this, depends upon tlieir connexion with nature. 
The "shield of Aclullcs derives its poetical interest 
from the subjects described on it." And from wliat 
d->cs the s/;tar of Achilles derive its interest? und 
the helirit and the mail woruby Patroelus, and the 
celestial ;.rmor, and the very Imizen gn-aves of the 
well-bool.'d Greeks ? Is it solely from the legs, nnd 
the back, and the breast, and tlo human brdy. 
which they enclose ? In that ease, it would huvo 
been more poetical to have made them fight naked; 
and Gully and Gregson, us being nearer to a state 
of nature, are more jxietieal, bo.xing in a pair of 
drawers, than Hector and Achilles in radiant armor, 
and with heroic weapons. 

Instead of the clash of helmet«, nnd tho ruHhinR 
jf chariots, and the whizzing of Kp"arH, and the 
gliineing of swords, and the cleaving )f .shudds, and 
the piercing of breustidates, why not reprenent th.- 
Gre"ks and Trojans like two Bavugo ribes, tugging 

hi 



and tearing, and kicking, and biting, and gnashing, 
foaming, grinning, and gouging, in all the poetrj' of 
martial nature, unencumbered with gross, prosaic, 
artificial arms, an equ.il superfluity to the natural 
warrior, and his natural poet ? Is there any thing 
unpoetical in Ulysses striking the horses of Uhesua 
with his how, (having forgotten his thong,) or would 
Mr. Bowles have had him kick them with his foot, 
or smack them with his hand, as being more uuxo- 
phisticated ? 

In Gray's Elegy, is there an image more strikiaj 
than his "shapeless sculpture?" Of sculpture in 
general, it may be observed, that it is more poetical 
than nature itself, inasmuch as it represents an* 
bodies forth that ideal beauty and sublimity which 
is never to be found in actual nature. This at least 
is the general opinion ; but, always e.xcepting the 
Venus di Medicis, I differ from that opinion, at If asl 
as far as regards female beauty, for the head of Ladj 
Charlemont (when I first saw her. nine years ago) 
seemed to possess all that sculpture could require 
for its ideal. I recollect seeing sometiiing of the 
same kind in the head of an Albanian girl, who waa 
actually employed i?i mending a road in the moun- 
tains, and in some Greek, and one or two Italian 
faces. But of suhtimity, I have never seen any 
thing in human nature at all to approach the ex- 
pre.ssion of sculpture, either in the Apollo, the 
Moses, or other of the sterner works of ancient or 
modern art. 

Let us examine a little further this *• babble of 
green fields," and of bare nature in general, as su- 
perior to artificial imagery, for the poetical purposes 
of the fine arts. In landscape painting, the great 
artist does not give you a literal copy of a country, 
but he invents and composes one. Nature, in her 
actual aspect, does not furnish him with such exist- 
ing scenes as he requires. Even where he pre>ent8 
you with some famous city, or celebrated scene from 
mountain or other nature it must be taken from 
some particular point of \\e\y, and with such light 
and shade, and distance, etc., as serve not only to 
heighten its beauties, but to shadow its deforimiien 
The poetry of nature alone, exactly as she appears, 
is not sufticient to bear him out. The very sky o{ 
his painting is not the portrait of the sky of nature; 
it is a composition of dilferent s/iit<s, observed at 
different times, and not the whide copied from any 
partii-ular day. And why ? Because Nature is not 
lavish of her beauties; they arc widely scattered. 
and occasionally displayed, to be selected with cure, 
and gathered with difhculty. 

Of sculpture I have just spoken. It i- ' 

scope of the seulptor to heighten nature 
beauty, /. v. in plain Knglish, «■> smui-s i 

When ('anova forms a statue. luuh tnuq 

one. a hand from another. :i i u third, 

and a shape, it may be, from a muiiii. inobublv at 
tlie same time improving u|>on nil, as the Groo\i ol 
oM did in embodying liis VeiiuH, 

Ask n i)ortrait painter to desrrib- f in 

aceommudatiug tho faces with wii md 

his sitters have crowded his pain' iiio 

princii)les of hi' art; with tho pxc • •!• 

t<'U tares in i\» many million-*, thrri > h 

he can venture to ' ' ' "id 

adding more. N > '- 

tur«', will m.iko no < ■'■•t 

of all a poet— tlie mu.sl .utilui.i:. H 

artists in his very CMsence. With i' \\.\\ 

imagery, the poetH are obliged to l.u. ihnr 

best lUustraliuns from art. You i«av thafrffoun- 
lain is aH clear or clearer than yUisa, ' to vxpresa itt 
Upiiutv — 

■• O foiu OkixltMka, tplMhlliilar *tlra t " 

In tho nprech of Mark Antony, the body of Cm« 
is displayed, but »o "Uho is hta wmi»*//»— 



1 1 III UiU pine* nui I 



1042 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



If the poet had said that Cassias had run his fist 
through the rent of the mantle, it would have had 
more of Mr. Bowles's " nature " to help it ; but the 
artificial dagger is more poetical than any natural 
hand without it. In the sublime of sacred poetry, 
" Who is this that cometh from Edom ? with dyed 
garments hoTX\ Bozrah ? " Would "the comer "be 
poetical without his " dyed garments f " which strike 
and startle the spectator, and identify the approach- 
ing object. 

The mother of Sisera is represented listening for 
the " wheels of his chariot." Solomon, in his Song, 
compares the nose of his beloved to a " tower," 
which to us appears an Eastern exaggeration. If 
he had said, that her statue was like that of "a 
tower," 'it would have been as poetical as if he had 
compared her to a tree. 

" The vlrvjous Marcia towers above her sex." 

is ian instance of an artificial image to express a 
moral superiority. But Solomon, it is probable, 
did not compare his beloved's nose to a " tower " on 
account of its length, but of •its symmetry ; and, 
making allowance for Eastern hyperbole and the 
difficulty of finding a discreet image for a female 
tiose in nature, it is perhaps as good a figure as any 
other. 

Art is not inferior to nature for poetical purposes. 
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble 
object of view than the same mass of mob ? Their 
arms, their dresses, their banners, and the a?~t and 
artificial symmetry of their position and movements. 
A Highlander's plaid, a Mussulman's turban, and a 
Roman toga, are more poetical than the tattooed or 
untattooed buttocks of a New Sandwich savage, 
although they were described by William Words- 
worth himself like the " idiot in his glory." 

I have seen as many mountains as most men, and 
more fleets than the generality of landsmen : and, 
to my mind, a large convoy, with a few sail of the 
line to conduct them, is as noble and as poetical a 
prospect as all that inanimate nature can produce. 
1 prefer the "mast of some great admiral," with 
all its tackle, to the Scotch fir or the Alpine tannen, 
and think that more poetry has been made out of it. 
In what does the infinite superiority of " Falconer's 
Shipwreck," over all other shipAvrecks, consist ? In 
his admirable application of the terms of his art ; 
in a poet-sailor's description of the Scilor's fate. 
These very terw,s, by his application, make the 
strength and reality of his poem. Why ? because 
ae was a poet, and in the hands of a poet art will 
aot be found less ornamental than nature. It is 
precisely in general nature, and in stepping out of 
Lis element, that Falconer fails ; where he digresses 
to speak of ancient Greece, and " such branches of 
learning." 

In Dyer's Grongar Hill, upon which his fame 
rests, the very appearance of Nature herself is 
moralized into an artificial image : 

" Thiia is Nature's vesture wrought, 
To instruct our wandering- tliought; 
Thas she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away." 

And here also •^e have the telescope, the misuse 
of which, from Milton, has rendered Mr. Bowles so 
triuraphaLt over Mr. Campbell : 

" So we mlblaKe the future's face, 
Eyed through Hope's deluding gUua," 

AAd here a word, en passant, to Mr. Campbell: 

" Ai you (ummita, iof( and fair, 
Clad in colon of the air, 9 

Which to those who journey near, 
Barren, brown, and rough appear, 
Still we treau the same coarse way— 
Tl>e pretent'i itill a cloudy day." 

\a not this the original of the far-famed, 

" 'Tii i^iitance lends enchantment to uie iriew, 
And robes the mouutaiu in its uure hue i " 



To return once more to the sea. Let any or.* 
look on the long waU of Malamocco, which ^urbg 
the Adriatic, and pronounce between the sea an<; 
its master. Surely that Roman work, (I mean 
Roman in conception and performance,) which says 
to the ocean, " thus far shalt thou come, and no 
further," and is obeyed, is not less sublime and 
poetical than the angry waves which vainly brealt 
beneath it. 

Mr. Bowles makes the chief part of a ship's 
poesy depend on the "wind:" then why is a ship 
under sail more poetical tian a hog in a high 
wind ? The hog is all nature, the ship is kW art, 
'^coarse canvas,"- "blue bunting'" and "tall 
poles ; " both are violently acted upon by the wind, 
tossed here and there, to and fro ; and yet u(.' th '.ng 
but excessive hunger could make uie look upon the 
pig as the more poetical of the two, and then only 
in the shape of a griskin. 

Will Mr. Bowles tell us that the poetry of aE 
aqueduct consists in the loater which it conveys ? 
Let him look on that of Justinian, on those oi 
Rome, Constantinople, Lisbon, and Elvas, or eTen 
at the remains of that in Africa. 

We are asked " Avhat makes the venerable towers 
of Westminster Abbey more poetical, as objects, 
than the tower for the manufactory of patent shot, 
surrounded by the same scenery ? " I will answer — 
the archUecitire. Turn Westminster Abbey, or 
Saint Paul's, into a powder magazine, their poetry, 
as objects, remains the same; the Parthenon was 
actually converted into one by the Turks, during 
Morosini's Venetian siege, and part of it destroyed 
in consequence. Cromwell's dragoons stalled their 
steeds in Worcester Cathedral ; was it less poetical, 
as an object, than before ? Ask a foreigner on his 
approach to London, what strikes him as the most 
poetical of the towers before him ; he will point out 
St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, without, per- 
haps, knowing the names or associations of either, 
and pass over the "tower for patent^ shot," not 
that, for any thing he knows to the 'contrary, it 
might not be the mausolleum of a monarch, or a 
Waterloo column, or a Trafalgar monument, but 
because its architecture is obviously inferior. 

To the question, "whether the description of « 
game of cards be as poetical, supposing the execu- 
tion of the artists equal, as a descrition of a walk 
in a forest ? " it may be answered, that the materi 
a/s are certainly not equal; but that "the artist" 
who has rendered the "game of cards poetical," is 
by far the greater of the two. But all this " order- 
ing " of poets is pwrely arbitrary on the part of Mr. 
Bowles. There may or may not be, in fact, different 
" orders " of poetry, but the poet is always ranked ! 
according to his executfln, and not according to hia 
branch of the art. 

Tragedy is one of the highest presumed orders 
Hughes has written a tragedy, and a very s\icccssfu) 
one ; Fenton another ; and Pope none. Did any 
man, however, — will even Mr. Bowles himself rank 
Hughes and Fenton as poets above Pope? Was 
even Addison, (the author of Cato,) or Rowe (one 
of the highest order of dramatists, as far as suc- 
cess goes), or Young, or even Otway and Southerne. 
ever raised for a moment to the same rark with 
Pope in the estimation of the reader or the critic, 
before his death or since ? If Mr. Bowles will con- 
tend for classifications of this kind, let him recollect 
that descriptive poetry has been ranked as among 
the lowest branches of the art, and description as a 
mere ornament, but which should never form " the 
subject " of a poem. The Italians, with the most 
poetical language, and the most fastidious taste ia 
Europe, possess now five great poets, they say^ 
Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Tasso, and lastly Alfieri ; 
and whom do they esteem one of the highest oj 
these, and some of them the very highest ? Pe- 
ti-arch, the sonnetteer : it is true that some of fcif 
Canzoni are not less esteemed, but not more ; wb' 
eyer dreams of his Latin Africa ? 



LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON POPE. 104'< 



Were Petrarch to be ranked according to the 
order " of his compositions, where would the best 
M sonnets place him ? with Dante and the others ? 
No : but, as I have before said, the poet who ex- 
tcutes best is the highest, whatever his department, 
ft.nd will ever be so rated in the world's esteem. 

Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as 
tie stands, 1 am not sure that he would not stand 
higher ; it is the corner-stone of his glory ; without 
It, his odes would be insufficient for his fame. The 
depreciation oi Pope is partly founded upon a false 
idea of the dignity of his order of poetry, to which 
he has partly contributed by the ingenuous boast, 

• Tha.'. not in fiincy's maze he wander'd long, 
B;t* rixp'rl to truth, iid moralized his song." 

He should have written "rose to truth." In my 
mind, the highest of all poetry is ethical poetry, as 
the highest of all earthly objects must be moral 
truth. Religion does not make a part of my sub- 
ject; it is something beyond human powers, and 
has failed in all human hands, except Milton's and 
Dante's, and even Dante's powers are involved in 
the delineation of human passions, though in 
supernatural circumstances. What made Socrates 
the greatest of men ? His moral truth — his ethics. 
What proved Jesus Christ the Son of God hardly 
less than his miracles ? His moral precepts. And 
if ethics have made a philosopher the hrst of men, 
and have not been disdained as an adjunct to his 
gospel by the Deity himself, are we to be told that 
ethical poetry or didactic poetry, or by whatever 
name you terra it, whose object is to make men 
better and wiser, is not the ^^eri/ Jirst order of 
poetry ? and are we to be told this too by one of the 
priesthood ? It requires more mind, more wisdom, 
more power, than all the "forests" that ever were 
"walked" for their "description," and all the 
f;pics that ever were founded upon fields of battle. 
The Georgics are indisputably, and, I believe, 
undisputedly, even a finer poem than the ^Encid. 
Virgil knew this ; he did not order tJiem to be burnt. 

" The proper study of mankind is man." 

It is the fashion of the day to lay great stress 
upon what they call "imagination" and "inven- 
tion," the two commonest of qualities: an Irish 
peasant, with a little whiskey in his head, will 
imagine and invent more than would furnish forth 
a modern poem. If Lucretius had not Ijoeu spoiled 
by the Epicurean system, we should have had a far 
superior poem to any now in e.\istcnce. As mere 
poetry, it is the first of Latin poems. What then 
has ruined it ? His ethics. Pope has not this 
defect ; his moral is as pure as his jjoetry is glo- 
rious. In speaking of artificial ol)jccts, I have 
omitted to touch upon one which I will now 
mention. Cannon may be presumed to be as highly 
poetical iw art can make lier objects. Mr. Howies 
will, perhajjs, tell me that this is because they 
rescml)le that grand natural article of sound in 
heaven, and simile upon earth— thund.T. I shall 
be told triumphantly, th.it Milton made sad work 
with his artill(My, when he arim-d his devils there- 
withal. He did so; and this artificial object iniisi 
have had much of the Hublimi: to attract his atten- 
tion for such a confiict. He has made an absurd 
use of it ; Imt the absurdity consists not in using 
cannon against the angels of God, but any inntt-rinl 
weapon. The thunder of the clouds would have 
been as ridiculous and vain in the hands of the 
devils, as the " villanous KaUi)Ptre:" the angels 
were as nnpcrvious to the one as to the other. The 
thunderbolts became sublime iu the hands of tl»p 
Almighty, not as such, but because he deigns to 
use thenl as a means of rejielUng the rel)el spirits; 
Imt no me can attribute their defeat to this grand: 
piece ^f natural elc<-tricity : tlie Almighty wilh,!, 
and they fell • his word woi».- hiue l)een enough. 
uid Milton is as absurd (and in ffict, h/uxjihfoiou.s) 
n putting material lightnings into the hands of thoj 
Glodhead as in giving him huuds at all. 



Thp artillery of the demons was but the first ntej 
of hifi mistake, the thunder the ne.\t, and it is k 
step lower. It would have been fit for Jove, but 
not for Jehovah. The subject altogether wa« 
essentially unpoetical ; he has made more of it 
than another could, but it is beyond him and ill 
men. 

In a portion of his reply, Mr. Bowles asserts that 
Pape "envied Phillips," because he quizzed hi, 
pastorals in the Guardian, in that most admirable 
model of irony, his paper on the subject. If there 
was any thing enviable about Phillips, it coaltl 
hardly be his pastorals. They were despicable, and 
Pope expressed his contempt. If Mr. Fitzgerald 
puhlished a volume of sonnets, or a " Spirit of 
Discovery," or a "Missionary," and Mr. Bowles 
wrote in any periodical journ il an ironical paper 
upon them, would this be "envy?" The authors 
of the "Rejected Addresses" have ridiculed the 
sixteen or twenty "first living poets" of the day ; 
but do they "envy" them? "Envy" writhes, it 
don't laugh. The authors of the " Rejected Ad- 
dresses " may despise some, but they can hardly 
" envy" any of the persons ^hom they have paro- 
died ; and Pope could have no more envied Phillip* 
than he did Wclsted, o% Theobalds, or Smedly or 
any other given hero oi the Dunciad. He could 
not have envied hiin, even had he himself not been 
the grn.'i;est poet of his age. Did Mr. Ings "<7<ry " 
Mr. Phillips, when he asked him, "how came you» 
i'yrrhus to drive oxen, and say, I am goadtd on by 
line ? " This question silenced poor Phillips ; hut 
it no more proceeded from " envy " than did Popc'i 
ridicule. Did he envy Swift ? Did he envy Bolin^ 
broke ? Did he envy Gay the unparalleled success 
of his "Beggars' Opera?" We may be answircd 
that these were his friends — true ; but does frirnd- 
sh/'p prevent envyf Study the first woman yew 
meet with, or the first scribbler, let Mr. Bow It t 
himself (whom I acquit fully of such an odious 
quality) study some of his own poetical intimates 
the most envious man I ever heard of is a poet, and 
a high one; besides it is an tinirtrsaf |)as>ion. 
Goldsmith envied not only the puppets for their 
dancing, and broke his shins iu th • attempt at 
rivalry, but was seriously angry becaU'C two pretty 
woniavi received nuire attention than h did. 77wj 
is vucy ; but where does Pope show n sign of the 
passion .> In that case, Dryden envied the hero of 



Tl.v . 
Ni.« 



tn<w», 
M» .NUnr." 



contain A •lin|J.', houtehoia, " Imlojr." •rtlfteUi. ■ml rram«ry hn«(« 

iwlrr Mr. U«>wlrt lu Xhr KHnOi, ni.i ■-'^ — ''■"- i'"— •■ •■' " ■•«rfte 

KRi nol wortk all Uir bii«*('^l t» i)v !• 

|m>ii»mlf mi.l rrt In fim Wrtiit """ • 

ol •liin^. 







)tK^\ A 




Mi<l, " 1 




W l.i'lr 




Ih I.«.1 ...».!.'. ■■ 


I'l ilial 


Oin OkT' « •• « ; 


/..rnid 



Altet )Mk * «l 
.nr'l «1H>1I«<I 



his Mac Flecknoc. Mr. Bi»\vlcs roMipires. M-hf-n ^ 
and where he can, Pone with d v\ 
(Jowju'r whom, in his edition of 1 > t 

lor his attachment to an old won. 
search and you will .find it; I remtiuher vhe pas- 
sage, though not the page,) in particular he n»- 
quotes Cowper's Dutch delineatiim of a wood, v'rawn 
up like a soedman's catalogue,* with an alhpcti-d 



• I wIlliiilmilHoMr. nuwl<'i'ii.wn)iM|pni'iUrtjw»i>r"'»^'">«'>''«'«I*«» i 
of Cuwrer'n, to lio cain|Mr<fil wiOi lh» nn» wrrtlrr'* bjrUui ti«tii(4«r. lu llM 



t (NWIIflll IIMUtllOP ui \\f )•■" 

, lu foMtj, Md I lM<r« iluiw ; 



m4 ftlt, *t*Ji 



1044 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Imitation of Miltun's style, as burlesque as the 
' Splendid Shilling." These two writers (for Cow- 
per is no poet) come into comparison in one great 
work— the translation of Homer. Now, with all the 
great, and manifest, and manifold, and reproved, and 
*ckno«-ledged, and uncontroverted faults of Pope's 
translation., and all the scholarship, and pains, and 
time, and trouble, and blank verse of the other, 
who can ever read Cowper ? and who will ever lay 
down Pope, mless for the original ? Pope's was 
"not Homer, it was Spondanus ; " but Cowper's is 
not Homer, either, it is not even Cowper. As a 
child I first read Pope's Homer with a rapture 
which no subsequent work could ever oftbvd ; and 
children are not the worst judges of their language. 
As a boy I read Homer in the original, as we have 
*11 done, soxne of us by force, and a few by favor ; 
under which description I come is nothing to the 
purpose, it is enough that I read him. As a man I 
have tried to read Cowper's version, and I found it 
impossible. Has any human reader ever succeeded - 
And nov that we have heard the Catholic re- 
proached with envy, duplicity, licentiousness, 
avarice — what was the Calvinist } He attetupted 
the most atrocious of crimes in the Christian code, 
viz., suicide— and why? Because he was to be 
examined whether he was fft for an office which he 
seeins to wish to have made a sinecure. His con- 
nexion with Mrs. Uuwin was pure enough, for the 
old lady was devout, and he was deranged ; but 
why then is the infirm and then elderly Pope to be 
reproved for his connexion with Martha Blount ? 
Cowper was the almoner of Mrs. Throgmorton ; but 
Pope's charities were his own, and they were noble 
and extensive, far beyond his fortune's warrant. 
Pope -vas the tolerant yet steady adherent of the 
most bigoted of sects ; and Cowper the most bigoted 
and despondent sectary that ever anticipated dam- 
nation to himself or others. Is this harsh ? I 
know it is, and I do not assert it as my opinion of 
Cowper j}erso}uili 7/ , but to show what m'iffht be said, 
»ith just as great an appearance of truth and 
candor, as all the odium which has been accumu- 
-ated upon Pope in similar speculations. _ Cowper 
was a good man, and lived at a fortunate' time for 
Ms works. 

ftlr. Bowles, apparently not relying entirely upon 
his own arguments, has, in person or bv pro.w, 
-rought forward the names of Soiithey and Moore. 
Mr. Southey " agrees entiiely with Mr. Bow^les in 
his invariable principles of poetry." The least that 
Mr. Bowles can do in return is to approve the 
"invariable principles of Mr. Southey." I should 
have thought that the vrord /' invariable" might 
have stuck in Southey's thVoat, like Macbeth's 
'• Amen ! " I am sure it did in mine, and I am not 
the least consistent of the two, at least as a voter. 
Moore (et tu Brute!) also approves, and a Mr. J. 
bcott. There is a letter also of two lines from a 
gentleman in asterisks, who, it seems, is a poet of 
" the highest rank " — who can this be ? not my 
friend. Sir Walter, surely. Campbell it can't be'; 
'Jogers it won't be. 

•■ You have kit Ihe nail in the head, and *•*• [Pspe, 1 presume] on the 
•f*' "Jm." 1 remain, youn, afl'ectionately, 

(Four AtUriakB.) 

Aai in asterisks let him remain. Whoever this 



Uiy itiing in marble like ihii mariile, excepung ihe Veniis f Can there be 
inore;Mic(ry g-uheroil into existonce than in that wonderful creation ot perfect 
beauty ? But .h? poetry of tliia bust U in no respect derived from nature, nor 
liruiii any sMociation of moral ex.dtiHlncM ; for what U there in common with 
incral nature and the male minion of Adrian f The rery execution ii not 
mturai, but «u;)ernatnrul, or rutlier tujMr-orHJicial, for nature ha* never 
don? to much. 

Away, then, with thi» cant about nature and " Invariable principles of po- 
•Oy : " A great artist will make a block of stone a« sublime as a mountain, 
Mi'.l a good poet can inibtie i. puck of carvls with more poetry than inhaliiu 
iie linwu o( Airi'rica. It is the bu<in< u and 'lie proof of a poet to give the 
le tc the pruvert), and somi-tiines to " niak* a tUktn put »e out o/ a «ow'« 
tar; " and to vjnc.u'le with another homely proverb, " i good workman 
til Mi >ik1 faa with hia tuoia." 



person may be, he deserves for such a judgnr ent '- 
Midas, that " the nail" which Mr. Bowles las kil 
m the head should be driven through his own ears : 
I am sure that they are long enough. 

The attention of the poetical populace of the pre* 
ent day to obtain an ostracism against Pope is as 
easily accounted for as the Athenian's shell against 
Aristides ; they are tired of hearing him always 
called " the Just." They are also fighting for life ; 
for if he maintains his station, they will reach their 
own falling. They have raised a mosque by the 
side of a Grecian temple of the purest architecture ; 
and, more barbarous than the barbarians from whose 
practice I have borrowed the figure, they are ncnt 
contented with their own grotesqxie edifice, unless 
they destroy the prior and purely beautiful fabric 
which preceded, and which shames them and theirs 
for ever and ever. I shall be told that amongst 
those I have been (or it may be still am) conspicu 
ous — true, and I am ashamed of it. I have been 
among the builders of this Babel, attended by a con 
fusion of tongues, but never among the envious 
destroyers of the classic temple of our predecessor. 
I have loved and honored the fame and name of that 
illustrious and unrivalled man, far more than my 
own paltry renown, and the trashy gingle of the 
crowd of " schools " and upstarts, who pretend to 
rival, or even surpass him. Sooner than a single 
leaf should be torn from his laurel, it were better 
that all which these men, and I, as one of their set 
have ever written, should 

" Line trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
Refringe the rails of Bedlam or Soho I " 

There are those who ■;^ill believe this, and those 
who will not. You, sir, know how far I am sin- 
cere, and whether my opinion, not only in the short 
work intended for publication, and in private letters 
which can never be published, has or has not been, 
the same. I look upon this as the declining age oi 
English poetry ; no regard for others, no selfish 
feeling can prevent me from seeing this, and ex- 
pressing the truth. There can be no worse sign for 
the taste of the times than the depreciation of Pope 
It would be better to receive for proof Mr Cobbet's 
rough but strong attack upon Shakspeare and Mil- 
ton, than to allow this smooth and " candid " un- 
dermining of the reputation of the most perfect of 
our poets and the purest of our moralists. Of his 
power in the passions, in description, in the mock- 
heroic, I leave others to descant. I take him on 
his strong ground, as an ethical poet : in the former 
none excel, in the mock-heroic and the ethical none 
equal him ; and in my mind, the latter is the high- 
est of all poetry, because it does that in verse, 
which the greatest of men have wished to accom- 
plish in prose. If the essence of poeti-y must be a 
lie, throw it to the dogs, or banish it from your re- 
public, as Plato would have done. He who can 
reconcile poetry with truth and wisdom, is the only 
true "/)oe^ " in its real sense ; " the maker," " the 
creator" — why must this mean the "liar," the 
" feigner," " the tale-teller?" A man may make 
and create better things than these. 

I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a 
poet as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemy, 
Warton, places him immediately under them. 1 
would no more say this than I would assert in the 
mosque, (once St. Sophia's,) that Socrates was a 
greater man than Mahomet. But if I say that he 
is very near them, it is no more than has been as- 
serted of Burns, who is supposed 

" To rival all but Shakspeare'* name below." 

I say nothing against this opinion. But of what 
^^ order," according to the poetical aristocracy, are 
Burns's poems ? These are his opus magnum, 
" Tam O'Shanter," a tale ; the " Cotter's Saturday 
Night," a descriptive sketch, some otheratin the 
same style ; the rest are songs. So much for the 
rank of his prodtictions ; the rank of Burns is the 
very first of his art. Of Pope I have expressed m| 



LETTER TO JOHJS MURRAY ON BOWLES'S STRICTLXES ON POPE. 104 A 

opinion elsewhere, as also of the effect which the i and, as I have been publicly educated also, I can 
present attempts at poetry have had upon our lite- 
rature. If any great national or natural convulsion 
sould or ohould overwhelm your country, in such 
sort as to sweep Great Britain from the kin<^domsof 
the earth, and leave only that, after all the most 
living of human things, a dead Uingu-cuje, to be 
[jtudie'l and read, and imitated, by the wise of fu- 
ture a.nd far generations upon foreign shores ; if 
vour literature should become the learning of man- 
kind, divested of party cabals, temporary fashions, 
and national pride and prejudice ; an Englishman, 
ani'ms that the posterity of strangers should know 
that there had been such a thing as a British Epic 
and Tragedy, miglit wish for the preservation of 
Shakspeare and Milton ; but the surviving world 
would snatch Pope from the wreck, and let the rest 
sink with the people. He is the moral poet of all 
civilization, and, as such, let us hope that he will 
one day be the national poet of mankind. He is 

the only poet that never shocks ; the only poet 
whose fauUlessaess has been made his reproach. 
Cast your eye over his productions ; consider their 
extent, and contemplate their variety : — pastoral, 
passion, mock-heroic, translation, satire, ethics, — 

dll excellent, and often perfect. If his great charm 

be his melody, how comes it that foreigners adore 

him. even in their diluted translation .' But I 

have made this letter too long. Give my compli- 
ments to Mr. Bowles. 

Yours ever, very truly, 

. BYRON. 

To J. Murray, Esq. 
Post scriy«^/«.— Long as this letter has ^rown, I 

find it necessary to append a postscript, — it possi- 
ble, a short one. Mr. Bowles denies that he has 

accused Pope of " a sordid money-getting passion ;" 

but he adds " if I had ever done so, I should be gl;id 

to find anv testimoy that might show me he was 

not so." This testimony he may find to his heart's 

content in Spencc and elsewhere. First, there is 

Martha Blount, who, Mr. Bowles charitalily says, 

«' probably t>.ought he did not save enough for her 

as legatee." Whi'tever she thouqht upon this point, 

her words are in Pope's favor. Then there is Alder- 
man Barber— see Spence's Anecdotes. There is 

Pope's cold answer to Halifax, when he proposed a 

pension; his behavior to Craggs and to Addison 

upon like occasions ; and his own two lines — 

«< And, think* to Homer, since I live »iul thriTe, 
Indebti-d lo no prince or pi'er idivf — " 

written when princes would have been proud to 
pensicn, and peers to promote hin>. and wlien the 
whole army ot dunces were in array against hiin, 
and would have been but too happy to deprive hiin 
of this boast of indopendenco. But tlieru is some- 
thing a little more serious in Mr. Bowles's declara- 
tion, that he " would have snoken " of his " noble 
generosity to the outcast, Uichiud Savage, and 
other instances of a compassionate and Kcnoruus 
heart, " had they occurred to his retollectam when 
he wrote." What ! is it come to this ? Docs Mr. 
Bowles sit down to write a minute luul hilHirod lite 
and edition of a great jxu-t r DoesPhc an.itoini/.e 
his chaiacter, moral and p.ditical ? Does he present 
OS with his faults and with his foibli^s ? Doe-; he 
lit his feelings, and doubt of his sinceni^ 



sympathize with his predilection. When w« wer« 
in the third form even, had we pleaded on the Mon- 
day morning, that we had not brought up the Sat- 
urday's exeicise because "we had forgotteu it," 
what would Lave been the reply ? And is an ex -us**, 
which would not be pardoned to a scbo « 

current in a matter which so nearl) ,4 

fame of the first poet of his age, if n>;i u- 

try ? If Mr. Bowles so readily forgets the viriuf » oi 
others, why complain so grievou^ly that others have 
a better memory for his own faults ? They are t at 
the faults of an author ; while the virtues he omil 
ted from his catalogue are essential to the justioo 
due t ; a man. 

Mr. Bowles appears, indeed, to be susceptitls 
beyond the privilege of authorship. There is 1 
plaintive dedication to Mr. Gilford, in which he i» 
made responsible for all the articles of the Quarter 
ly. Mr. Southey, it seems, " the most able and eio 
tjuent writer in that Review," approves of Mr. 
Bowles's publication. Now, it seems to me the 
more impartial, that notwithstanding that the great 
writer of the Quarterly entertains opinions cj^posite 
to the able article on Spence, nevertheless that essay 
was permitted to appear. Is a review to be devoted 
to the opinions of any otie man ? Must it not vary 
according to circumstances, and according to the 
subjects to be criticised r I fe;u- that writers must 
take the sweets and bitters of the publir i. r.rr! i!> as 
they occur, and an author of so Iohl: 
Mr. Bowles might have become aceu> 

incidents; he might be angry, but not - . .. ^ 1 

have been reviewed in the Quarterly almo.st as often 
as Mr. Bowles, and have had as pleas.mt thing* 
s;iid, and some ae unjifeasu/U, as could well be pro- 
nounced. In the review of •* The Pall of Jerusa- 
lem," it is stated that I have devolcu "niv ].(.w. rs. 
etc., to the worst parts of manicheisni. ig 

interpreted, means that I worship th. s 

I have neither written a reply, nor >. ,. i '.o 

Gitford. I believe that I observed in a letter to you, 

that I thought " that the critic might have pr«i«ed 

Milnian without finding it neeess;iry i . " 

but I did not add at the sunie time. r, 

(apropos, of the note in the book 01 ;..»l 

I would not, if it were even in my puwii. ha\f a 

single line cancelled on my account in that or in 

any other pul)lication ? Of cou>-- ' "•^' 

self the i)rivilege of response \n 

Bowles seems in a whimsnMl st 

on Speiiee. You know \ 

your confidence, nor in t 

journal. Tlie moment I 

'morally certain that I kiu w il.e „■■. 

style." You will ttll me that 

that is all as it should be : »- • ' 

I, tliough no one has cvei 

not the pir^ou whom >! i 

lk)wles> 

euinstai 

which I " 

for U ColisideraoU' Uuie. Ihv 

very Rentlemuuly youtiR umn, 

in his professi«)ii. wore n wit/. 

he w.ts e.xtieniely tenaciomi. 

.,,.1, tin.-; ;i little' r'>m;h. hi"« < 



do 



e to n»T- 

V. Mr. 
r article 
1 not in 
r of th« 
. ! w.ij 
■■•* 

all 

ileis 
<. Mr 

".r- 
u 



•neer 



Docs he unfold his vanity and duplicity 



? and til 



gilt, in part,,h.i\ ■ ■ 
" and then pie id p" 



omit the good qnalities which 

"covered this niuUitude of Ml . 

thiit '' thry did not occur to his recollection f I 
this the frame of mind and of memory with wh 
the illustri(»us dead are to be repr. 
Bowles, who must have had access 



low, 
repll 



d...i..r 
nl the 



1 r.h.. 

iloctor. 



»Ul l..k*^ 
•• I »hall 



ached.' If M 
to all ll»e me 



of refreshing his memory, did nut roollect h 

facts, he is uiiHt for liis tahk ; but if he did recoil. 

fcnd omit them. I know not what he is t.t tor. bu, . . 

km.w what would be tit for him. 1« the pi- i .'i ■ mnot 

" not recollecting "su:h prominent tact.-* lo be .id 1101 loi 

m-uld?ilr. Bowles ha.* been at a public .couol.|Wof the pt.. 



t, 

■P; 

h 

e« 
..I 
..tt 

•»• 

r, 



i046 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



NOTES. 



1. 



Tht Halians. with the most poetical lar/)%cage, and 
the mat fastidious taste in Europe, possess note Jive 
fyeat poets, they say, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
Tasso, and lastly Aljieri. Page 1042. 

Of these there is one ranked with the others for 
his SoNXETS, and two for compositions which be- 
long to no class at all ! Where is Dante ? His 
poem is not an epic ; then what is it ? He himself 
rails it a " divine comedy ; " and why ? This is 
more than all his thousand commentators have been 
able to explain. Ariosto's is not an epic poem ; and 
if poets are to be classed according to the genus of 
their poetry, where is he to .be placed ^ Of these 
five, Tasso and Alfieri only come within Aristotle's 
arrangement, and Mr. Bowles's class-book. But 
the whole position is false. Poets are classed by 
the power of their performance, and not according 
to its rank in a gradus. In the contrary case, the 
forgotten epic poets of all countries would i-ank 
above Petrarch, Dante, Ariosto, Burns, Gray, Dry- 
den, and the highest names of various countries. 
Mr. Bowles's title of '* ini-ariablo principles of po- 
etry," is, perhaps, the most arrogant ever prefixed 
to a volume. So far are the principles of poetry 
from being " invariable,'' that they never were nor 
never will be settled. These " principles " mean 
nothing more than the predilections of a particular 
age ; and every age has its own, and a different from 
Its predecessor. It is now Homer and now Vii-gil ; 



once Dryden, and since Walter Scott; now Coi 
neiile, and now Racine ; now Crebillon, now Vol 
taire. The Homerists and Virgilians in France di« 
puted for half a century. Not fifty years ago th« 
Italians neglected Dante — Bettinelli reproved Monta 
for reading " that barbarian ; " at present thej 
adore him. Shakspeare and Milton have had theii 
rise, and they will have their decline. Already they 
have more than once fluctuated, as must be the 
case with all the dramatists and poets of a living 
language. This does not depend upon their merits, 
but upon the ordinary vicissitudes of human opis.- 
ions. Schlegel and Madame de Stael have en- 
deavored also to reduce poetry to'two systems, clas 
sical and romantic. The effect is only beginning. 

2. 

I shall not presume to say that Pope is as high a 
poet as Shakspeare and Milton, though his enemi/, 
Warton, places him immediately under them. 

Page 1044. 

If the opinions cited by Mr. Bowles, of Dr. John- 
son against Pope, are to be taken as decisive au- 
;thority, they will also hold good against Gray, Mil- 
ton, Swft, Thomson, and Dryden : in that case 
what becomes of Gray's poetical and Milton's moral 
character ? even of Milton's poetical character, or, 
indeed, of English poetry in general ? for Johnson 
strips many a leaf from every laurel. Still John- 
son's is the finest critical work extant, and can 
never be read without instruction and delight. 



OBSERYATIONS UPON "OBSERYATIONS." 

A SECOND LETTER TO JOHN MURRAY, ESQ. 

ON THE REV, W. L. BOWLES'S STRICTURES ON THE LIFE AND 

WRITINGS OF POPE. 



Ravenna, March 25, 1821. 

De\r Sir, 

In the further " Observations " of Mr. Bowles, in 
rejoinder to the charges brought against his edition 
of Pope, it is to be regretted that he has lost his 
tamper. Whatever the language of his antagonists 
may have been. I fear tliat his replies have afforded 
B\cie plea-sure to them than to the public. That Mr. 
Bowles should not be pleased is natural, whether 
ritjht or wrong ; but a temperate defence would 
hfve answered his purpose in the former case — and, 
in thf latter, no defence, however violent, can tend 
to an) thing but his discomfiture. I have read over 
this third pamphlet, wliich you have been so oblig- 
ing as to send me, and shall venture a few observa- 
tiocs, in addition to those upon the previous 
controversy. 

Mr. Bow'les sets out with repeating his " confirmed 
x»ivic\ion," that " what he said of the moral part 
Df Pope's character, was, generally speaking, true ; 
*nd that the principles of poetical criticism which 
he has laic luwn are invariable and invulnerable," 



&c. ; and that he is the more persuaded of this by 
the " exaggerations of his opponents." This is all 
very well, and highly natural and sincere. Noboiy 
ever expected that either Mr. Bowles or any o ; et 
author, would-be convinced of human fallibilitj in 
their own person's. But it is nothing to the purpose 
— for it is not what Mr. Bowles thinks, but what is 
to be thought of Pope — that is the question. It i3 
what he has asserted or insinuated against a nam* 
which is the patrimony of posterity, that is to be 
tried^ and Mr. Bowles, as a party, can be no judge. 
The more he is persuaded, the better for himself, if 
it give him any pleasure ; but he can only persuade 
others by the proofs brought out in his defence. 

After these prefatory remarks of " conviction," 
&c., Mr.* Bowles proceeds to Mr. Gilchrist; whom 
he charges with " slang " and " slander," besides a 
small subsidiary indictment of " abuse, ignoranc», 
malice," and so forth. Mr. Gilchrist has, indeed, 
shown some anger ; but it is an honest indignation, 
which rises up in defence of the illustriou.s dead. It 
is a generous rage which interposes between oui 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS. 



1047 



aiihes and their disturbers. There appears also to 
have been some slight personal provocation. Mr. 
Gilchrist, with a chivalrous disdain of the fury of 
An incensed poet, put his name to a letter avowing 
the production of a former essay in defence of Pope, 
and consequently of an attack upon Mr. Bowles. 
Mr. Bowles appears to be angry with Mr. Gilchrist 
for four reasons : — firstly, because he wrote an arti- 
cle in "Th#^ London Magazine; " secondly, because 
he afterwara;! avowed it : thirdly, because he was 
the author of a still more extended article in " The 
Quattsrly Review; " and, fourthly, because he was 
NOT the author of the said Quarterly article, and 
had the audacity to disown it — for no earthly reason 
but because he had not written it, 

Mr. Bowlas declares, that " he will not enter into 
a particular examination of the pamphlet," which by 
a misnomer is called " Gilchrist's Answer to Bowles," 
when it should have been called " Gilchrist's Abuse 
of Bowles. ' On this error in the baptism of Mr. 
Gilchrist's pamphlet, it may be observed, that an 
answer may be abusive and yet no less an answer, 
though indisputably a temperate one might be the 
better of the two ; but if ahiMHe is to cancel all pre- 
tensions to reply, what becomes of Mr. Bowles's 
answers to Mr. Gilchrist ? 

Mr. Bowles continues, — *' But as Mr. Gilchrist 
derides my peculiar senaitiveness to criticism, before 
I show how destitute of truth is this representation, 
I will heVe explicitly declare the only grounds," 
&c., &c., &c. — Mr. Bowles'K sensibility in denying 
his " sensitiveness to criticism " proves perhaps too 
much. But if he has been so charged, and tniy — 
what then ? There is no moral turpitude in such 
acuteness of fueling : it has been, and may be, com- 
bined with many good and great qualities. Is Mr. 
Bowles a poet, or is he not } If he be, he must, 
from his very essence, be sensitive to criticism ; 
and even if he be not, he need not be ashamed of 
the common repugnance to being attacked. All 
that is to be wished is, that he had considered how 
disagreeable a thing it is, before he assailed the 
greatest moral poet of any age, or in any language. 

Pope himself " sleeps well."— nothing can touch 
him further ; but those who love the honor of their 
country, the perfection of her literature, the gU)ry 
of her language— are not to be expected to permit 
an atom of his dust to be stirred in his tomb, or a 
leaf to be stripped from the laurel which grows 
over it. 

Mr. Bowles assigns several reasons why and when 
«' an author is justified in appealing to overy iwrif/ht 
and hoiwrahle mind in the kingdom," If Mr. Bowles 
limits the perusal of his defence to the " upright 
and honorable" only, I greatly fear that it will not 
be extensively circulated. I should rather hope 
that some of the downright and dishonest will read 
and be converted, or convicted. But the whole ()f 
his reasoning is here superfluous— " a7i author is 
iustified in appealing" &c,, when and wliy ho 
pleases. Let liini make out a tolerable ease, and 
few of his readers will quarrel witli his motives. 

Mr. Bowles " will now plainly set bofdre the lite- 
rary public all the circuiiistaiices which have led 
to his name and Mr. Gilchrist's being brought to 
g£the',"i<-c. Conrlesyre(iuiics, in speaking otothcTH 
and ourselves, that we should place the name of the 
foitiier first— and not "/wo et Hex meus." Mr. 
Bowles should have written " Mr. Oilchnsfii name 

aii'l 1"* ' . , , ^ jj * 

'I'his point ne wishes " particularly to addn-HH to 
those hwst respectable charartera, w\w jiave the di- 
rection and management of the ponoduuil .1 
press." That the press may be, in hoiup mst 
conducted by rcspoctablc characterH 18 pr<; 
enougli; but if they arc so. there in no oeca^iun u> 
tell them of it; and if they are not, it l« a biUi. 
adulation. In either caHe, it looks like n kii (1 " 
HattcMV, bv which thov^ gentry are not very l.k-i 
to be 'softened; since it would be dimcult to tinl 
two pabsaKcs in fifteen pogea mora at vanaucc, 



than Mr. Bowles's prose at the beginning of thif 
pamphlet, and his verse at the end of it. In pagi 
4, he speaks of " those most respectable characten 
who have the direction, &c., of the periodical presa, ' 
and in page 10, we find — 

" Ye dark inqwsitori, a monk-like hand, 

Who o'er loine ■lirinking ricu^n-AUihur ■nin'l, 
A soir mn, K^crel, au'l vindictive brood, 
Only terrific in your cowl auil bood," 

And so on — to " bloody law " and " red scourge*,** 

with other similar phrases, which mav not be alto 
gether agreeable to the above-mentioned " moM 
respectable characters." Mr. Bowles goes on, "I 
concluded my observations in the last Pamphletfer 
with feelings 7iot unkind towards Mr. Gilchrist, or" 
[it should be nor"] " to the author of the revie-%- ni 
Spence, be he whom he might." — "I was in hcje, 
as I have ahcays been reaily to admit any errors I 
might have been led into, or preiudice I might have 
entertained, that even Mr. Gilchrist might be dis- 
posed to a more amicable mode of discussing what I 
had advanced in regard to Pope's moral character." 
As Major Sturgeon observes, " There never was a 
set of more amicable officers — with the exception ol 
a boxing-bout between Captain Shears and the Col- 
onel." 

A page and a half— nay only a page before— Mr. 
Bowles reaffirms his conviction, that "what he hae 
said of Pope's moral character is fi/e/uratly sptok- 
inr/J true, and that his " poetical principles are 
invariable and inculnerable." He has also pul)- 
lished three pamphlets, — ay, four of the same tenor, 
— and yet, with this declaration and these decla/zia- 
tioBs staring him and his adversaries in the face, he 
speaks of his " readiness to admit errors or to ab:in- 
don prejudices ! ! ! " His use of the word " an.;, a- 
ble " reminds me of the Irish Institution (wl ch 
I have somewhere heard or read ol) called the 
" Friendly Society," where the president alway 
carried pistols in his pocket, so that when one ami 
cable gentleman knocked down another, the dilfei 
ence might be adjusted on the spot, at the harmo- 
nious distance of twelve paces. 

But Mr. Bowles " has suicc read a publication by 
him (Mr. Gilchrist) containing such vulK'ar slander, 
affecting private life and character," \c., \c. : umI 
Mr. Gilchrist has also had the advantage of n i .u 
a publication by Mr. Bowles sulficicntly im ■•.. •! 
with personalitv; for one of the tirst and priu ; i. 
toi)ics of reproaVh is that h" i-^ h frro<yr, thut li. !i^« 
a " i)ipe in his mouth. '. ' ' ' 
dingy shop-boy, h.ilf i 
\c. Nay, the same «!■ 
very title-page. When lunlrovtu 
meiiced upon this footing, as I)i 
Dr. Percy, "Sir, thero is an end 
are to be as rude as we please— Si I 

wii>^ short-siyht^d." As a mim'-* ] 
rally no m«)re in his own ]n'" 
Itotfi having been made out 
he should be reproacl.<*d witli 
that an honest culling should b> 
If there is any thing more hon- 
ehrist than another it i'*, thai 
e(»mmeree he had the taste, and 
to lieeome so able a prortciftit in ' 
ture of his own and ■ 
who will be proud to(n 
and HloomHeld for b 
quarrelled vith Mr. ' 
(Jib-hrisf-* station, \u 



|b.i'. 



e kiioM nui 1 II 



1048 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



fend Aristarchus survive, and the works of Aristotle, 
Longinus, and Quintilian : but of •' Christian criti- 
cism " we have already had some specimens in the 
works of Philelphus, Poggius, Scaliger, Milton, 
Salniasius, the Cruscanti (versus Tasso), the French 
Academy (against the Cid), and the antagonists of 
Voltaire and of Pope — to say nothing of some arti- 
cles in most of the reviews, since their earliest 
institution in the person of their respectable and 
Btill prolific parent, " The Monthly." Why, then, 
is Mr. Gilchrist to be singled out "as having set 
the first example ? " A sole page of Milton or 
Salmasius contains more abuse — rank, rancorous, 
unleavened abuse— than all that can be raked forth 
from the whole works of many recent critics. There 
are some, indeed, who still keep up the good old 
custom ; but fewer English than foreign. It is a 

5iiy that Mr. Bowles cannot witness some of the 
til:an controversies, or become the subject of one. 
He would then look upon Mr. Gilchrist as a pane- 
gyrist. * * * ***** 
To me it appears of no very great consequence 
whether Martha Blount was or was not Pope's mis- 
tress, though I could have wished him a better. 
She appears to have been a cold-hearted, interested, 
ignorant, disagreeable woman, upon whom the ten- 
derness of Pope's heart in the desolation of his 
latter days was cast away, not knowing whither to 
turn, as he drew towards his premature old age, 
childless and lonely, — like the needle which, ap- 
proaching within a certain distance of the pole, 
becomes helpless and useless, and, ceasing to trem- 
ble, rusts. She seems* to have been so totally un- 
worthy of tenderness, that it is an additional proof 
of the kindness of Pope's heart to have been able 
to love such a being. But we must love something. 
I agree with Mr. B. that she " could at no time 
have regarded Pope personally with attachment," 
because she was incapable of attachment ; but I 
deny that Pope could not be regarded with personal 
attachment by a worthier woman. It is not proba- 
ble, indeed, that a woman would have fallen in love 
with him as he walked along the Mall, or in a box 
at the opera, nor from a balcony, nor in a ball-room ; 
but in society he seems to have been as amiable as 
unassuming, and, with the greatest disadvantages 
of figure, his head and face were remarkably hand- 
some, especially his eyes. He was adored by his 
friends — friends of the most opposite dispositions, 
ages, and talents — by the old and wayward Wycher- 
ley, by the cynical Swift, the rough Atterbury, the 
gentle Spence, the stern attorney-bishop Warbur- 
ton, the virtuous Berkeley, and the " cankered 
Bolingbroke." Bolingbroke wept over him like a 
child; and Spence"s description of his last moments 
is at least as edifying as the more ostentatious 
account of the death-bed of Addison. The soldier 
Peterborough and the poet Gay, the witty Congreve 
and the laughing Rowe, the eccentric Cromwell and 
the steady Bathurst. were all his intimates. The 
man who could conciliate so many men of the most 
opposite description, not one of whom but was a 
remarkable or a celebrated character, might well 
have pretended to all the attachment which a rea- 
BOnable man would desire of an amiable woman. 

Pope, in fact, wherever he got it, appears to have 
understood the sex well. Bolingbroke, " a judge 
pf the subject," says Warton, thought his "Epistle 
on the Characters of Women " his " master-piece." 
And even with respect to the grosser passion, which 
takes occasionally the name of ''romantic," ac- 
cordingly as the degree of sentiment elevates it 
above the definition of love by Buifon, it may be 
remarked, that it does not always depend upon 
personal appearance, even in a woman. Madame 
Cottin was a plain woman, and might have been 
virtuous, it may he presumed, without mtich inter- 
ruption. Virtuous she was, and the consequences 
o: this inveterate virtue were that two different 
ad:n;'rers (one an eMerly gentleman) kilU-d them-] 
selves iu despair (see Lady Morgan's "France.") 



I would not, howevev-, recommend this rigor to plain 
women in general, in the hope of securing the glory 
of two suicides a-piece. I believe that there are 
few men who, in the course of their observations 
on life, may not have perceived that it is not the 
greatest female beauty who forms the longest' and 
the strongest passions. 

But, apropos of Pope. — Voltaire tetlsjis that the 
Marechal Luxembourg (who had precisely Pope's 
figure) was not only somewhat too amatorj'^ for « 
great man, but fortunate in his attachments. La 
%"alipre, the passion of Louis XIV., haJ an uu- 
sightly defect. The Princess of Eboli, the mistiesa 
of Philip II. of Spain, and Maugiron, the minion "A 
Henry III. of France, had each of them lost sn 
eye ; and the famous Latin epigram was writte li 
upon them, which has, I believe, been either trini. 
lated or imitated by Goldsmith : — 

" Lun)ine Aeon dextro, capia est Leonilla siiiistio, 
El potis est forma vincere uterque Decs ; 
Blande puer, lumen quod habe concede sorrori, 
Sic tu cscus Amor, sic erit ilia Venus." 

Wilkes, with his ugliness, used to say that "be 
was but a qixarter of an hour behind the handsomest 
man in England; " and this vaunt of his is said not 
to have been disproved by circumstances. Swift, 
when neither young, nor handsome, nor rich, nor 
even amiable, inspired the two most extraordinajy 
passions upon record — Vanessa's and Stelli's. 

" Vanesca, aged scarce a score, 
Sighs for a gown oi forty -four " 

He requited them bitterly ; for he seems to havo 
broken the heart of the one, and worn out that of 
the other ; and he had his reward, for he died a soli- 
tary idiot in the hands of servants. 

For my own part, I am of the opinion of Pausa 
nias, that success in love depends upon Fortune. 
" They particularly renounce Celestial Venus, into 
whose temple, &c., &c., &c. I remember, too, to 
have seen a building in ^gina in which there is a 
statue of Fortune, holding a. horn of Amalthea ; 
and near her there is a witiged Love. The meaning 
of this is, that the success of men in love affairs 
depends more on the assistance of Fortune than the 
charms of beauty. I am persuaded, too, with Pin- 
dar (to whose opinion I submit in other particulars) 
that Fortune is one of the Fates, and that in a cer- 
tain respect she is more powerful than her sisters." 
— See Pausanias, Achaics, book vii., chap, xxvi., p. 
256. Taylor's " Translation." 

Grimm has a remark of the same kind on the dif- 
ferent destinies of the younger Crebillon and Rous- 
seau. The former writes a licentious novel, and a 
young English girl of some fortune and family (a 
Miss Stratibrd) runs away, and crosses the sea to 
marry him ; while Rousseau, the most tender and 
passionate of lovers, is obliged to espouse his cham- 
bermaid. If I recollect rightly, this remark was also 
repeated in the Edinburgh Review of Grimm's cor 
respondence, seven or eight years ago. 

In regard "to the strange mixture of indecent, 
and sometimes profane levity, which his conduct 
and language ofte?}. exhibited," and which so much 
shocks Mr. Bowles, I object to the indefinite word 
''often ;," and in extenuation of the occasional oc- 
currence of such language it is to be recollected, 
that it was less the tone of Pope, than the tone of 
the time. With the exception of the correspondence 
of Pope and his friends, not many private letters of 
the period have come down to us ; but those, such 
as they are — a few scattered scraps from Farquhar 
and others — are more indecent and coarse than any 
thing in Pope's letters. The comedies of Congre\e, 
Vanbrugh, Farquhar, Cibber, &<•., which naturally 
attempted to represent the manners and conversa- 
tion of private life, are decisive upon this point ; a» 
are also some of Steele's papers, and even Addi- 
son's. AVe all know what the conversation of Sil 
R. Walpole, for seventeen years the prime miniatei 



OBSERVATIONS UPON "OBSERVATIONS." 



104* 



C»f the country, was at his own table, and his excuse 
»or nis licentious lan^uaj^e, viz.. "that every body 
understood that, but few could talk rationally upon 
less common topics." The refinement of' latter 
days, — which is perhaps the consequence of vice, 
fvhich wishes to mask and soften itself, as much as 
of virtuous ci\-ilization, — had not yet made sufficient 
progress. Even Johnson, in his "London," has 
two or three passaj^es which cannot be read aloud, 
and Addisou'3 "Drummer" some indelicate allu- 
sions. 

To return to Mr. Bowles. " If what is here ex- 
tracted can excite in the mind (I will not say of any 
'layman,' of any 'Christian,' but) of any human 
being," &o., &c. Is not Mr. Gilchrist a '" human 
being ? " Mr. Bowles asks " whether in attributing 
an article," &c., &c., "to the critic, he had any 
reason for distins^uishincf him with that courtesy," 
Sec &c. Bat Mr. Bowles was wrong in "attribut- 
ing tne article" to Mr. Gilchrist at all; and would 
not have been right in calling him a dunce and a 
grocer, if he had Avritten it. 

Mr. Bowles in here " peremptorily called upon to 
speak of a circumstance which gives him the great- 
est p^in, — the meiition of a letter he received from 
the editor of ' The London Magazine.' " Mr. Bowles 
seems to have embroiled himself on all sides ; — 
whether by editing, or replying, or attributing, or 
quoting, — it has been an awkward affair for him. 

Poor Scott is now no more. In the exercise of 
his vocation, he contrived at last to make himself 
the subject of a coroner's inquest. But he died 
like a brave man, and he lived an able one. I knew 
him personally, though slightly. Although several 
years my senior, we had been schoolfellows together 
at the " grammar-schule " (or, as the Abcrdonians 
pronounne it, "syu'W") of New Aberdeen. He 
did not behave to me (piite handsomely in his capa- 
fiity of editor a few years ago, but he was under no 
obligation to behave otherwise. The moment was 
too tempting for many friends and for all enemies. 
At a time when all my relations (save one) full from 
me like leaves from the tree in autumn winds, and 
mv few friends became still fewer, — when the whole 
periodical press (I mean the daily and weekly, not 
the literary press) was let loose against me in every 
Bhape of reproach, with the two strange exceptions 
(from theii- usual opposition) of " The Courier " an. 
" The Examiner, '^' — the paper of which Scott haa 
the direction was neitlier the last nor the least vitu- 
perative. Two years ago I met him atV'enice, when 
he was bowed in griefs, by the loss of his rotj, and 
had known by experience, the bitterness of domes- 
tic privation." lie was then earnest with nie to 
return to l^.ngland ; and on my telling him, v,ith a 
smile, that he was once of a VliHcrent opinion, ho 
replied to me, " that he and others had l)ein greatly 
misled; and that some pains, and ratlier extr.iordi- 
nary means, had been taken to excite them " Scott 
is n more, l)ut there are more than one living, who 
were present at this diah)gue. He was a man of 
very consideralile talents, and of great aequire- 
ment.v He had made his way, as a literary charae- 
tei, with high s iccess, and in a few years. i'o»r 
feliqw! I recollect his joy at some ^jpointment 
which he had ol)tained, or was to obtain, tbrr-^*- 
B.ir James Mackintosh, and which )ic.t-u-o thi. 
further extension (unless bv a luv'lu ran to Rome) 
of his trav.ls in Italy. I little thouglit to what it 
would conduct him. Teaee l)e with him !— and nmv 
all such otlier faults as are inevitalde to Inimanitv 
be as readily forgiv.'u him, us the little injury which 
he had done to one who reril)octed hi8 talentB, ami 
regrets h s loss. 

I pass over Mr. Bowles's page of oxplanatiou. 
apon the correspondence between him and Mr. 

£ . It is of little impnrtaiiee in regard to I <^Y'\ 

and contains mere.lv a recontradiction of a ■ 
diction of Mr. (Jilch'ri.st's. We now come tn 
where Mr. (Jilchri.st has, eertuiulv, rnthn . 

Tated muttor«; and of course, ^x. Bowie* uiaL.^Uwr what I d.d nut 
132 



the most of it. Capital letters, like Kcan's name. 
" large upon the bills," are made use of six or seven 
times to express his sense of the outrage. The 
charge is, indeed, very boldly made ; but, like 
" Ilanold of the Mist's " practical joke of putting 
the bread and ch?ese into a dead man's mouth, is. 
as Dugald Dalgetty says, " somewhat too wi.d ano 
salvage, besides wasting the good victuals." 

Mr. Bowles appeals to the "Christian render ! ' 
upon this " Gilchristian criticism." Is not this 
play upon such words " a step beyond decorum " io 
a clergyman .' But I admit the temptation of a pun 
to be irresistible. 

But " a hasty pamphlet was published, in which 
some personalities respecting Mr. Gilchrist w>re 
suffered to appear." If Mr. B jwlos will write 
" hasty pamphlets," why is he so siirprised on re- 
ceiving short answers ? The grand grievance tn 
wliich he perpetually returns is a charge of '* ffiyc- 
chondriacisni," asserted or insinuated in the Quar- 
terly. I cannot conceive a man in perfect health 
being much affected by such a charge, because his 
complexion and conduct must amply refute it. But 
were it true, to what does it amount ? — to an iin- 
peacliment of a liver complaint. " I will tell it to 
the world," exclaimed the learned Sinelfuiiirus. — 
You had better," said I, " tell it to your ph\ ^i> ..m. 
There is nothing dishonoraiile in such a di^o:Jcr. 
which is more peculiarly the malady of Ktiulenl^. It 
has been the complaint of the good, and t!ie wi^, 
and the witty, and even of the gav. Regnard. the 
author of the last French eome<iy after Moli.Te. 
was atrabilious; and Moli< re himself, saturnine. 
Dr. Johnson, Gray, and Burns, were all uioie or l.-ss 
affected by it occasionally. It wxs tlio jt 1 i i ■ to 
the more awful malady of Collins. (' t, 

and Smart; but it by no means folic r 

tial alfliction of this disorder is to II: ..«.<« 

theirs. But even were it so, — 

" Nor bt-l, nor wi»<«, «r« exempt from thee : 
Folly— Kolly'i oiUy fn«." 



If this be the criterion of exemption 
last two pamphlets form a better eerti 
than a physician's. Mendehlson and 
times so "overcome with thi.s depre-^ 
'oldiged to recur to seeing 
counting tiles upon the oppos 



Mr. RnxTlr<i't 

!» 

it 

Ikj 

puppet-shows, aiii 
r houses." to divct 
themselves. Dr. Johnson at times "would ha»« 
given a limb to recover his spirits." Mr. l<tiwle«, 
who is (strange to say) fond of quoting lN>pc, may 
perhaps answer, — 

" Oo on, oh<i)rli<f ciTMluiT*, Irt iik- • 
All which UuKrmfiM my Mim ii* in i.«-." 

But the charge, such as it i<!, nf-ithtT di*'rmr*>^ thi«ni 

n(u- him. It is ea-i'\ 

if proved true, has \ 

very indignant. Mr. i 

a little nshauu'd of hii* " 

•it tempts to excu«o it by t' 

that iH to say, by Mr. Bowl 



.a 

sO 

'•• 

h0 

-n • Mr- 

(lil.'hrist was tHc writer of the arUcle m ihe Quar 
terly, which he w:is nnf. 

" Hut, in e\t' '^* 

-1'-l f) uld I.. '• 

iiiat orders wt ; •• 

th.it the most dirrrl pn • 

O'niftrrt rnfirrli^," \r 1 -^ 

C.lls-l. • ' ' t. 

in this 1. 

and Mr - 

to regartl .Mr. IJi.v>lc:."» .•.-ui t. •...•. like t;.c iu« 

the -pear of Achilla, which had such 

Kurgerv." 

Hut "Mr Gllehrint hn- 
rr'Mlor will -.im* " I iini a • 



d 
ul 

•kill in 

■he 



iile, U4cr«ly ^-caun" 



.1. 

r 

.\lr 



1050 



BYRON'S TVORKS. 



Bowles't will and pleasure .o be as angry with me 
for having written in the London Magazine, as for 
not having written in the Quarterly Review. 

" Mr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge ; for he 
fias, in his answer, said so and so," &c., &c. There 
is no great revenge in all this ; and I presume that 
nobody either seeks or wishes it. What revenge ? 
Mr. Bowles rails names, and he is answered. But 
Mr. Gilchrist and the Quarterly Review are not 

Eoets, nor pretenders to poetry ; therefore they can 
ave no envy nor malice against Mr. Bowles ; they 
have no acquaintance with Mr. Bowles, and can 
have no personal pique; they do not cross his path 
of life, nor he theirs. There is no political feud 
between them. What, then, can be the motive of 
their discussion of his deserts as an editor ? — vene- 
ration for the genius of Pope, love for his memory, 
and regard for the classic glory of their country. 
Wliy would Mr. Bowles edite ? Had he limited his 
honest endeavors to poetry, very little would have 
been said upon the subject, and nothing at all by 
his present antagonists. 

Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a "mud-cart," and 
the writer a " scavenger." Afterwards he asks. 
'* Shall he fling dirt and receive rose-ivaterf" This 
metaphor, by-the-way, is taken from Marmontel's 
Memoirs ; who, lamenting to Clmmfort the shed- 
ding of blood during the French revolution, was 
answered, " Do you think that revolutions are to be 
made ^^•ith rose-water f" 

For my own part, I presume that "rose-water" 
would be infinitely more graceful in the hands of 
Mr. Bowles than the substance which he has substi- 
tuts^d for that delicate liquid. It would also more 
confound his adversary, supposing him a "scaven- 
ger." I remember, (and do you remember, reader, 
that it was in my earliest youth, " Consule Planco,") 
—on the morning of the great battle, (the second) — 
between Gulley and Gregson, — Cribb, who was 
matched against Horton for the second fight, on 
the same memorable day, awaking me (a lodger at 
the inn in the next room) by a loud remonstrance 
to the waiter against the abomination of his towels, 
which had been laid in lavender. Cribb was a coal- 
heaver — and was much more discomfitted by this 
odoriferous efFeminancy of tine linen, than by his 
adversary Horton, whom he "finished in style," 
though with some reluctance; for I recollect that 
he said, " he dL-sliked hurting him, he looked so 
pretty," — Horton being a very fine fresh-colored 
young man. 

To return to "rose-water" — that is, to gentle 
means of rebuke. Does Mr. Bowles know how to 
revenge himself upon a hackney-coachman, when 
he has overcharged his fare ? In case he should 
not, I will tell him. It is of little use to call him a 
" rascal, a scoundrel, a thief, an impostor, a black- 
guard, a villain, a ragamuffin, a — what you please ;" 
all that he is used to — it is his mother-tongue, and 
probably his mother's. But look him steadily and 
quietly in the face, and say — "Upon my word, I 
think you are the tu/liest felloio I ever saw in my 
life," and he will instantly roll forth the brazen 
thunders of the charioteer Salmoneus as follows : — 
•• Huyly what the h— 11 are you f You a gentleman 1 
Wliy — ' ! " So much easier it is to provoke — and 
therefore to vindicate — (for passion punishes him 
who feels it more than those whom the passionate 
would excruciate) — by a few quiet words the aggres- 
sor, than by retorting violently. The "coals of fire 
of the Scripture are benefits ; — ^but they are not the 
less " coals oi Jire." 

I pass over a page of quotation and reprobation — 

Sin up to my song " — " Oh let my little bark " — 

Arcades ambo " — " Writer in the Quarterly Re- 
view and himself " — "In-door avocations, indeed" 
--" Kings of Brentford " — " One nosegay " — Peren- 
nial nosegay " — " Oh Juvenes," — and the like. 

Page 12, produces "more reasons," — (the task 
»ught not to have been difficult, for as yet there 



the critique in the Quarterly to Octaviu\i Gilc.inst 
All these " reasons " consist of surfnises of Mi 
Bowles, upon the presumed character of his op 
ponent. " He did not suppose there could exist 
man in the kingdom so impudent, &c., &c., excepi 
Octavius Gilchrist." — " He did not think there wai 
a man in the kingdom who would 7J?-e^<j«f/ ic/norance, 
&c., &c., except Octavius Gilchrist." — "He did not 
conceive that one man in the kingdom would uttel 
such stupid flippancy, &c., &c., except Octaviu$ 
Gilchrist." — " He did not thirx there was one man 
in the kingdom who, &c., &c., could so utterly 
show his ignorance, C07nbined with conceit, &-c., a« 
Octavius Gilchrist." — "He did not believe there 
was a man in the kingdom so perfect Mr. Gilchrist's 
' old lunes,' " ike, &c.— He did not think th^ •>iean 
mind of any one in the kingdom," &c,, and bO on; 
always beginning with " any one in the kingdom," 
and ending with "Octavius Gilchrist," Like the 
word in a catch. I am not "in the kingdom," and 
have not been much in the kingdom since I was 
one-and-twenty, (about five years in the whole, since 
I was of age,) and have no desire to be in the king- 
dom again, whilst I breathe, nor to sleep there 
afterwards ; arid I regret nothing more than having 
ever been "in the kingdom" at all. But though 
no longer a man "in the kingdom," let me hope 
that when I have ceased to exi^^t, it may be said, as 
was answered by the master of Clanronald's hench- 
man, his day after the battle of SherilT-Muir, when 
he was found watching his ckief's body. He was 
asked, " who that was ? " he replied — " it was a 
man yesterday." And in this capacity, " in or out 
of the kingdom," I must own that I participate in 
many of the objections urged by Mr, Gilchrist. I 
participate in his love of Pope, ar i in his not 
understanding, and occasionally finding fault with, 
the last editor of our last truly great poet. 

One of the reproaches against Mr. Gilchrist is, 
that he is (it is sneeringly said) an F. S. A. If it 
will give Mr. Bowles any pleasure, I am not an F. 
S. A., but a Fellow of the Royal Society at his 
service, in case there should be any thing in that 
association also which may point a paragraph. 

" There are some other reasons," but " the author 
is now not unkno^vn." Mr. Bowles has so totally 
exhausted himself upon Octavus Gilchrist, that he 
has not a word left for the real quarterer of his 
edition, although now " deterre." 

The follomng page refers to a mysterious charge 
of " duplicity, in regard to the publication of Pope's 
letters." Till this charge is made in proper form, 
we have nothing to do with it : Mr. Gilchrist hints 
it — Mr. Bowles denies it ; there it rests for the 
present. Mr. Bowles professes his dislike to Pope's 
duplicity, not to Pope — a distinction apparentlv 
without a difference. However, I believe that 1 
understand him. We have a great dislike to Mr. 
Bowles's edition of Pope, but not to Mr. Bowles ; 
nevertheless, he takes up the subject as warmly as 
if it was personal. With regard to the fact of 
"Pope's duplicity," it remains to be proved— like 
Mr. Bowles's benevolence towards his n emory. 

In page 14, we have a large assertion, that *'the 
'Eloisa' alone is sufficient to convict him oi gross 
licentiousness.'' Thus, out. it comes at last. Mr. 
Bowles does accuse Pope of '\gross licentiousness," 
and grounds the charge upon a poem. The licen' 
tioiisness is a. " grand puet-etre,'.' according to the 
turn of the times being. The grossness I deny. 
On the contrary, I do believe that such a subject 
never was, nor ever could be, treated by any poet 
with so much delicacy, mingled with, at the same 
time, such true and intense passion. Is the "Atys" 
of Catullns licentious ? No, nor even gross ; and 
yet Catullus is often a coarse writer. The subject 
is nearly the same, except that Atys was the suicide 
of his manhood, and Abelard the victim. 

The " licentiousness " of the story was not Pope's 

"t was a fact. All that it had of gross, he ha 



were none) — "to shew why Mr. Bowles attributed | softened ; — j^H that it had of indelicate, he 



OBSERVATIONS LPON "OBSERVATIONS.'* 



1031 



Eunhed;— all that it had of passionate, he has 
eautifted ;— all that it had of holy, he has hal- 
lowed. Mr. Campbell has admirably marked this 
m a few words (I quote from memory), in drawing 
the distinction between Pope and Dryden, and 
pointing out where Dryden was wanting. "I 
fear," says he, "that had the subject of ' Eloisa ' 
fallen into his (Dryden's) hands, that he would 
have given us but a coarse draft of her passion." 
Never was the delicacy of Pope so much shown as 
in this poem. With the facts and tlie letters of 
" Eloisa " he has done what no other mind but that 
of the best and purest of, poets could have accom- 
plished with such materials. Ovid, Sappho (in the 
Ov'e called hers)— -all that we have of ancient, all 
thvt we have of modern poetry, sinks into nothing 
coi.ipared with him in this production. 

Let us hear no more of this tiash about " licen- 
t'oUiU'ss." Is not " Anacreon " taught in our 
schools ? — translated, praised, and edited ? Are 
no. his Odes the amatory praises of a boy ? Is not 
Sappho's Ode on a girl ? Is not this sublime and 
^^according to Longinus) fierce love for one of her 
own sex ? And is not Phillip's translation of it in 



the mouths of all 



your women ? And are the English 



scliools or the English women the more corrupt for 

all this ? When you have thrown the ancients into 

the fire, it will be time to denounce the moderns. 

"Licentiousness!" — there is more real mischief 

and sapping licentiousness in a single French prose 

novel, in a Moravian hymn, or a Gernum comedy, 

than in all the actual poetry that ever was penned, 

or poured forth, since the rhapsodies of Orpheus. 

The sentimental anatomy of Rousseau and Mad. de reception of the critif*isra 

S. are iixr more formidable tlian any quantity of '* ' *^ ^ 

verse. They are so, because they sap the principles 

hy reasoiU7i(j upon the puss ions ; whereas poetry is 

in itself passion, and does not systematise. It 

assails, but does not argue ; it may be wrong, but 

it does not assume pretensi(4ps to Optimism. 

Mr. Bowles now has the goodness " to point out 
the difference between a traducer and him who sin- 
cerely states what he sincerely believes," He might 
have spared himself the trouble. The one is a liar 
who lies knowingly ; the other (I speak of a scandal 
monger of course) lies, charitably believing that he 
speaks truth, and very sorry to find himself in 
falsehood ; — because he 



" Would rather that the dean ghoiUd die, 
Th^ii lii> predicliou prove a lie." 

After a definition of a " traducer," which was 
quite supertiiious (though it is agreeable to learn 
that Mr. Bowles so well understands the cliaract'ir), 
we are assured, that " he feels equally indilFerent, 
Mr. Gilchrist, for what your malice can iTivent, or 
your iuipudence utter." This is indubitable ; for it 
rests not only on Mr. Bowles's assuranoo, but on 
that of Sir Fretful Plagiary, and nearly in the same 
words, — "and I shall treat it with cxaifly the same 
calm indifference and piiilosophical contempt, and 
80 your servant." 

"One thing has given Mr. Bowles concern." It 
is " a passage which might seem to reflect on the 
patronage a young man has received." Mkjut 
Beera! The passage alluded to expresses, that if 
Mr. Gilchrist be the reviewer of "a certain poet of 
nature," his praise and l)lame are equilly con- 
temptible.— Mr. Bowks, who has a ptiuliarly uni- 
biguotis style, where it suits him, comes otf with a 
*'iwt to ihc iwet, but the critic," ike In n>y hum 
ble opinion, the passage referred to both. 
Mr. Bowles really m-ant fairly, he would havt 
»o from the first— he wouhl have been oiigerly 
transparent.— " A certain poet of nature" Ih not 
the style of con mendition. It is the very pri)l»»KU.- 
to the most scandalous paragraphH of the uiWh- 
pupers, when 

•• WUU If to wouvl, and jrot afniid ki Mrike." 



Had 
Htiid 



— "a certain illustrious foreignei,"— what dn these 
words ever precede, but defamation ? Had he fell 
a spark of kindling kindness for John Clare, ha 
would have named him. There is a sneer in the 
sentence as it stands. IIow a favorable reriew of a 
deserving poet can " rather injure than promote hia 
cause " is difficult to comprehend. The articis 
denounced is able and amiable, and it ha9 " served " 
the poet, as far as poetry can be served by judicioui 
and honest criticism. 

With the two next paragraphs of Mr. Bowles's 
pamphlet it is pleasing to concur. His mention I 
" Pennie," and his former patronage of "S.'iot!," 
do him honor. I am not of those who may d.i'.) 
Mr. Bowles to be a benevolent man. I inerely 
assert, that he is not a candid editor. 

Mr. Bowles has been " a writer occasiorally 
upwards of thirty years," and never wrote one 
word in reply in his life "to criticisms, nierely iU 
criticisms." This is Mr. Lofty in Gold>niit)rs OVod- 
natured Man; " and I vow by all that's hunoraMe. 
my resentment has never done the men, as mere 
men, any manner of harm, — that is, as mvre mat." 

"The letter to the editor of the newspaper " is 
owned ; but " it was not on account of the criticism. 
It was because the criticism came down in a fniik 
(lirected to Mrs. Bf>wles ! ! ! " — (the italics :ind tiiree 
not«'s of admiration appended to Mrs. Bowles are 
copied verbatim from the qviotation,) and Mr. 
Boules was not displeased with the criticism, but 
with the frank and the address. I agree with Mr. 
Bowles that the intention was to annoy him ; but I 
fear that tliis was answered by his notice of tlie 
An anonymous Utter- 
writer has but one means of knowing the etfit t of 
his attack. In this he has the superiority ovir the 
viper ; he knows that his poison has taken eiltH-t 
when he hears the victim cry; — the adder is </( u/. 
The best reply to an anonymous intimation is to 
take no notice directly nor indirectly. I wish Mr. 
Bowles could see only one or two of the thous.ind 
which I have received in the course of a htfr.iry 
life, which, though begun early, has not yet ix- 
tended to a third part of his cxiNtence as an author. 
I speak of literary life only. Were I to add lu r- 



soiKil, I might double the amount of ■■ 

letters. If he could but see the ^ 
threats, the absurdity of the whole thi- 
laugli, and so should I, and thus 1 - 

i'o keep up the farci-, — witlun i 
this present writing (18L*1), I h 
threatened in the aanie way whiclj m 
Bowles's fame. — ex«-epting that the 
denunciation was addressed to tlie Cardn..;. i. 
at liomagna, instt-ad of to Mrs. Bowles. Thi 
dinal is. I believe, the eldiT ladv of thr tv 
;il)|)t'nd the menai-e in all its Im: 
Italian.'tliat Mr. Bowle.s may be . 
this is thi' only "promise to j)a> . 
ians ever keen, so uiy uersou nas 
much exposeo to H "snot in thr 
"John llealherbluttcr" (see Wavm* i. 
Bowh-s's glory was from nn editor. I 
thflcss, on horsoback and loji.lv for 
{inif of them twilight) in i 
this, because it wu« my "en 
and that I Iwlievp if the tyr;i: 
his gn.uiU (shtmld it l»e mo ^ 
l)ler inilixidtial would And pi. 

Mr. Bowlert haH hen *' 
"he mu(it «iu«eunib; ' 
against him. \u- \\.\^ i 
srir-.l. 
fixe 1 

lines* <j .' 

luni witli jis iininy from the 
,„,,,.», (),,. t.,.tt».r Mr M.M. 



A.certaii; high personage/*—" a certain poerei«,"liecoaucii.d, ihai A\ lu} i.jcuoa* ujuuiuu* ol M* 



1052 



•UTRON'S WORKS. 



Bowles's poetnr were irriffeti long before the pub- ; and even flatteringly. The reader will forgive tHe 
lication of his last and best poem; and that a; weakness in favor of mortality, and c'-/»rrect joul 
poefs /oaY poem should be his best, is his highest; adulation with a smile. But to sit down "mingera 
" ■ ' V , , 1 , ' ' in patriots cineres." as Mr. Bowles has done, meriU 

a reprobation so strong, that I am as incapable ol 
expressing as of ceasing to feel it. 



praise. But, however, he may duly and honorably 
rank with his li\-ing rivals, there never was so 
complete a proof of the superiority of Pope, as in 
the lines with which Mr. Bowles closes his "to be 
conchuied in our next." 

Mr. Bowies is avowedly the champion and the 
poet of nature. Art and the aits lu-e dragged, some 
b»»fore. and others behind his chariot. Pope, where 
he deals with passion, and with the nature of the 
naturals of the day. is allowed even by themselves 
to be sublime ; but they complain that too soon — * 

" He stoop 'd to truth ami nioiulisetl his song." 

and there even t/ny allow him to be unrivalled. He 
has succeeded, and even surpassed them, when he 
chose, in tlieir own pretended province. Let us see 
what their Coryphopus effects in Pope's. But it is 
too pitiable, it is too luehuxcholy to see Mr. Bowles 
•' sinnint/ " not *' up " but " down " as a poet to his 
lowest tiepth as an editor. By the way. Mr. Bowles 
is always quoting Pope. I grant that there is no 
poet — not 8hakspe.ue himself — who can be so often 
quoted, with reference to life ; — but his editor is so 
like the devil quoting Scripture, that I could wish 
Mr. Bowles in his proper place, quoting in the 
puJpit. 

And now for his lines. But it is painful — painful 
—to see such a suicide, though at the shrine of 
Pope. I cau't copy them all : — 

" Shail U*" rank, KvtihsMiM nu^-i««ut af the «ge 
Sit like a uvgnl-uaw ^uuiit; oVr a ptige." 

•• Wlxis? j\v*-lvxKl chanvaer a> av*5T suit 
The (WO pxuTUK^s »v' Bsmtoni ami of Bniia, 
Coti.|x>«iim irtv^es>li»e of willetnwss -invJ show, 
nK> chauchn^ nv\gj*f, uhI the ciMokiuj^ crow." 

•» Whv«e he*rt cotiteiuts wkh thy SAWraisai hexi, 
A T\H« ^ iKutiUvk, .-uHi a luuip of ietti. 
(Klchnst itnvevtl," &c, &c , 

•' And thi»s siaml Kwlh, sjiitjf of tf^f TifiioinM foam. 
To giw tlw* kit* /or t*i*, or bah th<w Uiuptu^ bonw." 

With regard to the last line, the only one upon 
which I shall venture for fear of infection, I would 
advise Mr. Gilchrist to keep out of the way of such 
re<'ipiocal morsuiv — unless he has more f;uth in the 
*' Ormskirk medicine " than most pei>ple. or may 
'risV. to ;\!Uioipate the pension of the recent German 
p — " v^rget his name, but it is advertised 
:\ sonants,) who pi-esented his memoir 

et - remedy for the hydn^phobia to the 

GxMuian dirt hist month, coupled with the philaii- 
thrx>pic condition of a hirge annuity, pn»vided tliat 
his cure curiKi. Let him begin with the editor of 
Pope, and double his demand. 

Yours ever. 

Byrox. 
7a JoAm Aftfrrvry. Esq. 

P. S. Amongst the above-mentioned lines there 
occurs the following, api^iit-d to Poi>e — 



IVi 



1^ (imfvaaee, aad thr otMt^uvi^ fei." 



FURTHER ADDENDA. 

It is worthy of remark that, after all this outcry 
about "in-door nature" and "artificial images," 
Pope w;is the principal inventor of that beast of the 
English, Modem Gardeniitff. He divides thishonoi 
with Milton. Hear Waiton : — " It hence appears, 
that this efichanting art of modem gardening, in 
which this kingdom claims a preference over every 
nation in Europe, chiefly owes its origin asd its 
improvements to two great poets, Milton and Pope." 

Walpole (no friend to Pope) asserts that Pope 
formed Kent's taste, and that Kent was the artist 
to whom the English are chiefly indebted for diffus- 
ing *• a taste in laying out grounds." The design 
of the Prince of Wales's garden was copied from 
Pope's at Twickenham. Warton applauds " his 
singrJar effort of art and taste, in impressing so 
much variety and scenery on a spot of five acres." 
Pi>pe was the Jirst who ridiculed the '* formal, 
French, Dutch, false and unnatural taste in gar- 
dening," both in ptx>se and verse. (See, for the 
former, " The Gmudian.") 

" Pope has given not only some of our^first, bnt 
best rules and observations on Architecture and Gar- 
dening.'' (See Warton's Essav, vol. ii. p. 237, «S:c., 
\c.) 

Now, is it not a shame, after this, to hear oui 
Liikers in " Kendal Green," and our Buccolicai 
Cockneys, crking out (the latter in a wilderness ol 
bricks and mortar) about " Nature," and Pope's 
" artificial in-door habits ? " Pope had seen all ol 
nature that England %lone can supply. He waa 
bred in Windsor Forest, and amidst the beaulifoJ 
scenery of Eton ; he lived famili.irly and frequently 
at the country seats of Bathurst, Cobham, Bur- 
lington, Peterborough, Digby, and Bolingbroke; 
amongst whose seats was \o be nimiberetf Stotre. 
He made his o\vn little "five acres" a model tc 
princes, and to the first of our artists who imitated 
nature. Warton thinks '' that the mos.* engaging 
of Kinfs works was also planned on the model oi 
Pope's. — ^at least in the opening and retiring shades 
of Venus's Vale-" 

It is true that Pope was infirm and deformed ; but 
he could w;ilk, and he could ride, (he rode to Oxford 
from London at a stretch,) and he was famous for 
cm exquisite eye. On a tree at Lord Barthurst's is 
carved. " Here Pope sang," — he composed beneath 
it. Bolingbroke, in one of his letters, represents 
them both writing in the hay -field. Xo poet ever 
admired Nature more, or used her better, tb;uj Pope 
has done, as I will undertake to prove from his 
works, prcse and wrse, if not anticipated in so easy 
and agreeable a labor. I remember a passage in 
Walpole, somewhere, of a gentleman who wished 
to give directions about some willows to a man who 
had long served Pope in his grounds : " I nr der- 
stand, sir," he replied: "you would have 



tr.em 
And Mr. Buwl«s persists that he is a well-wisher of'hstie down, sir, s<m*ewAat jxteticaJ." Now, if ne- 

Pop>'!! 11: ^ - ' - ' ~ - •• - - -- 

a •' vw:\r.i ■ 
firnur at to: '. 



isted but this little anecdote, it wonld suf- 
prove Pope's Liste for Xatyre, and the 



po'.f.:.:.o 
iiicr.r.o-.. 


t'-.CN . 


.\' '"-.'.-'• 


■'•• o.v 


l.N 




and ecu 
victim 


If his 



> .-: :n,:.:;oc. Bu; ul;.:. 
> .: s •" w:th sorrow" — ^his t. 
V : : .ot thc.u out. The "rev. r. 

from the reconling clergyman. 
is ^^ardonsMe tho'iirh tiresome. 



author is nut worthv to be men- 



tion which he had made on a common- 

; man. But I have already quoted Warton 

..Ipole {bot^ his enemies) and, were it nevCs- 

... 1 could amply quote Pope himself for such 

tributes to Xaturc aus no poet of the prrsent day haa 

even i^rpro^s^'hed. 

'' - eUence is really w: V : " ' ohi- 

ivrdrmnuf, all are : : tc 

.: remembered, th . _ - /ar- 

.j<j<,j^y IS tiie purpoised perfeotionir^g o: i^iggard 

yafuirf, and that without it England is bnt t 



ti:n*d» do not edit at ail ; 'f he be, edit honestly, hedge-and-ditch, double-post- sjid-rail, Hoonslow 



OBSERVATIONS UPON ' OBSERVATIOXS. 



1053 



are. 



i^JT^f*^ "^- ***'^*' *»*«» ^^^^^ rf J «?..;«/" works of the Benef 

^4^'^^%!LT'T^"t ~^*^- J mankind, the "M J of R^; 

^^Illf^i^*^*' ^*^ «»d Ii*l*^d, iuU .till suspenSd in the prfor of Ae inn. 1 har; ^ 

•^*^ ^S KL?*^^~r*™* 5^ DerbTshire, often contemplated with^ren^ee «br £ mc^ 

r^e H?Sm.«T '' "^ "^ T^ dear and admimtioaV the poet, without ho« ere. kj 

i^fJ^r^,?2.™*,^*^'**^**»^<^*^->'™ «^ existing good works coaVa kaxdlj ksT« 

-sent nmk fotJity of "great poets of the pr^erred hi* honest lenown. ' 

book of poetiT "--« word which, like j I would also ohserre to mr friend Hunt, that 1 
J^riS'tK ^"^ "*' r ?!»*»sophT." b f shall be Terr gbd to see him'al Rarenna, K>t only 
;^ . _.. .C^ ^ ^*»^ ^?^ of the art has tn- or t..v sineere pleasure %\a company, and the 
rr* >ci y _ t»ie number of its profes90r«--in . . - »^ - - - t**"^- *«" »ne 

present day, then, th^-re hare sprung up two s. 
of Naturals :— the Lakers, who wWne about Xaiui 
be:»use they lire in Cumlberland ; and their Hmdtr 
9ect (which some one has malieiouslT called tbj 
"Cockney School,") who are enthnsiastical for t 
eoantxT bec-aose ther Irre in London. It is to 
sbseired. tr.zt the rustical founders are rather ar 
lous to disclaim any connexion with their metir 
Utan foilpwers, whom thev uns^racionslT rer 
and call cockneys, atheists, fooUsh fellows, - 
writera, and other hard names not less unsratc 
Ikan unjust. I can undetsttnd the pretensions 
toe aquatic gientlemen of Windermere to what Mr. 
Braham tetm.'^J^enttaymmsyr for lakes, and monn 
lams, and daj9odil<, and butterrupc; but I -► .- - 
be glad to be apprised of the foundation of - 
don propensities of their imitative Ivethr- 
same "hish argument." SoothpT. Word^w 



company. 

-ce which a thousand mOes or so of trarel 

roduoe to a "natural" poet, b*.t also t« 

p-i-.T out one or two bttle things in "Rimini," 

I which he probably would not hare placed in hit 

OT^- 'r.» to that poem, if he had ever seen Rarenna 

— < . indeed, it made ** part of his system ! ! • 

;^ mre his indulgence for having spokec 

- -.• -!— br no means an agreeable or self 

If they had said nothing of Pop^ 

■? mniirVd " a!-*'!'? wi»h their glory" 

ui then 



t3Tae. r. 

'' 'T.Jnisi'L .... .. .-. .i^..i .^i ... 

"U poet of aii times, of all c. 

• of all staires of exirteaee. 

hood, the study of my man' 



':th the 

ev nxMj 

2(eithei 

can era 

•^e great 

tilings, 

t of my 

rh.4ps (u 



and Lolerti^? hare runbled over* lialf Europe, and nllowed to me to ittain it) he mar be tit eonsola- 
■een .^^tu^e :n most of her rarieties. (althooeh I tion of mr age. His poetrr is the B -<k . • L •>, 
Uunk tfcat they fa»Te occasionallr not used her rerv VTithont cantinsf. and ret without n. . 
weU ;) hut what on evtb— of earth, and iea. and ion, he has assembled ill that a good .; 

JNature— hare the others seen? Xot a half, nor a can jnther ti»eether of moral wi*d,.„i : . n.^i la 
toulh part so much a Pope. While ther sneer at consummate beautr. Sir William Temple obscrrca, 
Hmdsor Forest, hare iher ever seen any thing cf "thst of all the 'members of mankind that Uvu 
\«md>or except its bnrkf ^ ; within the compass of a thousand years, for one 

» - V ™'*'*^ "*"** ^^ these eentlemen is mr friend man that i* bora capable of makiuK a ynmt patt, 
if^T ^*' ^^^ ^''^ *^ Hampstead. I belieTe there may be a rtaiMimrf boni can-t 1 f •? iw nc .. 
that I need not di^laim any personal or poetical ereat eenerals and ministers 
hostUity against that sentleman. A more amiaMe ^torr." Here is a statesman > 
man in society I know not; nor (when he tr^' ' " :<"honoraMe to htm and to the xn > ; :. •- ;.>. t 

kts T«ense to prerail over his sectarian prin thousand rears" was Fop*. A thousand yew« 

b^tt-r "Titer. When he was writing his ■ ". roll away bef(»e such another can be hoped for 

- not the last to discover its beautie>. lo:.^ is our KtcratuTe. But it can wmmt them — he hioi- 
is published. Even then I remonstrated self is a literatrire. 
^- ■- vulgajisms; which are the mor?» ■•*^-^- (<-o tr .—^ i •- - ^ ■* «.-> ^nit^llr a>Mi<«>«^ tT-ir*J»f;on 

o.'dia«ry, because the author b any thin^- • 

migar man. Mr. Hunt's answer was. that r f e 

ttcm upon principle; they made part of h-- e 

tern .' .' " I then said no niore. When am : e 

of bis system, it b like a wnmtn's t ."<"• e .- ' * 

tme. I let them talk on. Wh«>t>^ i 

who could hare written " Rin: r 

have been written, I know not; .. -1 

nrubably, the only poet who con Id hare had t^ 

Ibeart to spoil hb own Capo d'Opera. k 

With the rest of his young people I have no »■•■ 

Etance, except thronirh some things of their - 
h hare been sent out without :!iT d-^-r. .i a: 
fess that till I had read the 
of the full extent of human sb« 
rick'a " Ode to Shakspeare," Uuy ..< w 
Ihese are of the personages who decry Pop^ 
•f them, a Mr. John Ketch, has written soir.- 
against •him. of which it were better to be t- 
ject than the author. Mr. Hunt redeems ^ 
by occasional beauties: but the rest of the^' 
creatores seem ui far gone that I wouM not ■ - 
through Coren try with them, that's flat!" 
in Mr. Hunt's pUce. To be sure, he has *> ! 
tagam&Ans where they will be well peppered 
t system-maker must receive all aorta of pro^- 
When they hare really seen li f e when ther ha^ 
«lt it-— when they have travelled bevond t^e fa 
distant boundaries' of the wi Ms of M ,^'?V*«T — «v 
Ihey have OTcrpassed the ' 
tracexl to its sources the N 
then, and not till then, can It prr>r«'riT -><• iviT':-:fi \ i uaer Jt» .i ;» :i>in. ; in m^ irnim iitim, I have 
:x tncn to drvpae Pop*; who had, if aot «• IToiM, ' aliaady Mid, that h« b «^ thiag but vmlfw tai Ui 



Pope from the hat e 

<\ fcrlin*;. 

e 

I 



:1- 



be esMly dbtim 

-nrh hb dothot 

>ts th« best 

uas ho mmim 



1054 



BYRON'S AVORKS. 



manners and of his disciples, therefore, I will not 
judge oi their manners from their verses. They 
raay be honorable and gentlemanly men, for what I 
know; bnt the latter quality is studiously excluded 
from tlieir publications. They remind me of Mr. 
Siaith and the Miss Broughtons at the Harapstead 
Assembly, in "Evelina." In these things (in pri- 
vate life, at least), I pretend to some small experi- 
ence ; because, in the course of my youth, I have 
Reen a little of all sorts •*' society, from the Christ- 
ian prince and the Mussulman sultan and pacha, 
and the higher ranks of their countries, down to 
the London boxer, the '■^ flash and the swell,'' the 
Spanish muleteer, the wandering Turkish dervise, 
the Scotch highlander, and the Albanian robber ; — 
to say nothing of the curious varieties of Italian 
social life. Far be it from me to presume that there 
ever was, or can be such a thing as an aristocracy 
of poets ; but there is a nobility of thought and of 
Nt3'le, open to all stations, and derived partly from 
talent, and partly from education, — which is to be 
found in Shakspeare, and Pope, and Burns, no less 
than in Dante and Alfieri, but which is nowhere to 
be perceived in the mock birds and bards of Mr. 
Hunt's little chorus. If I were asked to define 
what this gentlemanliness is, I should say that it is 
only to be defined by examples — of those who have 
it, and those who have it not. In life, I should say 
that most military men have it, and few 7iaval ; — 
that several men of rank have it, and few lawyers ; 
— that it is more frequent among authors than 



divines (when they are not pedants) ; that fencing 
[masters have more of it than dancing-masters,, ani 
singers than players ; and that (if it be not an 
Irishism to say so) it is far more generally diffused 
among women than among men. In poetry, ai 
[well as wi-iting in general, it will never 77iake en- 
tirely a poet or a poem ; but neither poet nor poein 
will ever be good for any thing without it. It is the 
salt of society, and the seasoning of composition. 
Vulgarity is far worse than downright blackguard- 
ism; for the latter comprehends wit, humor, and 
strong sense at times : while the former is a sad 
abortive attempt at all things, "signifying nothing." 
It does not depend upon low themes, or even low 
language, for Fielding revels in both ; — but is he 
ever vulgar? No. You see the man of education, 
the gentleman, and the scholar, sporting with his 
subject, — its muster, not its slave. Your vulgar 
writer is always most vulgar, the higher, his sub- 
ject;, as the man who showed the menagerie at 
Pidcock's was wont to say, — "This, gentlemen, is 
the eagle of the sun, from Archangel, in Russia ; 
the o^^erer it is, the igherer he flies." But to the 
proofs. It is a thing to be felt more than explained. 
Let any man take up a volume of Mr. Hunt's sub- 
ordinate writers, read (if possible) a couple of pages, 
and pronounce for himself, if they contain not the 
kind of writing which may be likened to " shabby- 
genteel " in actual life. When he has done this, 
let him take up Pope ; — and when he has laid him 
down, take up the cockney again — if he can. 



NOTE 



{Note referring to some remarks of Mr. Bowles, 
relative to Pope's v.pon Lady Mary IV. Montague.'] 
I think that I could show, if necessary, that Lady 
Mary W. Montague wag also greatly to blame in 
that quarrel, not for having rejected, but for having 
encouraged him : but I would rather decline the 
task — though she should have r^iembered her own 
line, " He comes too near, that comes to he denied." 
I admire her so much — her beauty, her talents — that 
I should do this reluctantly. I, besides, am so at- 
tached to the very name of Mary, that, as Johnson 
once said, " If you called a dog Hervey, I should 
love him ; " so, if you were to call a female of the 
same species "Mary," I should love it better than 
others (biped or quadruped) of the same sex with a 
liffcrent appellation. She was an extraordinary 
vrnan ; she could translate Epictetus, and yet write 

aong worthy of Aristippus. The lines, 

" And when the long hours of the public are pait, 
i od vra meet vil'i ch&naiwgiie and chicken, at la*t, 



May every fond pleasure that moment* endear I 
Be bitnisli'd afar both discretion and fear I 
For^lting or scorning the airs of the crowd, 
He may cease to be fonnal, and 1 to be proud, 
TUl," &c., &c. 

There, Mr. Bowles ! — what say you to sxich a supper 
witk such a woman ? and her own description too ? 
Is not her " champagne and chicken" worth a forest 
or two ? Is it not poetry ? It appears to me that 
this stanza contains the ^* purre " of the whole 
philosophy of Epicurus : — I mean the practical phi- 
losophy of his school, not the precepts of the mas- 
ter ; for I have been too long at the university not 
I to know that the philosopher was himself a mode- 
Irate man. But, after all, would not sorpe of m 
' have boeii as great fools as Pope ? For my part, I 
wonder that, with his quick feelings, her coquetry, 
and his disappointment, he did no more, — ^instead 
of writing some lines, which are to be condeom&i it 
false, and regretted if true. 



SOME OBSERVATIOXS 

UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 

No. XXIX., AUGUST, 1819 



" Why, how now, IlecAtef you look angrily," 
AJacbeA. 



TO J. D'ISRAELI, ESQ., 



nra amiabj.!: and ingenious author of "the calamities" and "QUAnnELs op authowi:* 

THIS ADDITIONAL UUARREL AND CALAMITY IS INSCRIHED BY ONE OF THE NrMBEH. 



. T vf f •. ..V f^"'""'''!^;"=y5'»«^»- I 1 have never shrunk from the responsiHlity o. 

\- J HE life of a writer has been said, by Pope, I wh;it I have wiitton, and have more than ourc in- 
Oil.n^e, to be "a warfare upon earth." As far aslcurrcd ohloquv bv iiois'U'ctinK to dis.ivDw what w\« 
my own experience has gone, I have nothinj; to say attributed to my pen witlmut foundation. 

The Kf^-'iiter part, however, of thi- " Heninrks on 



against the proposition ; and, like the rest.'having 
once plunged into this state of hostility, must, 
however reluctantly, carry it on. An article has 
appeared in a periodical work, entitled " Remarks 
ou Don Juan," which has been so full of this spirit 
on the part of the writer, as to require some obser- 
vations on mine. 

In the first place, I am not aware by what right 
the writer assumes this work, which is'anonymouM, 
\o be my production. He will answer, that there is 
internal evidence ; that is to say, that there are pas 
sages which appear to be written in my name, or 
my manner. But might not thi ' 



have been done on 
ourpose by another? He will say, why not thon|inak 
deny it ? To this I could answ(!r, that of all the 
things attributed to me within tlie last five years, 
—Pilgrimages to Jerusalem, Deaths upon Pale 
Horses, Odes to the Land of the Gaul, Adieus to 
England, Songs to Madame La Valette, Odes to St. 
Helena, Vampires, and what not, — ol' which, tJod 
knows, I never composed nor read a syllable bcvond 
their titles in advertisements, — I never^hought it 
worth wliile to disavow any, except our which canif 
linked with an account of my "residence in tlie i^l(• 
of Mitylene," where I never resided, and appeared 
to be carrying the amusement of those persons, who 
think ray name can be of any use to them, a littlr^v 
too far. I'" 

I should hardly, therefore, if I did not take thei wl 
trouble to disavow these things pul)li»hed in my iii< 
name, and yet not mine, go out of my way to deny 
an ananymouH work ; wliich might appear an act t>t 
supererogation. With regard to Don Juan, I neither! ma i 
deny nor admit it to be mine— every body may form 
their own opinion ; but, if there be any who now, or 
hi the progr(.8s of that poem, if it is to bo contiim. ' 
feel, o< should feel themselves so aggrieved . 
require a more explicit aii»wer, privately and i 
r lallT thev ahall nave it. I h^imb 



Don Ju an " contain but little on the work it 
which receives- an extraordinary portion of prx- 
a composition. With the exception of - 
tions, and a few incidental remarks, tli. 
article is neither more nor less thm i 
tack upon the imputed autlior. i 
in the same j^tiblieiition : for I ■ 

read, some time ago, similar rein 

1)0 " (s.iid to have been written by a 
northern preacher); in wiiich the eoml 
was, that "Childe Harold, " 
n Heppo, were oj>e and the 
nir turn out td h.\ 



letiau. I must lu-rti < 
dicroiis and vexutiouH i 
to repeat the Hamc f 
author, ia peculiarly ' 

t-i'<TTi, or mistik'-n fi i 



ilk l>lm, ur with Uiii 
thNtiinding all the 
>\\ bus ever t.il< - " 
r<'as I have 

.. even fro'M ^' 

l.sriN 
UK : 



ie Bcrvikut Mr. Seulhc)- 



th« 

;no« 
lud« 



1056 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



b-at for the present, I must return to the article in 
t!ie Edinburgh Magazine. 

In the course of this article, amidst some extra- 
priinary observations, there occur the following 
^ords ; — "It appears, in short, as if this miserable 
man, having exhausted every species of ?ensual 
gratification, — having drained the cup of sin even 
to its bitterest dregs, were resolved to show us that 
Qe is no longer a human being even in his frailties, 
— but a cold, unconcerned fiend, laughing with a 
detestable glee over the whole of the better and 
worse elements of which human life is composed." 
In another pkice there appears, *' the lurking-place 
of his selfish and polluted exile." — " By my troth, 
these be bitter words ! " — With regard to the first 
sentence, I shall content myself with obser\'ing, 
that it appears to have been composed for Sardana- 
palus, Tiberius, the Regent Duke of Orleans, or 
Louis XV. ; and that I have copied it with as much 
indifference as I would a passage from Suetonius, or 
trom any of the private memoirs of the regency, 
conceiving it to be amply refuted by the terms in 
which it is expressed, and to be utterly inapplicable 
to any private individual. On the words, " lurking- 
place," and "selfish and polluted exile," I have 
something more to say. — How far the capital city 
of a government, which survived the vicissitudes of 
thirteen hundred yearS; and might still have existed 
but for the treachery of Bonaparte, and the iniquity 
of his imitators, — a city which was the emporiuna 
of Europe, when London and Edinburgh were dens 
of barbarians, — maybe termed a "lurking-place," 
I leas-e to taose who nave seen or heard of Venice, 
to de-;ide. How far my exile may have been " pol- 
luted," it is not for me to say, because the word is 
a wide. one, and, with some of its branches, may 
chance to overshadow the actions of most men ; 
but that it has been "sel/ish" I deny. If, to the 
exteiat of m.y means and my power, and my infor- 
mation of their calamities, to have assisted many 
miserable beings, reduced by the decay of the place 
of their birth, and their consequent loss of sub- 
stance — if to have never rejected an application 
which appeared founded on truth — if to have ex- 
pended in this manner sums far out of proportion to 
my fortune, there and elsewhere, be selfish, then 
have I been selfish. To have done such things I do 
not deem much : but it is hard indeed to be com- 
pelled to recapitulate them in my own defence, by 
such accusations as that before me, like a panel be- 
fore a jury calling testimonies to his character, or 
a soldier recording his services to obtain his dis- 
charge. If the person who has made the charge of 
"selfishness" wishes to inform himself further on 
Ihe subject, he may acquire, not what he would 
wish to find, but what will silence and shame him, 
by applying to the Consul-General of our nation, 
resident in the place, who will be in the case either 
to confirm or deny what I have asserted. 

I neither make, nor have ever made, pretensions 
to sanctity of demeanor, nor regularity of conduct ; 
but my means have been expended principally on 
my own gratification, neither now nor heretofore, 
neither in lilngland nor out of it ; and it wants but 
a word from me, if I thought that word decent or 
necessary, to call forth the most willing witnesses, 
and at once witnesses and proofs, in England itself, 
to show that there are those who have derived, not 
the mere temporary relief of a wretched boon, but 
the means which led them to immediate happiness 
and ultimate independence, by nnfy want of that 
"ery '■^selfishness," as grossly and falsely now im- 
puted to my conduct. 

Had I been a selfish man — had I been a grasping 
□aan — had I been, in the worldly sense of the word, 
even ^prudent man, — I should not be where I now 
am ; I should not have taken the step which was 
rne first that led to the events which have sunk and 
Bwoln a gulf between me and mine ; but in this re- 
spect the truth will one day be made known : in 
*he mean time, as Durandearte says, in the 



Cave of Montesinos, "Patience, and shuffle the 
cards." 

I bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement,, 
the first of the kind I have ever made : I feel th» 
degradation of being compelled to make it ; but 1 
also feel its truth, and I ti'ust to feel it on my death 
bed, should it be my lot to die there. I am not less 
sensible of the egotism of all this ; but, alas ! who 
have made me thus egotistical in my own defence, 
if not they, who, by perversely persisting in refer- 
ring fiction to truth, and tracing poetry to life, and 
regarding characters of imagination as creatures ol 
existence, have made me personally responsible for 
almost every poetical delineation which fancy and a 
particular bias of thought, may have tended to pro- 
duce ? 

The writer continues: — "Those who are ac- 
quainted, as who is not? with the main incidents ol 
the private life of lord B.," &c. Assuredly, who- 
ever may be acquainted with these " main inci- 
dents," the writer of the " Remarks on Don Juan " 
is not, or he would use a very different language. 
That which I believe he alludes to as a " main inci- 
dent," happened to be a very subordinate one, and 
the natural and almost inevitable consequence ol 
events and circumstances long prior to the period 
at which it occurred. It is the last diop which 
makes the cup rim over, and mine was already full. 
But, to return to this man's charge : he accuses 
Lord B. of "an elaborate satire on the character 
and manners of his wife." From what parts of 
Don Juan the writer has inferred this, he himself 
besc knows. As far as I recollect of the female 
characters in that production, there is but one who 
is depicted in ridiculous, colors, or that could be in- 
terpreted as a satiLce upon any body. But here my 
poetical sir.s are again visited upon me, supposing 
that the poem be mine. If I depict a corsair, a 
misanthrope, a libertine, a chief of insurgents, or 
an infidel, he is set down to the author ; and if, in 
a poem by no means ascertained to be my production, 
there appears a disagreeable, casuistical, and by no 
means respectable female pedant, it is set down for 
my wife. Is there any resemblance } If there be, 
it is in those who make it. I can see none. In my 
writings I have rarely described any character under 
a fictitious name : those of whom I have spoken 
have had their own — in many cases a stronger satire 
in itself than any which could be appended to it. 
But of real circumstances I have availed myself 
plentifully, both in the serious and the ludicrous— 
they are to poetry what landscapes are to the pain- 
ter ; but my figures are not portraits. It may even 
have happened, that I have seized on some events 
that have occurred under my own observation, or in 
my own family, as I would paint a view from my 
grounds, did it harmonize with mypiclure; but 1 
never would introduce the likenesses of its living 
members, unless their features could be made as fa- 
vorable to themselves as to the efiect ; which, in the 
above instance, would be extremely difficult. 

My learned brother proceeds to observe, that "it 
is in vain for Lord B. to attempt in any way to 
justify his dDwn behavior in that affair; and now 
that he has so openly and aiidaciously invited in 
quiry and reproach, we do not see any good reason 
why he should not be plainly told so by the voice ol 
his countrymen. How far the " openness " of an 
anonymous poem, and the " audacity " of an imag- 
inary character, which the writer supposes to be 
meant for Lady B., may be deemed to merit this 
formidable denunciation from their "most sweet 
voices," I neither know nor care ; but w^hen he tells 
me that I cannot "in any way fustify my own be 
havior in that affair," I acquiesce, because no man 
can "justify" himself until he knows of what he 
is accused; and I have never had — and, God knows, 
my whole desire has ever been to obtain it — any 
specific charge, in a tangible shape, submitted tc 
me by the adversary, nor by others, unless the atro- 
cities of public rumor and the mysterious silence of 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 106" 



the lady's legal advisers may be deemed such. But 
b not the writer content with what has been already 
said and done ? Has not " the general voice of his 
countrymen" long ago pronounced upon the sub- 
ject — sentence without trial, and condemnation 
without a charge ? Have I not been exiled by 
ostracism, except that the shells which proscribed 
me were anonymous ? Is the writer ignorant of the 
public opinion and the public conduct upon that 
occasion ? If he is, I am not : the public will for- 
get both, long before I shall cease to remember 
either. 

The man who is ex iled by a faction has the con- 
Bolation of thinking that he is a martyr; he is 
upheld by hope and the dignity of his cause, real 
or imaginary : he who withdraws from the pressure 
of debt may indulge in the thought that time and 
oruaence will retrieve his circumstances : he who is 
condemned by the law, has a term to his banish- 
ment, or a dream of its abbreviation ; or, it may be, 
the knowledge or the belief of some injustice of the 
law, or of its administration in his own particular ; 
but he who is outlawed by general opinion, without 
the intervention of hostile politics, illegal judgment, 
or embarrassed circumstances, whether he be inno- 
cent or guilty, must undergo all the bitterness of 
exile, without hope, without pride, without allevia- 
tion. This case was mine. Upon what grounds 
the public founded their opinion, I am not aware ; 
but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me or 
of mine they knew little, except that I had written 
what is called poetry, was a nobleman, had married, 
became a father, and was involved in differences 
with my wife and her relatives, no one knew why, 
because the persons complaining refused to state 
their grievances. The fashionable world was divided 
»nto parties, mine consisting of a very small minor- 
ity : the reasonable world was naturally on the 
stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, as 
was most proper and polite. The press was active 
and scurrilous ; and such was the rage of the day, 
that the unfortunate publication of two copies of 
verses, rather complimentary than otherwise to the 
subjects of both, was tortured into a species of 
crime, or constructive petty treason. I was accused 
o' every monstrous vice by public rumor and private 
rancor : my name, which had been a knightly or a 
noble one since my fathers helped to conquer the 
kingdom for William the Norman, was tainted. I 
felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and 
murmured, was true, I was unfit for England ; if 
fal^se, England was unfit for me. I withdrew : but 
this was not enough. In other countries, in Swit- 
zerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and by the blue 
depth of the lakes, I was pursued and breathed 
upon by the same blight. I crossed the mountains, 
but it was the same ; so I went a little farther, and 
■ettled myself by the waves of the Adriatic, like 
the stag at bay, who betakes him to the waters. 

If I may judge by the statements of the few friends 
who gatliered round me, the outcry of the period to 
which I all ide was beynnd all precedent, all parallel, 
even in thse cases where pt)litical motives have 
■harpened slander and doubled enmity. I was 
advised not to go to the theatres, lest I should 
be hissed, nor to my duty in parliament, lest I 
should be insulted by the way ; even on the day of 
my departure, my most intimate friend told mc 
afterwards, that he was under apprehensions of vio- 
lence from the people who might be assembled at 
the door of the carriage. However, I was not de- 
terred by these counsels from seeing Koan in hin 
best characters, nor from voting according to niy 
principles ; and with regard to the third and last 
apprehensions of my friends, I could not share m 
them, not being madi acquainted with their extent, 
till some time after I had crossed the ('hai t ' 
Even if I had been so, I am not of a nature •' 
much affected be men's anger, though I ma , 
hurt by their aversion. Agiunst all indivulnnl <'Ul- 
raRe. I could protect or redress myself; and agaiust 



that of a crowd, I thould probably have been en- 
abled to defend myseil, with tne assistance of others 
as has been done on similar occasions. 

I retired from the coi'ntry, perceiving that I was 
the object of general obloquy ; I did not indeed 
imagine, like Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all man 
kind was in a conspiracy agzinst me, though I had 
perhaps as good grounds for such a chimera as ever 
he had : but I perceived that I nad to a great extent 
become personally c^oxious in England, perhaps 
through my own fault, but the fact was indisputi* 
ble ; the public in general would hardly have l>eeii 
so much excited against a more popular character, 
without at least an accusation or a cliarg-? of eoran 
kind actually expressed or substantiated, for I can 
hardly conceive that the common and every-dat 
occurrence of a separation between man and wif#i 
could in itself produce so great a ferment. I snail 
say nothing of the usual complaints of " being pre- 
judged," " condemned unheard," '• unfairness," 
" partiality," and so forth, the usual charges rung 
by parties who have had, or are to have, a trial ; but 
I was a little surprised to find myself condemned 
without being favored wth the act of accusation, 
and to perceive in the absence of this portentoue 
charge or charges, whatever it or they were to be, 
that every possible or impossible crime was rumored 
to supjjly its place, and taken for granted. This 
could only occur in the case of a person very much 
disliked, and I knew no remedy, having already 
used to their extent whatever little powors I might 
possess of pleasing in society. I had no party in 
fashion, though I was afterwards told that tnero 
was one — but it was not of my formation, nor did I 
then know of its existence — none in literature ; and 
in politics I had voted with the whiRf^, with precise- 
ly that importance which a whig vote possesses io 
these Tory days, and with such personal acqujviat 
ance with the leaders in both houses as the society 
in which I lived sanctioned, but without claim oi 
expectation of any thing like friendship from any 
one, except a few young men of mv own age and 
standing, and a few others more advanced in life, 
which last it had been mv fortune to serve in cir 
cumstances of difficulty. This was. in fact, to stand 
alone: and I recollect, some time after, Madame do 
Sta<*l said to me in Switzerland, " You should not 
have warred with the world — it will not do — it is too 
strong always for any individual : I myself once 
tried it in early life, but it will not do." I perfectlr 
ac(UHesce in the truth of this i " " it the world 

had done me the honor to \viir ; and, 

assuredly, if peace is only to i by court- 

ing and paying tribute to it, I am uol qualified to 
obtain its countenance. I thought, in the words o( 
Campbell, 

•• Tltrn wact thM U) an •itlnl lol, 
Ami II thr worl.1 hath «»*« lh« dc*. 
lu alviica niajr be bum*." 

I recollect, however, that, baving been much h irt 
by Romillv's conduct, (he, having a general retainer 
for me, had acted as adviser to the aavcrsiiry. allru' 
ing, on being remindfd of hi« retniner, thut ho li.id 
forgotten it, as hi ' ' ' ■ - - ^ i . . .^ 

that some of tho- > 

axe to my roof-ti ■ . 

and feel a p«)rtit)n i)f \\h.a thty had lutiitti i.— liis 
fell, and crushed him. 

I hn- •■ ' r.\ ..f. nnd l>olicve, that there »!•• hmnaq 

beint.: ''ed as to be inHensible ; 

hut I ' the be*t mode to a^ 



. 0.1 the ";•<••''•■ 
iTc not sought 

.„ .. ^...i , ipji It may nr\ef 

I 1 do not \n this allude to the 
hf right or wrong ; but to man, 
who miide 111 r .nine the pretext of their own bitter 
uese. She. indevd. naust have long avenfed OM 



1058 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



her orn feelings; for whatever her reasons may 
have been (and she never abduced them to me at 
least), she probably neither contemplated nor con- 
reived to what she becapie the means of conducting 
I he father of her child, and the husband of her 
choice. ' 

So much for " the general voice of his country- 
men : " I will now speak of some in particular. 

In the beginning of the year 1817, an article ap- 
peared in the Quarterly Review, written, I believe, 
by Walter Scott,* doing grefft honor to him, and no 
disgrace to me, though both poetically and person- 
ally more than sufficiently favoratle to the ■work 
and the author of whom it treated. It was written 
»t a time when a selfish man Avould not, and a timid 
one dared nc t, have said a word in favor of either ; 
it was wi-itten by one to whom temporary public 
opinion had elevated me to the rank of a rival — a 
proud distinction, and unmerited ; but which has 
not prevented me from feeling as a friend, nor him 
from more than corresponding to that sentiment. 
The article in question Avas written upon the third 
canto of Childe Harold ; and after many observa- 
tions, which it would as ill become me to repeat as 
to forget, concluded with " a hope that I might yet 
return to England." How this expression was re- 
ceived in England itself I am not acquainted, but it 
gave great otfcnce at Rome to the respectable ten 
or twenty thousand jEnglish travellers then and 
there assembled. I uid not visit Rome till some 
time after, so that I had no opportunity of knowing 
the fact ; but I was informed, long afterwards, that 
the greatest indignation had been manifested in the 
enlightened Anglo-circle of that year, which hap- 
pened to comprise within it — amidst a considerable 
leaven of Welbeck street and Devonshire Place, 
broken loose upon their travels — several really well- 
born and well-bred families, who did not the less 
participate in the feeling of the hour. " Why 
should he return to England ? " was the general 
exclamation — I answer whyf It is a question I 
have occasionally asked myself, and I never yet 
could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then no 
thoughts of returning, and if I have any now, they 
are of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the 
ties that have been dashed to pieces, there are links 
yet entire, though the chain itself be broken. There 
are duties, and connections, which may one day re- 
quire my presence — and I am a fathe^' I have still 
some friends whom I wish to meet agair;, and it 
may be an enemy. These things, and those min- 
uter details of business, which time accumulates 
during absence, in every man's affiiirs and property, 
may, and probably will, recall rae to England; but 
I shall return with the same feelings with which I 
left it, in respect to itself, though altered with re- 
gard to individuals, as I have been more or lass 
Informed of their conduct since my departure ; for 
it was only a considerable time after it that I wa« 
made acquainted with the real facts and full extent 
of some of their proceedings and language. My 
ifiends, like other friends, from conciliatory mo- 
tives, withheld from me much that they could, and 
iorae things which they should have unfolded ; how- 
ever, that which is deferred is not lost — ^but it has 
fceen no fault of mine that it has been deferred at 
all. 

1 have alluded to what is said to have passed at 
Rome merely to show that the sentiment which I 
have described was not confined to ttie English in 
England, and as forming part of my answer to the 
reproach cast upon what has been ci.lled my "selfish 
exile," and my *• voluntary exile." " Voluntary" it 
has been ; for who would dwell among a people en- 
tertaining strong hostility against him r How far 
It has been " selfish " has been already explained. 

I have now arrived at a passage describing me as 
laving vented my '* spleen against the lofty-minded 
and virtuous men," men "whose virtues few indeed 



Hat ;iMitatir Reriew, *al. ztU p. 172 



can equal ; " meaning, I humbly presume, the nc 
torious triumvirate known by the name of *' Lakt 
Poets " in their aggregate capacity, and by Southey 
Wordsworth, and Coleridge, when taken singly, j 
wish to say a word or two upon the virtues of one 
of those persons, public and private, for reasons 
which will soon appear. 

When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, 
in body, and in circumstances, I took up my resi 
dence at Coligny, by the lake of Geneva. The sole 
companion of myjourney was a young physician,* 
who had to make his way in the world, and having 
seen very little of it, was naturally and laudably 
desirous of seeing more society than suited mv prea 
ent habits or my past experience. I therefore prt- 
sented him to those gentlemen of Geneva for whom 
1 had letters of introduction ; and having thus seen 
him in a situation to make his own way, retired for 
my own part entirely from society, with the excep- 
tion of one English family, living at about a quar- 
ter of a mile's distance from Diodati, and with the 
further exception of some occasional intercourse 
with Coppet, at the wish of Madame de Sta6l. The 
English family to which I allude consisted of two 
ladies, a gentleman and his son, a boy of a year 
old.f 

One of " these lofty-minded and virtuoiis men," in 
the words of the Edinburgh Magazine, made, I un- 
derstand, about this time, or soon after, a tour in 
Switzerland. On his return to England, he circu- 
lated — and for any thing I know, invented — a report, 
that the gentleman to whom I have alluded and 
myself were living in promiscuous intercouise with 
two sisters, " having formed a league of incest" (I 
quote the words as they were stated to rae), and 
indulged himself on the natural comments upon 
such a conjunction, which are said to have been 
repeated publicly, vnth great complacency, by an- 
other of that poetical fraternity, of whom I shall 
say only, that even had the story been true, he 
should not have repeated it, as far as it regarde** 
myself, except in sorrow. The tale itself requires 
but a word in answer — the ladies were not sisters, 
nor in any degree connected, except by the second 
marriage of their respective parents, a widower with 
a widow, both being the offspring of former mar- 
riages ; neither of them were, in 1816, nineteen 
ytars old. " Promiscuous intercourse " could hard- 
ly have disgusted the great patron of pantisocracy, 
(does Mr. Southey remember such a scheme ?) but 
there was none. 

How far this man. who, as author of Wat Tyler, 
has been proclaimed by the Lord Chancellor guilty 
of a treasonable and blasphemous libel, and de- 
nounced in the House of Commons, by the upright 
and able member for Norwich, as a "rancorous ren- 
egade, " be fit for sitting as a judge upon others, let 
others judge. He has said that for this expression 
"he brands William Smith on the forehead as a 
calumniator," and that "the mark will outlast his 
epitaph." How long William Smith's epitaph will 
last, and in what words it will be written, 1 know 
not ; but William Smith's words form the ep'taph 
itself of Robert Southey. He has written Wat 
Tyler, and taken the office of poet laureate— he 
has, in the Life of Henry Kirke White, denomi 
nated reviewing " the ungentle craft," and has be- 
come a reviewer — ^he was one of the projectors of a 
scheme, called "pantisocracy," for having all things, 
including women, in coremon, (qziery, common w.m 
men ?) and he sits up as a moralist — he denounced 
the battle of Blenheim, and he praised the battle ol 
Waterloo — he loved Mary Wollstoncraft, and he 
tried to blast the character of her daughter (one ol 
the young females mentione i^ — he wiotc treason, 
and serves the king — he was tne butt of the An'v 
iacobin, and he is the prop of the Quarterly Revir.w. 
licking the hands that smote him, eating the OtiMU' 



• Dr. PdHori— author of tne " Vampire." 

t Mi. and Mr. SbeUei. Mix Clecmom. id Vjt^ri I 



OBSEKVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD? MAGAZINE. 105t 

of hia enemies, and internally writhing beneath his I kind icss in pointing tr.^ out to him,) and have 
Bwn contempt, — he would fain conceal, under anony-| published what is allowed to be the verv worst pros* 
mous bluster, and a vain endeavor to obtain the i that ever was written, to prove that I'ope wa« no 
esteem of others, after having for ever lost his own, 'poet, and that William Wordsworth is ? 
his leprous sense of his own degradation. What is I In other points, are they re^poctablo, or respected ? 
there in such a man to " envy ? " Who ever envied I Is it on the open avowal of apostasy, on the pitron- 
the en\-iou8 ? Is it his birth,' his name, his fame, or! a^e of government, that their claim is founded? 
his virtues, that I am to "envy r " I was born of 
the aristocracy, which he abhorred ; and am sprung, 
by my mother, from the kings who preceded those 
whom he has hired himself to sing. It cannot, 
then, be his birth. As a poet, I have, for the past 
eight years, had nothing to apprehend from a com- 
petition ; and for the future, "that life to come in 
every poet's creed," is open to all. I will only re- 
mind Mr. Southey, in the words of a critic, who, if 
Btill living, wotild have annihilated Southcy's lito- 
rtry existence now and hereafter, as the sworn foe 
of charlatans and impostors, from Macpherson down- 
wards, that " those dreams were Settle's once aiKl 
Ogilby's ; " and for my own part, I assure him, that 
whenever he and his sect are remembered, I shall 
be proud to be "forgot." That he is not content 
with his success as a poet raav reasonably be be- 
lieved — he has been the ninepin of reviews ; the 
Edinburgh knocked him down, and the Quarterly 
set him up; the goveniment found him useful iri 
the perodical line, and made a point of recommend- 
ing his works tj purchasers, so that he is occasion- 
ally bouglit, (I mean his book, as well as the au- 
thor,) and may be found on the same shelf, if not 
upon the table, of most of the gentlemen employed 
in the dKlerent offices. With regard to his private 
virtues, I know nothing — of his principles, I havr 
heard enough. Asj far as having been, to the 1;cst 
of my power, benevolent to others, I do not fear the 
comparison ; and for the errors of the passions, was 

Mr. Southey always so tranquil and stainless ? Did 

he never covet his neighbor's wife ? Did he never 

calumniate his neighbor's Avife's daughter, the off- 
spring of her he coveted ? So miich for the apostle 

of pantisocracy. 

Of the " lo'fty-m.inded, virtuous" Wordsworth, 

one anecdote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In 

a conversation with Mr. upon poetry, he 

concluded with, "Alter all, I \yould not give five 

shillings for all that Soulhey has ever written." 

Perhaps this calculation mig'ht rather show his 

esteem for five shillings than his low estimate of Dr. 

Southey; but considering that when he was in his 

need, and Southey had a shillii^, Wordsworth is 

said to have had generally a sixpence out of it, it 

has an awkward soTind in the wiiy of valuation. 

This anecdote was told me by persons who, if 

qtioted by name, wouM prove that its genenlogy is 

poetical as well as tiue. 1 can give my authority 

fortius; and am ready to uddtice it also for Mr. 

Southcy's circulation of the falsehood before men- 
tioned. 
• Of Coleridge, I shall say mthing — ichy, he may 

divine. 

I have said more of these people than I intended 

In this place, being somewhat stirred by the rcinarks 

which induced me to commence upnn the tonic. 

BC'.:< rcthing in these men as poets, or as individuals — 

lUtle in their talents, and less in their characters. 

to prevent honest nuMi from expressing for them 

roiisiderable contempt, in prose or rhyme, rk it uia\ 

happen. Mr. Southey has the Quarterly for \\. 

fieltl of rejoinder, and Mr. Wordsworth his posi 

•cripts to "Lyrical Hallads," where the two wre.ii 

instances of the sublime are taken from hinjself mid 

Milton. "Over her own sweet voice the stock- 
dove broods; " that is to say, she has the pleiMiir 

of listening to herself, in common with Mr. ^^ 

worth upon most of his ])ublic appearances. " \ 



Who is there who esteems those parricides of thr-ir 
own principles ? They are, in fact, well aware that 
the reward of their change has been any thing but 
honor. The times have preserved a respec* '■ r 
political consistency, and, even though chaniTf 
lmn')r the unchanged. Look at Moore: it v. . 
long ere Southey meets with such a ti'iumph in 
London as Moore met with in Dublin, even jf cc 
government subscribe . for it, and set the mo!.F\ 
down to secret service. It was not less to th- 
than to the poet, to the'te.upted but un-i 
patriot, to the not opulent but incorruptible • 
citizen, that the warm-hearted Irish pai' 
proudpst of tributes. Mr. Soutl-.cy may n; 
himself to the world, but he has ! 
contempt; and the f\ny with whio!. 
all who stand in the phalanx wh 
as William Smith described it, "the rancor ■ 
renegade," the bad language of the pro.^titut 
stands at the corner of the street, and shower? in i 
shvug upon all, except those who may have bestowed 
upon her her " little shilling." 

Hence his quarterly overflowings, v 
literary, in what he has himself t. 
ungentle craft," and his especial wrath . 
Leigh Hunt, notwithstanding that Hunt liii-« 
more for Wordsworth's reputaticm as a poet 
as it is), than all the Lakers could in *' - 
change of self-praises for the last tweni; 

And here I wish to say a few words on 
state of English poetry. That this i- 
the decline of En«lish' poetry will he 
few who have calmly considered the s!i 
there are men of genius annmg the y. 
makes little againsc the fact, because 
well said, that "next to him wh •' - 
of his countrv, the greatest geni 
rupts it." JCo one has e\er < 
Marino, who corriinted not me:. 
Italy, but th;it of all Europe, for i 
The great cause of the present (it , . . 
English poetrv is to be attrihutrU to thai 
and svstematic depreciation of Pope, iti 
for the last fow years, there has Wen .i 
of epidemical concurrence. Men of the 
opposite opinions h;(\e uniti d nV'^n tbi- 
Warton.aiul Churchill be-; 
the hint prolcihly from the 
and their own hiternal '•■■•- 
reputation can be ns i 
and b'ir'n<Miiou'< of p' 
has ', • 

to u' ' 

(h,ij 

snuth, ami Jiu^n ., 
cessful diseiples ; an<i 

has lel't one poem '• : ' 

die" (the Triumph* ol i 

reptifition of thnt pur** ■' ' 



nuts. 
.At tho 



!tne tim*. 

•A 



Mr RoMthrr wm fWrarinir tW 



divinity "doth hedge" these nersons, that w( 
esnect tlienj } Is it Aiiollo ) 



il »a not Ull «ftei Mr. Suulhc) had mm 



respect tlienj ." is ii aiiouo .-■ An- they not of 

frho called Dryden'H Ode "a drunken song?" who ■ 

have discovered that (iray'H Elegy is full of faults, . M-m. l.i.^rfy»TH.isr»~. •*»»•»*< I 
(tee Coleridge's Life, vol." i. no e, foi Wordtworth'* ■■• ivm*. 



;ncd hl» 



1060 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Malmsey oatt, and Mr. Wordsworth* became quali- 
fied to guage it, that the great revolutionary tragedy 
came before the public and the Court of Chancery. 
Wordsworth was peddling his lyrical ballads, and 
brooding a preface, to be succeeded in due course 
by a postscript ; both couched in such prose as must 
give peculiar delight to those who have read the 
prefaces of 'Pope and Dryden ; scarcely less cele- 
brated icr the beauty of their prose, than for the 
charm? :f their verse. Wordsworth is the reverse 
of Moli-ire's gentleman who had been " talking 
prose all his life, without knowing it ; " for he 
thinks that he has been all his life writing both 
piose and verse, and neither of what he coiiiceives 
to be such can be properly said to be either one or 
the other. Mr. Coleridge, the future vates, poet 
and seer of the Morning Post, (an honor also 
claimed by Mr. Fitzgerald, of the "Rejected Ad- 
dressee,") who ultimately prophesied the downfall 
of Bonaparte, to which he himself mainly con- 
tributed, by giving him the nickname of ^'■the Cor- 
iican," was then employed in predicating the 
damnation of Mr. Pitt, and the desolation of Eng- 
land, in the two very best copies of verses he ever 
wrote : to wit, the infernal eclogue of "Fire, Famine, 
andSlaughter," and the " Ode to the departing Year." 

These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, 
and Coleridge, had all of them a very natural 
antipathy to Pope ; and I respect them for it, as 
tlie only original feeling or principle which they 
have contrived to preserve. But they have been 
joined in it by those who have joined them in no- 
thing else : by the Edinburgh Reviewers, by the whole 
heterogeneous mass of living English poets, except- 
ing Crabbe, Rogers, Gifford, and Campbell, who, 
both by precept and practice, have proved their 
adherence ; and by me, who have shamefully 
deviated in practice, but have ever loved ani 
honored Pope's poetry with my whole soul, and 
hope to do so till my dying day. I would rather 
see all I have ever written lining the same trunk in 
which I actually read the eleventh book of a modern 
epic poem at Malta, in 1811, (I opened it to take 
out a change after the paroxysm of a tertian, in the 
absence of my servant, and found it lined with the 
name of the maker, Eyre, Cockspur street, and 
with the epic poetry alhided to), than sacrifice what 
I hrmly believe in as the' Christianity of English 
poetry, the poetry of Pope. 

But the Edinburgh Reviewers, and the Lakers, 
and Hunt and his school, and every body else 
with their school, and even Moore without a 
school, and dilettanti lecturers at institutions, 
and elderly gentlemen who translate and imitate, 
and young ladies who listen and repeat, baronets 
who draw indifferent frontispieces for bad poets, 
and noblemen who let them dine with theln in the 
country, the small body of the wits and the great 
body of the blues, have latterly united in a deprecia- 
tion, of which their fathers' would have been as 
much ashamed as their children will be. In the 
mean time, what have we got instead ? The Lake 
school, which begun with an epic poem, written in 
six weeks, (so Joan of Arc proclaimed herself,) and 
Jtjfthed with a ballad composed in twenty years, as 
•' Peter Bell's " creator takes care to inform the 
few whc will inquire. What have we got instead r 
A. deluge of flimsy and unintelligible romances, 
imitated from Scott and myself, who have both 
made the best of our bad materials and erroneous 
system. What have we got instead } Madoc, w^ich 
■ neither an epic^nor any thing else; Thalaba, 



• GolcUmilh ha» anticipated the definition of the Lake poetry, a« far a« 
wch thing* can be doflneU. " Gentlemen, the present piece it not of your 
mmmon epic poeint, which con)e from the press like paper kites in summer ; 
liere are none of your 'I'umiises or Didos in it ; it it an hittorical detcrip- 
ion of naluTt. I only lieg you'll eirdeavor to make your soul's in uniaon 
»ith niin>-, and heir nith Ox same erJhunatm vilh tehich I have lenmr. ■■ 
Would not this hive Tiaile a proper proem to tlie Excursion, and tlje m^ii 
ind bis pedlerf It w>uKI hnve answered perteclly for that purpoK, hau <i 
w( icfortuuately be-^ tnwin \a good En^jliih. 



iKehama, Gebir, and such gibberish, written in at 
I metres and in no language. Hunt, who had ].owerk 
I to have m-^de " the Story of Rimini" as perfect a, 
i a fable of i>ryden, has thought fit to sacrifice hii 
genius and his taste to some unintelligible notions 
of Wordsworth, which 1 defy him to explain. 

Moore has but why continue ? — All, with 

the exception of Crabbe, Rogers, and Campbell, 
who may be considered as having taken theif 
station, will, by the blessing of God, survive thei 
own reputation, without attaining any ver}-^ ez .ra- 
ordinary period of longe-vity. Of course there must 
be a still further exception in favor of those who, 
having never obtained any reputation at all, unless 
it be among provincial literati, and their own 
families, have none to lose ; and of Moore, who, as 
the Burns of Ireland, possesses a fame which can- 
not be lost. 

The greater part of the poets mentioned, how- 
ever, have been able to gather together a few 
followers. A paper of the Connoisseur says, that 
" it is observed by the French, that a cat, a priest, 
and an old woman, are sufficient to constitute a 
religious sect in England." The same number of 
animals, with a difference in kind, will suffice for a 
poetical one. If we take Sir George Beaumont 
instead of the priest, and Mr. Wordsworth for the 
old woman, we shall nearly complete the quota 
required ; but I fear that Mr. Southey will but 
indifferently represent the cat, having shown him- 
self but too distinctly to be of a species to which 
that noble creature is peculiarly hostile. 

Nevertheless, I will not go so far as Wordworth 
in his postscript, who pretends that w great poet 
ever had immediate fame ; which beiKg interpreted, 
means that William Wordsworth is not quite so 
much read by his cotemporaries as might be 
desirable. This assertion is as false as it is foolish. 
Homer's glory depended upon his present popu- 
larity : he recited, — and without the sti-ongest im- 
pression of the moment, who would have gotten 
the Iliad by heart, and given it to tradition ? En- 
nius, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius Horace, Virgil, 
-Slschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, Anacreon, 
Theocritus, all the great poets of antiquity, were 
the delight of their cotemporaries. The very 
existence of a poet, previous to the invention ol 
printing, depended upon his present popularity ; 
and how often has it impaired his future fame ? 
Hardly ever. History informs us that the best 
have come down 1^ us. The reason is evident ; the 
most popular found the greatest number of transcri- 
bers for their MSS., and that the taste of theii 
cotemporaries was corrupt can hardly be avouched 
by the moderns, the mightiest of whom have but 
barely approached them. Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, 
and Tasso, were all the darlings of the cotem- 
porary reader. Dante's poem was celebrated long 
before his death : and, not long after it, states 
negotiated for his ashes, and disputed for the sites 
of the composition of the Divina Commedia. Pe- 
trarch was crowned in the Capitol. Ariosto was 
permitted to pass free by the public robber who had 
read the Orlando Furioso. 1 would not recommend 
Mr, Wordsworth to try the same experiment wit) 
his Smugglers. Tasso, notwithstanding the criti- 
cisms of the Cruscanti, would have been crowned 
in the Capitol, but for his death. 

It is easy to prove the immediate popularity ol 
the chief poets of the only modern nation in Europe 
that has a poetical language — the Italian. In oni 
own, Shakspeare, Spencer; Johnson, Waller, Dry- 
den, Congreve, Pope, Young, Shenstone, Thomson, 
Johnson, Goldsmith, Gray, were all as popular in 
their lives as since. Gray's Elegy pleased instantly, 
and eternally. His Odes did not, nor yet do they 
please like his Elegy. Milton's politics kept him 
down. But vhe Epigram of Dryden,* and the verj 

■ i1m reU-kn«wn Ixt uu<W IkAilto-'« pictim. 

" The* 'weu in thrw diMMt •««■ bora." •■. 



UBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. 1(61 



lale of his work, in proportion to the less readinj^i 
time of its publication, prove him to have beenj 
honored by his cotemporaries. I will venture to 
assert,- that the sale of the Paradise Lost was great- 
er in the first four years after its publication, than 
that of "The Excursion" in the same number,! 
vrith the difference of nearly a century and a half 
between them of time, and of thousands in point of 

feneral readers. Notwithstanding Mr. Wordsworth's 
aving pressed Milton into his service as one of 
those not presently popular, to favor his own pur- 
pose of proving that our grandchildren will readA/m 
(the said Willi&m Wordsworth) I would recommend 
him to begin first with our grandmothers. But he 
need not be alarmed ; he may yet live to see all the 
envies pass away, as Darwin and Seward, and Hoole, 
and Hole, and Hoyle have passed away ; but their 
declension will not be his ascension : he is essentially 
a bad writer, and all the failures of others can never 
strengthen him. He may have a sect, but he will 
never have a public; and his ''audience" will 
always be *'/<?mj," without being "^^" — except for 
Bedlam. 

It may be asked, why having this opinion of the 
present state of poetry in England, and having had 
it long, as my friends and others well knew — pos- 
sessing, or having possessed too, as a writer, Ihe 
ear of the public icx the time being — I have not 
adopted r different plan in my own compositions, 
aud endeavored to correct rather than encourage 
the taste of the day. To this I would answer, that 
it is easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the 
right, and that I have never contemplated the pros- 
pect '* of filling (with Peter Bell, see its Preface) 
permanently a station in the literature of \\\e coun- 
try." Those who know me best, know this, and 
that I have been considerably astonished at the 
temporary success of i^y works, having flattered no 
person and no party, and expressed opinions which 
are not those of the general reader. Could I have 
anticipated the degree of attention which has been 
accorded me, assuredly I would have studied more 
to deserve it. But I have lived in far countries 
abroad, or in the agitating world at home, which 
was not favorable to study or reflection ; so 
tnat alrrost all I have written has been mere pas- 
sion, — passion, it is true, of different kinds, but 
always passion; for in me (if it be not an Irishism 
to say so) my ijulijfereiwe was a kind of passion, 
the result of experience, and not the philosophy ot 
nature. Writing grows a habit, like a woman's 
gallantry : there are women who have had no in- 
trigue, but few wlio have had but one only ; so there 
are millions of uu^n who have never written a book, 
but few who have written only one. And thus, 
having written once, I wrote on ; encouraged no 
d.jubt by the success of the moment, yet by no means 
aaticipating its duration, and I will venture to say, 
scarcely even wisliing it. But then 1 did other 
things besides write, which hy no means contril)- 
Uted either to improve my writings or my i»ri)S|HTity. 

1 liave thus expressed pulilii'ly upon the [metry of 
the day, the opinion I have long entertaim-d and 
exi .essrd of il to all who have asked it, and to 
Bome who would rather not have heard it : hn I tohl 
Moore not very long ago " we arc all wrong except 
5,oL'er8, Crabli'e, and Canipljell." Without h.'ing 
old in years, I am old^n days, and do not ft-el the 
adequate spirit within me to attempt a work whi( h 
should show what I think right in poetry, and luurtt 
content myself with having denounced what is 
Vrong. There are.T trust, younger spirits rising up 
In Kngland, who, escaping the contagion whuh has 
iwept away poetry from our literature, will rreall it 
to their country, such as it once was and amy utill 
Se 

in the mean time, the best iign of amcudmiMit 
*ill be repentancr, and new, and frequent odlllimH 
ni Pope and Drydeii. . v • 

i here will be found as comfortiiblp mctnphVNtcs, 
vnd ton times more poctrj in the '• Es«ja> on Man," 



than in the *• Excursion." If you search for pas 
sion, where is it to be found stronger than in the 
epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, or 'n Paiamon and 
Arcite ? Do you wish for invention, imagination, 
sublimity, character ? seek them in the Rape of 
the Lock, the fables of Dryden, the Ode of Saii^t 
Cecilia's Day, and Absalom and Achitophel : you 
will discover in these two poets only, all for which 
you must ransack innumerable metres, and God 
only knows how many writers of the day, without 
finding a tittle of the same qualities, — n-fth the ad- 
dition, too, of wit, of which the latter have none. 
I have not, however, forgotten Thomas Brown tL« 
Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor Whistlecraft ; 
but that is not wit — it is humor. I will say nothing of 
the harmony of Pope and Dryden in comparison, 
for there is not a Living poet (except Rogers, Uif- 
ford, Campbell, and Crabbe), who ian write an 
heroic couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite leau- 
ty of their versification has withdrawn the public 
attention from their other excellences, as the vilgar 
eye will rest more upon the splendor of the uniform 
than the quality of the troops. It is this yer> har- 
mony, particularly in Pope, which has raised tht 
vulgar and atrocious cant aganist him : — because 
his versification is perfect, it is assumed that it is 
his only perfection ; because his truths are so cU-ar, 
it is asserted that he has no invention ; ' ' 
he is always inteUigil)le, it is taken for _ 
he has no genius. We are sneeringly i 
is the •• Poet of Reason," as if this \ 
for his being no poet. Taking passage 
I will undertake to cite mo;" lines ttL , ;■ 
i/nat/ination from Pope than from any ttcv living 
poets, be they who they may. To take an instance 
at random from a species of composition not vrry 
favorable to imagination — Satire : sot down the 
character of Sporus,* with all the v.ouderlul play 
of fancy which is scattered over it, and p" ue by its 
side an equal number of verses, from any iwo exist- 
ing poets, of the same power aud the s;une variety 
— where will ycu find them ? 

I merely mention one instance of many, in repW 
to the injustice done to the'memorv ' ' ' 

harmonized our poetical laiiguagi-. T' 
clerks, and other self-educated genii, fow i 

to distort themselves to the new models, thm te 
toil after the symmetry of him who had enehai.ttHl 
their fathers. They were besides smitten by Ik-iihj 
told that the new school wore to revive the lam^uimt 
of Queen Elizabeth, the true English : as ever) 
bodv in the reign of Qu<'«mi Anne wrote no lelU: 
than French, by a species of literary trea«on 



' l/i4 spun' 

/' 
\\ 

V 






r062 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



"Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one 
except Milton ever -wTOte who could rhyme, became 
the order of the day, — or else such rhyme as looked 
Btill blanker than the verse without it. I am aware 
that Johnson has said, after some hesitation, that 
he could not '* prevail upon himself to wish that 
Milton had been a rhymer." The opinions of that 
truly great man, whom it is also the present fashion 
to decry, will ever be received by me with that def- 
erence which time will restore to him from all , but, 
with all humility, I am not persuaded that the 
Paradise Lost would not have been more nobly con- 
reyed to posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets, 
although even they could sustain the subject if well 
balanced, but in the stanza of Spencer or of Tasso, 
or in the terza rima of Dante, which the powers of 
Milton could easily have grafted on our language. 
The Seasons of Thomson would have been better in 
rhyme, although still inferior to his Castle of Indo- 
lence ; and Mr. Southey's Joan of Arc no worse, 
although it might have taken up six months instead 
of weeks in the composition. I recommend also 
to the lovers of lyrics the perusal of the present 
laureate's Odes by the side of Dryden's on Saint 
Cecilia, but let liim be sure to read Jirst those of 
Mr. Southey. 

To tte heaven-born genii and inspired young 
scriveners of the day much of this will appear par- 
idox : it will appear so even to the higher order of 
our critics ; but it was a truism twenty years ago, 
and it will be a reacknowledged truth in ten more. 
In the mean time, I will conclude with two quota- 
tions, Vith intended for some of my old classical 
friend* who have still enough of Cambridge about 
them to think themselves honored by having had 
JohnOryden as a predecessor in their college, and 
to recollect that their earliest English poetical 
pleasures were drawn from the "little nightingale" 
of Twickenham. The first is from the notes to the 
poem of the " Friends." * 

" It is only within the last twenty or thirty years 
..hat those notable discoveries in criticisms have 
been made which have taught our recent versifiers 
to undervalue this energetic, melodious, and moral 
poet. The consequences of this want of due esteem 
for a writer whom the good sense of our predeces- 
sors had raised -to his proper station have been 

NUMBKOUS AND DEGKA.DING EXOUGH. This is nOt 

the place to enter into the subject, even as far as it 
affects our poetical numbers alone, and there is mat- 
ter of more importance that requires present reflec- 
tion." 

The second is from the volume of a young person 
leai ning to write poetry, and beginning by teaching 
the art. Hear him • f 

" But ye were dead 
To things ye knew not of— were closely wed 
To iiiustv laws lined out with wretcheil rule 
And comp.iss vile; so that ye taiiglit a school J 
Of dolts to smooth., inlay, and chip, and JU, 
Till, like the certain wands of J.icob'b wit, 
Thttr verses tallied. Easy was the task ; 
A thousand handicrafismen wore the mask 
Of foesy. Ill-fated, impious race, 
Thai ulanphenied the bright lyrist to bis face; 



' Written by Iiord Byron's early friend, the Rev. Francis Hodgson. 

? In a manuscript note on 'iis passngR of the pamphlet, dated Nov. 12, 
lOil, I.-jTd Bfroii says,— " Mr. Keats died at Rome about a year after this 
vu written, of h decline pr?-^ i»j by his having burst a blood-vessel oh 
leadinpr 'he article on his ' Endymion,' in the duarterly Review. 1 have 
«ead the article before and since ; and although it is bitter, I do not .hink that 

man should pern\it hnuself to be killed by it. But a young nran HtUe 
dreams what he must inevitably encounter in the course of a life am/)itious of 
piblie notice. My indignation at Mr. Kcau's deprecia^n of Pope has 
kaitlly permitted me to do justice to his own genius, which, malgr^ all Ihe 
fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great promise. His 
Inigment of ' Hyperion ' seems aaually inspired by the Titans, and is as 
lublitne as j£schyluB. He is a loss to our literature ; and the more so, as he 
limself, before his death, is said to have been persuaded tha' he had not 
ftken the right line, and was reforming his style upon the n.. e classical 
nodels of llie language. " 

I It wa« at kjiat a grammar " school." 



And did not ki-iC « it ; uo, they went atxtvt 
Holding a poor decrepit standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and 5d Iarg» 
The name of one Boileau I 

A little before, the manner of Pope is teirmed. 

" A seism,* 

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blush for this hi£ land." j 

I thought '■'■ foppery, ^^ was a consequence of r^ 
jinement : but u'lmporte. 

The above will suffice to show the notions enter 
tained by the new performers on the English lyre 
of him who made it most tuneable, and the great 
improvements of their own " variazioni." 

The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a 
young disciple of the six or seven new schools, in 
which he has learnt to write such lines and such 
sentiments as the above. He says ** easy was the 
task " of imitating Pope, or it may be of equalling 
him, I presume. 1 recommend him to try before he 
is so positive on the subject, and then compare what 
he will have the^i written and what he has now writ- 
ten with the humblest and earliest compositions ol 
Pope, produced in years still more youthful than 
those of Mr. Keats when he invented his new "Es- 
say on Criticism," entitled " Sleep and Poetry," (an 



* So spelt by the author. 

t As a balance to these lines, and to the sense and sentiment cf tbei 
school, 1 will put down a passage or two from Pope's earlisst poei?)s, U 
at random : — 

" Envy her own snakes shall feel, 
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel, 
There Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain, 
And gasping Fnries tliirst for blood in vain." 

' Alt I what avails his glossy varying dyes, 
His purple crest, and scarlet-cfrcled ej'es ; 
The vivid green his shining plumes unfok^, 
His painted wings, and breast that flames with pM," 

" Round Isroken columns clasping ivy twined, 
O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind; 
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, 
And savage liowlings fill the sacred quires." 

" Hail, bards triumphant ! born in happier day* 
Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 
Whose honors with increase of ages grow, 
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound, 
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found I 
Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, 
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, 
That on weak wings, from taj pursues your fligiila; 
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he write*, 
To teach vain wits a science little known, 
T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own I " 

" Amphion there the loud creating lyre 
Burikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire I 
Cithseron's echoes answer to his call, 
And half the mountain rolls iAto a wall." 

" So Zembla's rocks, the teanteous work <^ fhat, . 

Elise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast j 
Pale suns, unfelt, at disitnce roll away, 
And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play; 
Eternal snows the growing mass supply. 
Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent ■ky, 
As Atliis fix'd each hoary pile appears, 
The gather'd winter of a thousand yean." 

" Thus, when we riew some well-propcrtlou'ii Jome 
The world's just wonder, and even thine, O Rorae I 
No single parts unequally surprise. 
All comes united to the admiring eyes : 
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; 
The whole at once is bold and regular." 



A thousand similar passages crowd upon me, all composed by Pope belbn 
his two-and-ttaenHeth year ; and yet it is contended that he is no poet, an<l 
we are told so in such lines as I beg the reader to compare wi.h these yovtiv 
Jul verses of the "no poet." Must we repeat the questicn of Johnson, 
" // Pope is not a poet, vhert is poetry to be found 7 " Even ra descrtf^lut 
poetry, the Unant department of the art, he will be found, on a fair ezamoi* 
tion, to suipaas any living writerw 



OBSERVATIONS UPON AN ARTICLE IN BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE. l[]f^ 

of naming him, by the same species of courtesy 
which has induced him to designute rac at th« 
author of Don Juan. Upon the sttire of tie Lak« 
Poets, he may perhaps recall to rniud that J n-.f-reW 
express an opinion long ago entertained ai.d speci- 
fied in a letter to Mr. James Hogg, which he the 
said James Hogg, somewhat contrary to the law o 
pens, showed to Mr. John Wilson, in the year 1814 
as he himself informed me in his answer, tpllir? mi 

by way of apology, that " he'd be d • ' ' 'i 

help it ; " and I am not conscious of ai « 

"envy " or "exacerbation " at this ui'.: a 

induces me to think better or worse of b».iitl.Ly, 
Word.^worth, and Coleridge as poets than I do n^jw, 
although I do know one or two things more wbicL 
have added to my contempt for them as iudividiMls. 
And, in return for Mr. Wilson's invective, I >.!i;ill 
content myself with asking one question : Did he 
never compose, recite, or sing any parody or p iro- 
dies upon the Psalms (of what nature this depnn. nt 
saith not), in certain jovial meetings of the youth 
of Edinburgh ? It is nut that I think any ureal 
harm if he did ; because it seems to me that ajl de- 
pends upon the intention of such a parody. If it 
be meant to throw ridicule on the sacred original, it 
is a sin ; if it be iulended to burlesque the pnif.iiie 
subject, or to inculcate a moral truth, it is nunc If 
it were, the uiAelitcers' Creed, the many pulitiL-il 
parodies of various parts of the Scriptures and 
liturgy, particularly a celebrated one of the Lord's 
Prayer, and the beautiful moral parable in favor of 
toleration by Franklin, which has often been t.iLin 
fur a real extract from Genesis, would all be sii:> of 
a damning nature. But I wish to know, if Mr 
Wilson ever has done this, and //" he /lus, ir.'n/ he 
should be so very angry with siuiilar portit^ns of 
Don Juan? — Did no "parodv profane " appe;ir in 
any of the earlier ixumbers ot Blackwood's Maga- 
zine ? 

I will now conclude this long answer to a short 
article, repenting of having said so much in my oMrn 
defence, and so little on the *' cryinii, 1< fl- 

ings otr and national defections " of i f 

the present day. Having said this, I i 
expected to defend Don Juan, or any other "<.. '. 
poetry, and shall not make the attempt. .Xnl .il- 
though I df) not think that Mr. Jobn Wilson h i^ m 
this instance treated me with candor or con-^hL ra- 
tion, I trust that tile tone I have u«'d in «;t i>;- u; 
of him personally will prove that 1 bi-a: 
tie malice as I really believe at the < 

heart he bears towards nie ; but the * 

editor, like those of n tax -gatherer, arr |>ur<kuit>uat 
and peremptory. 1 h»ve doro. 

YttCN. 



aminous title,) from whence the above canons are 
taken. Pope's was written at nineteen, and pub- 
lished at twenty-two. 

Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and 
such their scholars. The disciples of Pope were 
Johnson, Goldsmith, Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, 
Gifford, Matthias, Haley, and the author of the 
Paradise of Coquettes , to whom may be added 
Richards, Heber, Wrangham, Bland, Hodgson, 
Merivale, and others who havp not had their full 
fame«, because " the race is not always to the swift, 
nor the battle to the strong," and because there is 
a fortune in fame as in all other things. Now, of 
all the new schools — I say all, for, "like Legion, 
they are many" — has there appeared a single scholar 
who has not made his master ashamed of him ? 
unless it be Sotheby, who has imitated every body, 
and occasionally surpassed his models. Scott found 
peculiar favor and imitation among the fair sex : 
there was Miss Holford, and Miss Mitford, and Miss 
Francis ; but, with the greatest respect be it spoken, 
aone of his imitators did much honor to the origi- 
nal, except Hogg, the Ettrick shepherd, until the 
appearance of "The Bridal of Triermain," and 
" Harold the Dauntless," which in the opinion of 
some equalled if not surpassed him ; and lo ! after 
three or four years, they turned out to be the Mas- 
ter's own compositions. Have Southey, or Cole- 
ridge, or t'other fellow, made a follower of renown ? 
Wilson never did well till he set up for himself in 
the " City of the Plague." Has Moore, or any 
other living writer of reputation, had a tolerable 
imitator, or rather disciple ? Now, it is remark- 
able, that almost all the followers of Pope, whom I 
Have named, have produced beautiful and standard 
works , and it was not the number of his imitators 
who finally hurt his fame, but the despair of imi- 
tation, and the ease of 7iot imitating him sufficiently. 
This, and the same reason which induced the Athen- 
ian burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristidcs, 
" because he was tired of always hearing him called 
the Jicst," have produced the temporary exile of 
Pope from the State of Literature. But the term 
of his ostracism will expire, and the sooner the bet- 
ter, not for him, but for those who binished him, 
ind for the coming generation, who 

" Will blu»h to find their father* were hi* (oet." 

I will now return to the writer of the article which 
txas drawn forth these remarks, whom I honestly 
take to be John Wilson, a man of great powers and 
acquirements, well known to the public as the 
Author of the "City of the Plague," "Isle of 
Palmfli ' and other productions I ake the lib«rty 



LETTEK 

TO THE. EDITOR OF MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW, 

ORIGnsALLY PUBLISHED IN THE "LIBERAL." 



In th'i first canto of Don Juan appeared the fol • 
owing passage : 

" For fear dome prudish readers should grow sldttish, 
I've bribed My Grmdmother's Review,— the British I 

" I sent it in a letter to tlie editor, 

Who thauk'd me duly by return of post— 
I'm tor a handsome article his creditor; 

Yet if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 
Amt break a promise after haviug made it her, 

Denying C.« receipt of what il cost, 
And smear his page wiili gall instead of honey, 

AU 1 can say is— that he had the money." 

On the appearance of the poem, the learned editor 
of the Review in question allowed himself to be de- 
coyed into the ineSable absurdity of taking the 
charge as serious, and, in his succeeding number, 
came forth Avith an indignant contradiction of it; 
to which Lord Byron replied in the following letter : 



"TO THE EDITOR OP THE BKITISH KEVIEW. 
**My DeAU IvOBEHTS, 

" As a believer in the Church of England — to say 
nothing of the State — I have been an occasional 
reader, and great admirer of, though not a sub- 
scriber to, yoiu Review, which is rather expensive. 
But I do not know that any part of its contents 
ever g-ive me much surprise till the eleventh article 
of your twenty-seventh number made its appear- 
ance. You have there most vigorously refuted a 
cahimnious accusation of bribery and corruption, j 
•the credence of which in the public mind might not 
only have damaged your reputation as a barrister 
and an editor, but, what would have been still 
worse, have injured the circulation of your journal ; 
\»hich, I regret to hear, is not so extensive as the 
' purity (us you well observe) of its,' &c., &c., and 
the present taste for propriety would induce us to 
expect. The charge itself is of a solemn nature, 
and, although in verse, is couched in terms of such 
circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little 
short of that generally accorded to the thirty-nine 
articles, to which you so frankly subscribed on 
taking your degrees. It is a charge the most re- 
volting to the heart of man, from its frequent oc- 
cuiTcn :e ; to the mind of a lawyer, from its occa- 
sional truth ; and to the soul of an editor, from its 
moral impossibility. You are charged, then, in the 
last line of one octave stanza, and the whole eight 
lines of the next, viz., two hundred and ninth and 
two hundred and tenth of the first canto of that 
pestilent poem,' Don Juan, with receiving, and 
Itill moi3 fooli»shlj acknowledging the rc'uipt of 



certain monies, to eulogize the unknown author 
who by this account must be known to you, if tc 
nobody else. An impeachment of this nature, sc 
seriously made, there is but one way of refuting ; 
and it is my firm persuasion, that whether you did 
or did not (and / believe that you did not)' receive 
the said monies, of which I wish that he had speci- 
fied the sum, you are quite right ia denying a^* 
knowledge of the transaction. If charges of thia 
nefarious description are to go forth sanctioned by 
all the solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed 
by the veracity of verse (as Counsellor Phillips 
would say) what is to become of readers hitherto 
implicitly confident in the not less veracious prose 
of our critical journals ? what is to become of the 
reviews ? And if the reviews fail, what is to become 
of the editors } It is common cause, and you have 
done well to sound the alarm. I myself, in my 
humble sphere, will be one of your echoes. In the 
words of the tragedian Liston, ' I love ia row,' and 
you seem justly determined to make one. 

" It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that 
the writer might have been in jest ; but this only 
aggravates his crime. A joke, the proverb says, 
' breaks no bones ; ' but it may break a bookseller, 
or it may be the cause of bones being brokeh. The 
jest is but a bad one at the best for the author, and 
might have been a still worse one for you, if your 
copious contradiction did not certify to all whom it 
may concern your own indignant innocence, and the 
immaculate purity of the British Review. 1 do not 
doubt your word, my dear Roberts, vet I cannot 
help ^vishiug that in a case of such vital importance, 
it had assumed the more substantial shape of aix 
affidavit sworn before the Lord Mayor. 

"I am sure, ray dear Roberts, that you will take 
these observations of mine in good part ; *they are 
written in a spirit of friendship not less pure than 
your own editorial integrity. I have always admired 
you ; and not knowing any shape which friendship 
and admiration can assume more agreeable and use- 
ful than that of good advice, I shall contiime my 
lucubrations, mixed with here and there a monitory 
hint as to what I conceive to be the line you should 
pursue, in case you should ever again be assailed 
with bribes, or accused 'of taking them. By-the- 
way, you don't say much about the poem, except 
that it is ' flagitious.' This is a pity — you s?aould 
have cut it up ; because, to say the truth, in net 
doing so, you somewhat assist any notionf. whicH 
the malignant might entertain on the score of the 
a'-.onymous asseveration which has made you so 
angry, 

"You say, no bookseller 'was willing to take 
upon himself the publication, though most of them 
disgrace themselve.« by selling it-' Now, my deaj 



LETTER TO THE EDITOR UF MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW 



1066 



friend, though we all know that, those fellows will 
do any thinj^ for money, methinks the disgrace is 
more with the purchasers ; and some such, doubt- 
less, there are, for there can be no very extensive 
selling (as you will perceive by that of the British 
Review) without buying. You then add, * what can 
the critic say ? ' I am sure I don't know ; at pres- 
ent he says very little, and that not much to the 
purpose. Then comes, ' for praise, as far as regards 
•tho poetry, mdny passages might be exhibited ; for 
condemnation, as far as regards the morality, all.' 
Now, my dear, good Roberts, I feel for you and for 
youi reputation ; my heart bleeds for both ; and I 
10 ask you, whether or not such language does not 
oome positively under the description of ' the puff 
collusive,' for which see Sheridan's farce of ' The 
Critic,' (by-the-way, a little more facetious than 
your own farce under the same title) towards the 
close of scene second, act the first. 

" The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord 
Byron; but you feel yourself 'at liberty to suppose 
it not Lord B.'s composition.' Why did you ever 
suppose that it was ^ I approve of your indigna- 
tion — I applaud it — I feel as angry as you can ; but 
perhaps your virtuous wrath carries you a little too 
far, when you say that ' no misdemeanor, not even 
that of sending into the world obscene and blas- 
phemous poetry, the product of studious lewdness 
and labored impiety, appears to you in so detestable 



' British Critic ; ' others, that by the expiession, 
'my Grandmother's Re^^ew,' it was intimated that 
' my grandmother ' was not the reader of the review, 
but actually the writer; thereby insinuating, my 
dear Roberts, that you were an old woman ; becau^Mj; 
as people often say, 'Jeffrey's Re^^ew,• ' Girford'i 
Review,' in lieu of Edinburgh and Quarterly; so 
' my Grandmother's Review ' and Roberts's might 
be also synonymous. Now, whatever color his in- 
sinuation might derive from the circmn8ttr.?e c.' 
your wearinjj; a gown, as well as from your time ol 
life, your general style, and various passages ot you» 
\vritings, — I will take upon myself to exculpat-' v-iu 
from all suspicion of the kind, and assert, with'ou* 
calling Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if ever yt.u 
should be chosen Pope, you will pass through a\'. 
the previous ceremonies with as much ciedit as any 
pontiff since the parturition of Joan. It is very 
unfair to judge of sex from writings, particularly 
from those of the British Review. We are all lialile 
to be deceived; and it is an indisputable fact, that 
many of the best articles in your journal, which 
were attributed to a veteran female, weie actually 
written by you yourself; and yet to this dii^- there 
are people who could never find out the ditferonce. 
But let us return to the more immediate question. 

" I agree with you that it is impossible Lord Byron 
should be the author, not only because as a British 
peer and a British poet, it would be im]ir;irt:r .Vie 



appears to you m so 
a light as the acceptance of a present by the editor! for him to have recourse to such fat 
of a review, as the condition of praising an author.' I but for some other reasons which you : i 

The devil it doesn't ! Think a little. This is being 'to state. In the first place, his lord- , ..j 

critical overmuch. In point of Gentile benevolence grandmother. Now the author— and we muy be- 
or Christian charity, it were surely less criminal to lieve him in this— doth expressly suite that the 
praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fellow-creature foil 'British' is his 'Grandmother's Review;' and if, 
nothing ; and as to the assertion of the compara- 



tive innocence of blasphemy and obscenity, con- 
fronted with an editors' ' acceptance of a present,' 
I shall merely observe, that as an editor you say 
very well, but as a Christian barrister, I would not 
recommend you to transplant this sentence into a 
brief. 

• And yet you say, ' the miserable man, (for misera- 



ds I think I have distinctly proved, tliis was nut a 
mere figurative allusion to jour siipini^fd int. \\(^c 
tual age and sex, my dear friend, j i 

you l)e she or no, that there is su \ 

still extant. And I can the more i ^ 

having a sexagenary aunt of my own, wli«» perused 
you constantly, till unfortunately falling asleep ovcx 
tiie leading aiticle of your lust number, her speeta- 



" [ recollect hearing, soon after the publication, 
tiiie sibioct discussed at the tea-table ol Mr. S. tli. 
. foct, who expressed himself, I reuiemlier, a gixnl 
aeal sarjtrised that you had never reviewed his epic 
poem, nor uuy of his six tragedies, of which, in one 
inHtanco, the bad taste of the pit, and in uI! the 
rest, the barbarous rei)U«n:inco of the principal 
actors, preveJitcd the perriuumuco. Mrs. and the 
Misses S. being in a corner of tlie room j>.i 
the proof sheets of some new poems on It 
wish, by-thc-by, Mrs. S. would make the tea i 
BtrongeV,) the male part of the conretmzion 
at liberty to make a tew observationN on tin 

and passage in ij\iestion. and there was a diti« >■ •• 

of opinion 



after a faithful service of fifteen y» 
never been able to fit her eyes since ; 
been forced to read you aloud to her ; 

f 



ble he is, as having a soul of which he cannot get;cles fell otf and were brnky" "gii» 
rid.') But here I must pause, and inquire what is " 
the meaning of this parenthesis. We have heard of 
people of ' little soul,' or of ' no soul at all,' but never 
till now of * the misery of having a soul of which we 
cannot get rid ; ' a misery under which you are pos- 
sibly no great sufferer, having got rid apparently of 
Home of the intellectual part of your own, when you 
penned this pretty piece of eloquence. 

♦' But It continue. You call u])i)n Lord Byron, 
always supposing him not the author, to disclaim 
* with all gentlemanly haste,' Ac, &c. I am told 
that Lord B. is in a foreign country, some thousand 
miles off it may be; so that it will be dilKcult for 
him to hurry to your wishes. In the mean time, 

Cerhaps you yourself have set an example i>f more 
aste than gentility ; but ' the more haste the worse 
«^€ed ' 

' Lot us now look at the charge itself, my dear 
Roijerts, which appears to mo to be in some augrec 
not quite explicitly worded: 

" I briljed niw Qmndmolhtr'i Krvlow, llir llriii«li." 



list the f"i 



•iider. 



t the w.iy in whicii I became acquaiui c 

s<i)ij(^ct of my present letter, and thuii detenu med 
to become your public correspondont. 

" In the next phu . , ' ■■••■- :„ 

some sort like tliat o. 

the aiitlior of all un i 

B. has been supposed 
of a ' Pilgrimage to J' 

t»f ' Death upon the r i- 

lette,' to * Saint lloleuu, 
and to u su'-kin-j cliild. 
written u.' 
knows in 
vou sure I 

like my poiii dt .u auiii .' 
sort of a man ; and I w 
were you, cither of w)' ■' 
written. I thought 1 
:uid ft-rriblf. .\h to I 



to ttir Laniiol tue Haul,' 

Now h*» iMriM'd nut to )|AVt 



duelioas. llthui»» 
ill hiN expenditure, 
viewer** '' " '^ "■' 
••Shall 

inn> I ■■ 



Soilio thought tho allunion wm to thelmodoil to rate your orau« btvoiid lu cmI wortfc - 
134 



i066 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Don't be aagijp —I Jcnow you won't, — at this ap- 
praisement of your powers of eulogy ; for on the 
other hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your 
abuse is worth, not its own weight — that's a fenther, 
— ^but your weight in gold. So don't spare it : if he 
has bargained for that, give it handsomely, and de- 
pend upon your doing him a friendly office. 

" But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as 
I eaid before, I cannot believe in the first instance, 
that yw" would receive a bribe to praise any person 
whatever; and still less can I believe that youi 
praise could ever produce such an offer. You are a 
good creature, my dear Roberts, and a clever fellow ; 
else I could almost suspect that you had fallen into 
the very trap set for you in verse by this anonymous 
w ig, who will certainly be but too happy to see you 
s^ni g him the trouble of making you ridiculous. 
Tne fact is, that ths solemnity of your eleventh ar- 
ticle does make you look a little more absurd than 
you ever yet looked, in all probability, and at the 
same time does no good ; for if any body believed 
before in the octave stanzas, they will believe still, 
and you will find it not less difficult to prove your 
negative, than the learned Partridge found it to de- 
monstrate his not being dead, to the satisfaction of 
the readers of almanacs. 

" What the motives of this writer may have been 
for (as you magnificently translate his quizzing you) 
' stating, with the particularity which belongs to 
fact, the forgery of a groundless fiction,' (do pray, 
my dear R., talk a little less 'in King Cambyses' 
vein,') I cannot pretend to say ; perhaps to laugh at 
you, but this is no reason for your benevolently 
making all the world laugh also. I approve of your 
being angry ; I tell you I am angry too ; but you 
should not have shown it so outrageously. Your 
solemn ' ('/"somebody personating the Editor of the,' 
&c., &c.,''has received from Lord B., or from any 
other person,' reminds me of Charley Incledon's 
usual exordium when people came into the tavern 
to hear hitn sing without paying their share of the 
reckoning — ' If a maun, or 07iy maun, or oivtj other 



maun,' &c., ^-c. ; you have both the same reduE 
dant eloquence. But why should you think anj 
body would personate you } Nobody would dreatt 
of such a prank who ever read your compositions 
and perhaps not many who have heard your conver- 
sation. But I have been inocculcated with a little oi 
your prolixity. The fact is, my dear Roberts, thai 
somebody has tried to make a fool of you, and what 
he did not succeed in doing, you have done for him 
and for yourself. 

" With regard to the poem itself, or the author, 
whom I cannot find out, (can you ?) I have nothing 
to say ; my business is with you. I am sure that 
you will, upon second thoughts, be really obliged to 
me for the intention of this letter, however far short 
my expressions may have fallen of the sincere good 
will, admiration, ana thorough esteem, with, whif^h 
I am ever, my dear Roberts, 

" Most truly youis, 
"WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK. 

» Sept. — , 1819. 
" Little PiiUiiigton. 

"P. S. My letter is too long to revise, and thj 
post is going. I forget whether or not I as^^ed ■"^u 
the meaning of your last words, ' the foigery of a 
groundless fiction.' Not^, as all forgery is Action, 
and all fiction a kind of forgery, is not this tauto- 
logical ? The sentence would have eroded more 
strongly with * forgery ; ' only it hath an awful Bauk- 
of-Engiand sound, aiid would have ended like an 
indictment, besides sparing you sei'eral words, and 
conferring some meaning upon the remainder. But 
this is mere verbal criticism. Good bye — once mor« 
yours truly, " W. C. 

" P. S. 2d.' Is it true tha o the Saints make up the 
losses of the review ? — It is very handsome in them 
to be at so great an expense. — Pray pardon raj 
taking up so much of your time from the bar, and 
from your clients who I hear are about the same 
number with th<i readers of your journal. Twios 
more yours, " W. C." 



LOED BACON'S APOTHEGMS. 



kA.CON'8 APOTHEGMS. 



91 

Michael Angclo, the 
ftimoui painter, painting 
in the pope's chapel the 
portraiture of hell and 
damned sou.s, made one 
of the damned souls so 
like a cardinal that was 
his enemy, as every body 
at first sight knew it ; 
whereupon the cardinal 
complained to Pope Cle- 
ment, humbly praying it 
might be defaced. The 
pope said to him, Why, 
fou know very well I have 
power to deliver a soul 
out of purgatory, but not 
fiut of hell. 



OBSERVATIONS. 



This was not the por- 
trait of a cardinal, but of 
tha pope's master of the 
ceremonies. 



155. 

Alexander, after the 
battle of Granicum, had 
very great ofi"ers made him 
by Darius. Consulting 
with his captains con- 
cerning them, Parmenio 
se.id. Sure, I would ac- 
cept of these offers, if I 
were as Alexander. Al- 
exander answered. So 
would I, if I were as Par- 
menio. 

158. 

Antigonus, when it was 
told him that the enemy 
had such volleys of ar- 
rows, that they did hide 
the sun, said. That falls 
out well, for it is hot 
weather, and so we shall 
fight in the shade. 



It was after the battle 
of Issus, and during the 
seige of Tyre, and not im- 
mediately after the pas- 
sage of the Granicus, 
that this is said to baire 
occurred. 



This was not said by 
Antigonus, but by ^ 
Spartan, previously U 
the b» :tle of Thermopir 



162. 
Tbere wag a philoso- 
pher t^at disputed with 
Adrian the Emperor, and 
did it but weakly. One 
of his friends that stood 
by, afterwards said unto 
him, Methinks you were 
not like yourself last day, 
in argument with the 
Emperor : I could have 
answered better myself. 
Why, said the philoso- 
phijr, would you have me 
contend with him that 
ocmu^ands thirty legions? 

1G4. 
There was one that 
found a great mass ol 
money digged under 
ground in his grandfath- 
er's house, and being 
somewhat doubtful of the 
case, signified it to the 
emperor that he had 
found sucli treasure. The 
emperor made a rescript 
thus : Use it. He writ 
Dack again, that the sum 
was greater than liis state 
or condition could use. 
The emperor writ a new 
rescript, thus : Abuse it. 

178. 
One of the seven was 
wont to say, that laws 
were like cobwebs: where 
the small flies were 
caught, and the great 
brake through. 



An orator of Athens 
said to Demosthenes, 
The Athenians will kill 
vou if they wax mad. 
bemosthenes replied. 
And they will kill you, if 
they be in good sense. 

221. 
' There was a philoso- 
pher about Tiberius that, 
looking into the nature 
of Caius, said of him, 
That he was mire min- 
gled with blood. 

97. 
There was a king of 
Hungary took a bishop 
hi battle, and kept him 
priBiner; whercujion the 
pp* writ a monitory to 



LORD BACON'S APOTHEGMS. 

I him, for that he had 

This happened unde.-jljroken the privilege of 

Augustus Caesar, and noi I hply church, and taken 

during the reign of Ad- bis son : the king sent 

an embassage to him, and 

sent withal the armor 

wherein the bishop was 

taken, and this only in 

writing — Vide num h(PC 

sit vestlsjilii tui ! Know 

now whether this be thy 

son's coat ? 



267. 
Demetrius, king of Ma- 
cedon, had a petition of- 
fered him divers times by 
an old woman, and an- 
swered he had no leisure ; 
whereupon the woman 
said aloud. Why then 
give over to be kirg. 



1061 

with the breastplate « 
the bishop of BsauvaiB. 



This happened to the 
father of Herodes Atti- 
cus, and the answer was 
made by the emperor 
Nerva, who deserved that 
his name should have 
been stated by the"great- 
est — wisest — meanest of 
mankind." 



This was said by Ana- 
charsis the Scythian, and 
not by a Greek. 



This was not said by 
Demosthenes, but to De- 
mosthenes by Phocion. 



This was not said of 
Caius (Caligula, I pre 
siime, is intended by Ca 
ins), but of Tiberius him 
self. 



This reply was not 
made Ijyaking of llun- 
(/nri/, but Mcnt by Richard 
the first, C<i'ur'de l^ion, 
of ELglaud to the Pope, 



This did rMt happen r : 
Demetrius, but to rhii\^ 
King of Macedon 



VOLTAIRE. 

Having stated that Bacon was frequently incor- 
rect in his citations from history, I have thought it 
necessary in what regards so great a name (howeret 
trifling), to support the r.:sertion by such facts as 
more immediately occur to me. They are but tri- 
fles, and yet fur such trifles a scho«)lboy would be 
whipped (if still in th^? fourth form); and Voltaire 
for half a dozen similar errors has been treated as a 
superficial writer, notwithslar I'r.g the testimony of 
the learned Warton ; — " Voltaire, a writer of much 
deeper research than is imagined, and the Jirst who 
has displayed the literature and cu.stoms of the 
dark ages with any dci/ree of penvtmtion and com- 
prehension." For anolh(!r distinguislied testimony 
to Voltaire's merits in literary research, see also 
Lord Holland's excellent Account of the Life and 
Writings of Lope de Vega, vol. i., p. 215, edition ol 
1817. 

Voltaire has even been termed *• a shnllow fel- 
low," by some of the same school w" Dry- 
den's Ode "a drunken 'song; " — a t is 
called, I presume, fr<un their edui .', >till 
incomplete) the whole of whose filthy trash ul iOpicH, 
Excursions, cVc, Hkc, &c., is not worth the two 
words in Zaire, *• Vous jiUurcz," or a single speech 
of Tancred ; — a. school, the anostate lives of whose 
renegadoes, with their lr:i-tlrink;nt; urntrMli'v o( 
morals, and their •oiivn > — 
in tlie record of Ihcii to 
virtue can produce m> 'ood 
deeds drawn up in array) to etjuaJ or appuMcli tli« 

le defence of the family of Calas. by that groat 
and unequalled genius — tlio univrrsi! \ ■'■ • ■ 

'. have ventured to remark on tht >u- 

racies of " the greatest genius thi! t-r 

haps any other country < ^ 
how our national injust 
the greatest genius of I 

ies as these, of which the highesl «.l Li»mi%ti-i hi*« 
been no \vm uuilty. Query, *«as Baon a grrkUi 
intellect thaL Newton ? 



TRANSLATION OF TWO EPISTLES 

PROM THE ARMENIAN VERSION. 



THE EPISTLE OF THE CORINTHIANS 
TO ST. PAUL THE APOSTLE * 

1 SiEPHENjf and the elders with him, Dabnus, 
Eubulus, Theophilus, and Xinon, to Paul, our fa- 
ther and evangelist, and faithful master in Jesus 
Christ, health.+ 

2 Two men have come to Corinth, Simon, by 
name, and Cleobus,§ who vehemently disturb the 
faith of some with deceitful and corrupt words ; 

S Of which words thou shouldst inform thyself: 

4 For neither have we heard such words from 
hee, nor from the other apostles : 

5 But we know only that what we have heard 
from thee and from them, that we have kept firmly. 

8 But iir this chiefly has our Lord had compa's- 
Bion, that, whilst thou art yet with us in the flesh, 
Ve are again about to hear from thee. 

7 Therefore do thou write to us, or come thyself 
among us quickly. 

8 We believe in the Lord, that, as it was revealed 
to Theonas, he hath delivered thee*from the hands 
of the uurighteous.il 

9 But these are the sinful words of these impxire 
men, for thus do they say and teach : 

10 That it behooves not to admit the Prophets.H 

11 Neither do they affirm the omnipotence of 
God: 

12 Neither do they affirm the resurrection of the 
flesh: 

13 Neither do they afla.rm that man was altogether 
created by God : 

14 Neither do they affirm that Jesus Christ was 
born in the flesh frotn the Virgin Mary : 

15 Neither do tliey affirm that the world was the 
Work of God, but of some one of the angels. 

16 Therefore do thou make haste** to come among 
ns. 

17 That this city of the Corinthians may remain 
without scandal. 

18 And that the folly of these men may be made 
manifest by an open refutation. Fare thee well.ft 

The deacons Thereptus and Tichus:J::f: received 



• Sozne MSB. hive the title thus : EpisOe c/ SUphen the Elder to Paul 
$k* ApotUe, from, the Corinthians. 

t In tlie MSS., the marginal verses published by the Whiston's are want- 
ing. 

J In some MSS. we find, The elder* Numenut, Eubulut, llieophiltu, 
Utd Nonuson, lo Paul thetr brother, heaJh I 

5 Othen read, TKert came certain mer, . . and Clobeue, who vehemently 

I Some MSS. have, We believe in the Lord, that his presence teas made 
Mani/»( ; j.nd by this hath the Lord delivered ut from the hands of the 
tgnrighleous. 

f Others reai To read the Prophets. 

• • Some M&i lavc Therefore, brother, do thou make haste. 
i Others reau '•'hre thee well in the Lord. 

rx di>uae MlSS. bcve, 77i« Deacons TTierepus and Techu*. 



and conveyed this Epistle to the city of the Plilip 

pians.* 

When Paul received the Epistle, although he war 
then in chains on account of Stratonice,t the wife 
of Apofolauus,+ yet, as it were forgetting hia 
bonds, he mourned over these words, and said, 
weeping, " It were better for me to be dead, and 
with the Lord. For while I am in this body, and 
hear the wretched words of such false doctrine, be- 
hold, grief arises upon grief, and my trouble adds a 
weight to my chains ; when I behold this calamity 
and progress of the machinations of Satan, who 
searcheth to do wrong." 

And thus wdth deep affliction Paul composed hia 
reply to the Epistle.^ 



EPISTLE OF PAUL TO THE CORINTHIANS. || 

1 Paul, in bonds for Jesus Christ, disturbed by so 
many errors,! to his Corinthian brethren, health. 

2 I nothing marvel that the preachers of evil 
have made this progress. 

3 For because the Lord Jesus is about to fulfil his 
coming, verily on this account do certain men per 
vert and despise his words. 

4 But I, verily, from the beginning, have taught 
you that only which I myself received from the 
former apostles, who always remained with the Lord 
Jesus Christ. 

5 And I now say unto you, that the Lord Jesua 
Christ was born of the Yii-gin Mary, who was of the 
seed of David, 

6 According to the annunciation of the Holy 
Ghost, sent to her by our Father from heaven ; 

7 That Jesus might be introduced into the world,** 
and deliver our flesh by his flesh, and that he might 
raise us up from the dead ; 

8 As in this also he himself became the example : 

9 That it might be made manifest that man waa 
created by the Father, 

10 He "has not remained in perdition un?»ught ,t+ 
li But he is sought for, that he might le revised 

by adoption. 

12 For God, who is the Lord of all, the Father of 



• The Whiston's have, To the city of Phanida ; but in all the MSS. we 
find, To the city af the Phiilipians. 

t Others read, On account of Onotice. 

I The Whistons have. Of ApoUophanus : but in all the MSS. we nmv 
Apofolanus. 

§ III the text of this Epistle there are some othtif variations in tke word^ 
but the sense is the same. 

II Some MSS. have, Paul's Epistle from Prison, for the 4n«V-«iUoii m 
the Coiinthians. 

Tf Others read, Disturbed by mrious compunctions. 

• * Some MSS. have, That Jesus might comfort th* «oriil 
tt Otliers read, Hs has net remainsd indifferiO^ 



TRANSLATION OF TWO EPISTLES. 



1069 



our 1,01 d J2<?us Christ, who made heaven and earth, 
sent firstly, the Prophets to the Jews : 

13 That he would absolve thein from their sins, 
and bring them to his judgment. 

14 Because he wished to save, firstly, the house 
of Israel, he bestowed and poured forth his Spirit 
upon the Prophets ; 

15 That tiiey nhould for a long time preach the 
'-•'i'-ship of God, and the nativity of Christ. 

16 But he who was the prince of evil, when he 
wished to make himself God, laid his hand upon 
them, 

17 And bound all men in sin,* 

18 Because the judgment of the world was ap- 
proaohing. 

19 But Almighty God, when he willed to justify, 
iras unwilling to abandon his creature ; 

20 But when he saw his affliction, he had com- 
passion upon him : 

21 And at the end of a time he sent the Holy 
Ghost into the Virgin foretold by the Prophets. 

22 Who, believing readily, f was made worthy to 
conceive, and bring forth our Lord Jesus Christ. 

23 That from this perishable body, in which the 
evil spirit was glorified, he should be cast out, and it 
should be made manifest 

24 That he was not^God : For Jesus Christ, in 
his flesh, had recalled and saved this perishable 
flesh, and drawn it into eternal life by faith, 

2o Because in his body he would prepare a pure 
temple of justice for all ages ; 

26 In wliom we also, when we believe, are saved. 

27 Therefore know ye that these men are not the 
children of justice, but the children of wTath ; 

28 Who turn away from themselves the compaS' 
sion of God ; 

29 Who say that neither the heavens nor the earth 
were altogether works made by the hand of the 
Father of all things.:^ 

30 But these cursed men§ have the doctrine of 
the serpent. 

31 But do ye, by the power of God, withdraw 
yourselves far from these, and expel from among you 
the doctrine of the wicked. 

32 Because you are not the children of rebellion, 
hut the sons of the beloved church. 

33 And on this accouv t the time of the resurrec- 
tion is preached to all men. 

34 Therefore they who affirm that there is no 
resurrection of the flesh, they indeed shall not be 
raised up to eternal life ; 

35 But to judgment and condemnation shall the 
unbeliever arise in the fiesh : 

36 For to that body wliich denicp the resurrection 
of the body, shall ije denied the resurrection: be 
cause such are found to refuse tlie resurrection. 

37 But you also, Corinthians ! have known, from 
the seeds of wh(!at, and frouj otlier seeds, 

38 That one grain falls H dry into the earth, and 
ivithin it first dies, 

39 And afterward rises again, by the will of the 
Lord, endued with the same body : 



• •onie M88. h«T«, Laid /ii» 'uxfut, and tkm and mU 6oi% bound In Mn. 

♦ Oliutn rncl, 0»titving wUh » /»ur« hmrL • 

J Bome Mb8. hu»e, O/ «orf lu hhthtr of aU Mngt. 
I Olhcni nMil, Tktv curt* t/n'iMlo4t in l/iii iMng. 

Ol'wn rml, OUUlnn aj Uu rU«>6«</i««t 
I Buna Ir.M. Ii«v«, Tfcalowi ira'" /•'^ "^ «*^ •"*•*• •"*• 



Done into Etuflish by me, January- February, 1817, 
at the Convent of Sun Lazaro, tcith the aid and cx- 
jH>siti(m of the Armenian text by ike Fatht-r I'uschai 
Aueher, Arinenmn Frmr. 



IJyho.n. 



" Vrtilr^. Ayr,, 10. IhlT. 

/ had also the LtUin text, bt^ it if in many pitttm 
very corrupt, and with (/retit omistiona. 



t lHhrf» rr«<l, TSfon^ CmMMm. 

J OUi« •-Id. Nord^mtm^r^ t>U 4^ A* *mn fn m. 

I 8oir.» MH«. IMM, V« ttmU NSI mwkm t*tr **»€• •" i*^ 

I uihrn nnlahKt hm> thi». WttM ^ ^O m mm mm r*»<.« «• .*»•• 

Amm UrM te w4M your •pnl, mg I 
X lonM MM. h>««, ^ri^»k 
•• Ottaa MM, Okr i.^ to • 



40 Neither indeed docs it anse with -he 
simple body, but manifold. And filled with blearing. 

41 But we produce the example not only trom 
seeds, but from the honorable bodies of men.* 

42 Ye also have known Jonas, the son of Amit- 
tai.f 

43 Because he delayed to preach to the Ninevitea 
he was swallowed up In the belly of a fish for thre« 
days and three nights : 

44 And after three days, God heard his supplic*> 
tion, and brought him out from the deep abyss ; 

45 Neither was any part of his body corrupted; 
neither was his eyebrow bent down.^ 

46 And how much more for you, oh men of littl* 
faith ! 

47 If you believe in our Lord Jesus Christ, will 

he raise you up, even as he himself hath ari'sen. | 

48 If the bones of Elisha the prophet, falling upon 
the dead, revived the dead, 

49 By how much more shall ye, who are sup- 
ported by the flesh and the blood and the Spirit oi 
Christ, arise again on that day with a perfect body ? 

50 Filias the prophet, embracing tRe widow's son, 
raised him from the dead : 

51 By how nmch more shall Jesus Christ revive 
you, on that day, with a perfect body, even as he 
himself hath arisen ? 

52 But if ye receive other things vainly ,{ 

53 Hencef()rth no one shall cause me to travail ; 
for I bear on my body these fetters, || 

54 To obtain Christ ; and I suffer with patience 
these afflictions to become worthy of the resurrec- 
tion of the dead. 

55 And do each of you, having received the law 
from the hands of the blessed Prophets and the holy 
gospel, fl firmly maintain it ; 

56 To the end that you may be rewarded in the 
resurrection of the dead, and the possession of the 
life eternal. 

57 But if any of ye, not believing, shall trespass, 
he shall be judged with the misdoers, and punishca 
with those who have false belief. 

58 Because such are the generations of ripen, 
and the children of dragons and basilisks. 

59 Drive far from among ye, and fly from such, 
with the aid of our I.ord Jesus Christ. 

60 And the peace and grace of the boli'ved Son be 
upon you.** Amen. 



THE WILL OF LORD B^ROJV 



EX fRACTED FROM THE REGISTRY OF THE PREROGATIVE COURT OF CAmRRBURl 



This is the last will and testament of me, George 
Gordon, Lord Byron, Baron Byron, of Rochdale, in 
the county of Lancaster, as follows : — I give and 
ue-vise all that my manor or lordship of Rochdale, 
in tlie said county of Lancaster, with all its rights, 
royalties, members, and api)urtenances, and all niy 
lands, tenements, hereditainents, and premises sit- 
uate, lying, and being within the parish, manor, 
or lordship of Rochdale aforesaid, and all other my 
estates, lands, hereditaments, and premises whatso- 
ever ^nd wheresoever, unto my friends John Cam 
Hobhouse, late of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
Esquire, and John Hanson, of Chancery Lane, Lon- 
don, Esquire, to the use and behoof of them, their 
heirs and assigns, upon trust that they the said 
John Cam Hobhouse and John lianson, and the 
survivor of them, and the heirs and assigns of such 
survivor, do and shall, as soon as conveniently may 
be after my decease, sell and dispose of all my said 
manor and estates for the most money that can or 
may be had or gotten for the same, either by private 
contract or public sale By auction, and either to- 
gether or in lots, as my said trustees shall think 
j>roper ; and for the facilitating such sale and sales, 
I do direct that the receipt and receipts of my said 
trustees, and the survivor of them, and the "heirs 
and assigns of such survivor, shall be a good and 
Bufficient discharge, and good and sufficient dis- 
charges to the purchaser or purchasers of my said 
estates, or any part or parts thereof, for so much 
money as in such receipt or receipts shall be expressed 
or acknowledged to be received ; and that such 
purchaser or purchasers, his, her, or their heirs and 
assigns, shall not afterward be in any manner an- 
swerable or accountable for such purchase-money, 
or be obliged to see to the application thereof; and 
I do will and direct that my said trustees shall stand 
possessed of the moneys to arise by the sale of my 
said estates upon such trusts and for such intents 
md purposes as I have hereinafter directed of and 
concerning the same : And whereas I have by cer- 
tain deeds of conveyance made on my marriage 
with my present wife conveyed all my manor and 
estate of Newstead, in the parishes of Newstead 
and Linley, in th« county of Nottingham, unto 
trustees, upon trust to sell the same, and apply the 
Bum of sixty thousand pounds, part of the money 
to arise by such sale, upon the trusts of my mar- 
riage settlement: Now I do hereby give and be- 
queath all the remainder of the purchase-money to 
arise by sile of my said estate at Newstead, and 
sU the whole of the said sixty thousand pounds, or 
»U(;h part thereof as shall not become vested and 
payable under the trusts of my said marriage settle- 
Uient, unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and John 
lianson, their executors, administrators, and as- 
signs, upon wich trusts and for such ends, intents, 
»jid purpose* as hereinafter directed of and coupern- 



ing the residue of my personal estate. I give and 
bequeath unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and 
John Hanson the sum of one thousand pounds 
each. I give and bequeath^ll the rest, residtie, and 
remainder of my personal estate whatsoever and 
wheresover unto the said John Cam Hobhouse and 
John Hanson, their executors, administrators, and 
assigns, upon trust that they, my said trustees, and 
the survivor of them, and tfie executors and admin- 
istrators of such survivor, do and shall stand pos- 
sessed of all such rest and residue of my said 
personal estate and >the money to arise by sale of 
my real estates heieinbefore devised to them for 
sale and such of the moneys to arise by sale of my 
said estate at Newstead as I have power to dispose 
of, after payment of my debts and legacies hereby 
given, upon the trusts and for the ends, intents, and 
purposes hereinafter mentioned and directed of and 
concerning the same, that is to say, upon trust, 
that they, my said trustees, and the survivor of 
them, and the executors and administrators of sucL 
survivor, do and shall lay out and invest the same in 
the public stocks or funds, or upon government or 
real security at interest, with power from time to 
time to change, vary, and transpose sucL securities, 
and from time to time during the life of my sister, 
Augusta Mary Leigh, the wife of George Leigh, 
Esquire, pay, receive, apply, and dispose of the 
interest, dividends, and annual produce thereof 
when and as the same shall become due and pay- 
able into the' proper hands of the said Augusta 
Mary Leigh, to and for her sole and separate use 
and benefit, free from the control, debts, or engage- 
ments of her present or any future husband, or unto 
Svich person or persons as she my said sister shall 
from time to time, by any writing under her hand, 
notwithstanding her present or any future cover- 
ture, and whether covert or sole, direct or appoint • 
and from and immediately after the decease of my 
said sister, then upon trust that they, my said true- 
tees, and the survivor of them, his executors oi 
administrator*, do and shall assign and transfer all 
my said personal estate and other the trust pr )p- 
erty hereinbefore mentioned, or the stocks, funds, 
or securities wherein or upon which the same shall 
or may be placed out or invested unto and among 
all and every the child and children of my said 
sister, if more than one, in such parts, shares, and 
proportions, and to become a vested interest, and 
to be paid and transferred at such time and times, 
and in such manner, and with, under, and sub- 
ject to such provisions, conditions, and restric- 
tions, as my said sister at any time during he? life, 
whether covert or sole, by any deed or deeds, in 
strument or instruments, in writing, with or without 
power of revocation, to be sealed and delivered in 
the presence of two or more credible witnesses, Of 
by her last will and testament in writiiKr. or anjr 



THE WILL OF LORD BYRON. 



1071 



m.ting of appointment in the nature of a will, shall 
duect or appoint, and in default of any such ap- 
pointment, or in case of the death of my said sister 
in my lifetime, then upon trust that they, my said 
trustees, and the survivor of them, os executors, 
administrators, and :vssigns, do and sV^all assign and 
transfer all the trust, property and funds unto and 
among the children of my said sister, if more than 
one, equally to be divided between them, share and 
share alike, and if only one such child, then to su -h 
onlv child the share and shares of such of them as 
shail be a son or sons, to be paid and transferred 
unto him and them when and as he or they shall re- 
spectively attain his or their age or ages of twenty- 
one years ; and the share and shares of such of them 
as shall be a daughter or daughters, to be paid and 
transfeiTed unto her or them when and as she or 
they shall respectively attain his or their age or 
age's of twenty-one years, or be married, which shall 
first happen, and in case any of such children shall 
happen to die, being ? son or sons, before he or 
,hey shall attain the age of twenty-one years, or 
being a daughter or daughters, before she or they 
shall attain "the said age of twenty-one, or be mar- 
ried; thpn it is my will and 1 do direct that the 
share and shares of svch of the said children as 
shall so die shiUl go to the survivor or survivors of 
such children, with the benefit of further accruer in 
case of the death of any such surviving children 
before their shares shall become vested. And I do 
direct that my said trustees shall pay and apply the 
interest and dividends o*" each of the said children's 
shares in the said trust funds for his, her, or their 
maintenance and education during their minorities, 
flotwithstanding their shares may not become vested 
interests, Init that such interest and dividends as 
shall not have been so applied shall accumulate, 
and follow, and go over with the principal. And 1 
do nominate, constitute, and appoint the said John 
Cam HoLhouse and John Hanson executors of this 
my will. And I do will and direct that my said 
trustees shall not be answerable the one of them for 
the other of them, or for the acts, deeds, receipts, 
or defaults of the other of them, but each of them 
for his own acts, deeds, receipts, and wilful defaults 
only, and that they my said trustees shall be entitled 
to retain and dr-duct out of the moneys which -haU 
come to their hands under the trusts aforesai'l all 
such costs, charges, damages, and expenses which 
they or any of them shall bear, pay, sustain, or be 
put unto, in the execution and performance of the 
trusts herein reposed in them. I make the above 
provision for mv sister and her children, in conse- 
onence of my dear wife Lady Byron and any chil- 
aren I may have, being otherwise amply provided 
for; and, lastly, I do revoke all former wills by me 
Rt any time heretofore made, and do declare this 
only to be my last will and testament. In witness 
»vhereof, I have to this my last will, containea in 
ttjee sUe< ts of paper, aet ray hand to the first two 



sheets thereof, and to this third and last 8>i»€t my 
hand and seal this 29th dav of Julv, in the year of 
our Lord 1815. ' BYRON, [L. S ] 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared by th« 
said Lord Byron, the testator, as and for his last 
will and testament, in the presence of us, who, at 
his request, in his presence, and in the presence ol 
each other, have.j|^ereto subscribed our names at 
witnesses. Thomas Jones Mawse. 

Edmund Gkiffin, 

FrKPERICK JERVIg, 

Clerks to Mr. Hanson, Chancey Lant. 

CODICIL.— This is a Codicil to the last will and 
testament of me, the Right Honorable George 
Gordon, Lord BjTon. I give and bequeath unto 
AUegra Biron, an infant of about twenty months 
old, by me brought up, and now residing at Venice, 
the sum of five thousand pounds, which I direct 
the executors of my said will to pay to her on her 
attaining the age of twenty-one years, or on the 
day of her marriage, on condition that she does not 
marry with a native of Great Britain, which shall 
first happen. And I direct my said executors, as 
soon as conveniently may be after my drcease, to 
invest the said sum of five thousand pounds upon 
government or rpal security, and to pay and apply 
the annual income thereof in or towards the nuiin 
tenance and education of the said Allegra Biron 
iintil she attains her said acre of twenty-one years 
or shall be married as aforesaid ; but in case sht 
shall die before attaining the said age and without 
having be*n married, then 1 direct the said sum of 
five thousand pounds to become part of the residue 
of my personal estate, and in all other respects I 
do confirm my said will, and declare this to be a 
codicil thereto. In vntness whereof, I have here- 
unto set my hand and seal, at Venire, this 17th day 
of November, in the year of our Lord 1S18. 

BYRON, |L. S.] 

Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the 
said Lord Byron, as and for a codicil to his will^ in 
the presence of us, who, in his presence, at his re- 
quest, and in the presence of each other, have sub- 
scribed our names as witnesses. 

Newton Hanson, 
William Fletcher. 

Prove! at London, (with a codicil,) 6th of^July, 
1821, before the Worshipful Stephen Lushington, 
Doctor of Laws, and surrogaTe, by the oaths o? 
John Cam Ilobhouse and John Hanson. Ksmiire* 
the executors to whom administration was graut^d 
having been first sworn duly to a*imimster. 

N.\THANlKL GKISKINS. 
UeoIUJE Gr.NNKH. 

Charles Dynelrt, 

Deputy Regis txiun 



THB ilSrik 



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